jkwrites-m

[jkwrites-m]

The Wrong Sister

Pairing: prince!Jungkook x princess!female reader

Genre: angst, smut, royalty au, arranged marriage au

Word Count: 14.8k

Summary: She was never his choice- until she became his world.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, smut, royalty au, slow burn?, power struggle, age gap (10 yrs), older jungkook, arranged marriage, (somewhat) enemies to lovers, jealousy, jungkook is a meanie 🙁, possessiveness, hurt/comfort, politics, soft love, declarations, explicit: multiple smut scenes, consensual, unprotected sex, cold/obligatory sex, power play, loving sex, praise, degradation, oral (f. receiving), fingering, clit play, overstimulation

A/N: this was a request from a lovely anon 🫶 friends, i redid the outline for this multiple times bc i normally shy away from fantasies/royalty, so it was cool to try it out! hopefully it lives up to expectations!! (also i rlly don’t know what time period this so just imagine wtv 🫩)

Note: jungkook’s pov is noted. if it isn’t- it’s y/n’s! also y/n is 21, jungkook is 31, jisoo is 26

♡ MASTERLIST

═══════

The mirror stares back at you like it’s trying to convince you of something.

That you’re beautiful. That you’re lucky. That this is what you’ve always wanted.

But the mirror lies.

You’re dressed in layers of ivory lace and silk so heavy it feels like armor. Gold threads snake across your bodice like vines, binding you into a shape you barely recognize. Somewhere behind you, handmaidens fuss with ribbons and brocade, cooing soft words you don’t hear. Your reflection looks poised- majestic, even.

But you feel like you’re drowning beneath the weight of expectation.

Your chest tightens. Not from nerves. No, you’d welcome nerves. This is worse. This is suffocation. The perfume in the room is too sweet. The silence, too loud. Every delicate “Princess” that slips from a servant’s tongue hits like a blade.

You’re getting married today.

To a man you’ve barely spoken to.

A man who’s ten years older.

A prince from a kingdom that needed a treaty more than a love story.

You catch your own gaze in the mirror again. Your lips are painted, your hair perfectly pinned, your veil stitched with symbols older than your name. You look like a queen-in-the-making.

But inside?

You’re unraveling.

“Too tight,” you say sharply, not looking at the handmaiden tying your corset.

She freezes. “Apologies, Your Highness…”

You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the laces yourself until the pressure eases from your ribs.

“Leave,” you murmur.

They hesitate.

“I said leave.”

Their skirts whisper across the marble floor as they vanish, one by one, until the room is yours again. Quiet. Empty. Suffocating.

You exhale shakily and lower yourself onto the velvet stool near the fire. You should feel like a bride. Instead, you feel like a pawn being moved across a glittering board.

A knock at the door makes your spine go rigid.

“Come in,” you say, voice tighter than you’d like.

The door creaks open. And there she is.

Jisoo.

Your older sister. Your kingdom’s golden girl.

She steps inside delicately, wrapped in blush silk with her hair softly swept up, eyes wide with sympathy you don’t want. She’s everything gentle and graceful the court adores. She looks like spring in human form.

And she looks like someone’s first choice.

“Soo,” you say, your tone unsure- too many emotions knotted in one syllable.

She smiles. Soft. Almost apologetic. “You look… stunning.”

You blink at her. “Why weren’t you here earlier?”

“I thought you’d want to be alone.”

“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not today.”

She hesitates a step from you. Her fingers curl into each other.

You feel the question bubbling before you can stop it. “Does he love you?”

The words spill out like poison.

Jisoo’s expression flickers- guilt, shock, something unreadable but she catches it before it fully forms. “Y/N…”

“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper. “Not today.”

“I never encouraged it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You must’ve known.” Your voice cracks just slightly. “He looks at you like you’re the crown he lost.”

Jisoo swallows, her voice quiet. “He’s marrying you.”

You stare into the fire, the flickering light licking at your gown like flame to paper. “But he wanted you.”

She doesn’t answer. And her silence says more than a confession ever could.

You don’t blame her. Not really. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Maybe you should be the one marrying him,” you say, not able to meet her eyes.

“I would never take this from you,” she breathes.

You turn to face her finally. “Would it really be stealing if I was just keeping your seat warm?”

The air between you thickens. You’re not angry at her. Not really. You’re angry at fate. At politics. At the cold man waiting at the altar who wants a different bride.

Jisoo takes a step closer. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“No, I’m just better at pretending.”

She reaches out to touch your shoulder. You don’t pull away, but you don’t lean in either.

“He’ll learn to love you,” she says gently. “Anyone would.”

You let out a dry laugh, sharp as glass. “You don’t learn to love someone like me. You endure her.”

The bell tolls outside- three slow, echoing chimes that stretch across the walls like the opening notes of a funeral dirge.

It’s time.

You rise. Your gown shifts like water. You steady your shoulders, straighten your crown. You feel her watching you, but you can’t look at her again.

Because you are walking down the aisle

Not as the girl he dreamed of. Not as the sister he wanted. But as the bride he’s stuck with.

The chapel smells like ancient roses and old prayers.

You glide down the aisle slowly, deliberately, as the eyes of two kingdoms drink you in. The train of your gown trails behind you like spilled moonlight. Hundreds of royals, nobles, and dignitaries line the carved pews, all dressed in silks and golds, but none of them matter. You feel them watching, judging, whispering about your age, your family, your worth.

But you only look forward.

You keep your eyes on the altar where Prince Jeon Jungkook stands like he’s carved from ice.

He doesn’t smile.

Not even a flicker of warmth touches his face when he sees you. His expression remains cold, impassive, lips a straight line, shoulders square. You wonder if he even sees you or if he’s just counting the seconds until this political obligation is complete.

The music swells. The world fades.

You reach him.

He doesn’t offer his hand.

The High Cleric begins the ceremony with blessings in a language older than either of your kingdoms. You barely hear the words. Your fingers are trembling in your gloves. You feel like you’re underwater. Everything is soft and distant and slow.

Until it’s time for the vows.

You turn to face him. And his eyes aren’t on you.

They’re on her.

You see it. Just for a second. A flicker. A heartbeat. But it’s real.

His gaze shifts- barely, subtly- but you know the direction. You don’t even have to look.

Jisoo.

She’s seated near the front. Pale dress. Downcast eyes. Perfect posture. As still and serene as a statue. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge it.

But you feel it. All of it.

The phantom of his feelings for her settles like a chill between your ribs.

“Repeat after me,” the Cleric intones, unaware of the slow fracture blooming in your chest.

You say the words.

You pledge your body, your name, your crown.

You do not cry.

He says the words, too. Calm. Flat. Emotionless. He binds himself to you in front of gods and ghosts, but his voice doesn’t tremble. Not from nerves. Not from affection.

Because he feels nothing.

He lifts your veil. His hands are steady. Distant.

Your first kiss as husband and wife is just that- a formality. His lips brush yours like the passing of winter wind. No passion. No warmth. No curiosity.

The crowd erupts into applause.

You smile.

You have to.

He offers you his arm.

You take it.

You walk down the aisle together, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, as cheers rain down from the golden arches of the chapel.

You smile.

You have to.

And though you can feel him beside you… 

he says nothing.

═══════

The ballroom gleams with gold and artifice.

You’re standing in the center of it, hand in hand with a man who hasn’t spoken a word to you all day. Not during the procession. Not during the ceremony. Not after the kiss. Not when he escorted you down the aisle like he was walking beside a shadow.

And now, in front of hundreds of watching eyes, it’s time for the first dance.

The music begins. You take one step forward, and so does he.

His gloved hand rests against your waist like he’s afraid to touch you too firmly- as if contact might imply something that isn’t there. His other hand holds yours, just tight enough to be respectful, just distant enough to make your stomach sink.

You lift your eyes to his.

And for the first time, he speaks, “You should smile.”

Your breath catches.

“That’s what they’re expecting,” he continues, voice low, precise. “A happy bride. A glowing princess.”

You try to smile, but it curls wrong on your lips.

“And you?” you murmur, eyes still fixed on his. “Are you pretending too?”

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I’m fulfilling a role.”

You laugh- soft, bitter. “And what role is that? Dutiful husband or heartless executioner?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move together across the marble floor like strangers trapped in the same song. The music is beautiful, swelling in delicate arcs around you. But you can’t feel any of it.

“What did I do to make you hate this so much?” you whisper.

He blinks, slowly. “I don’t hate you.”

“No?” you scoff. “Then why won’t you look at me the way you looked at her?”

The words are out before you can stop them. His jaw clenches.

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“She’s already in it,” you breathe. “You put her there when you looked at her during our vows.”

The music swells again, a waltz that sounds too pretty for this kind of pain.

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” he says finally, voice tight.

You force a smile- sharp, graceful, empty. “Too late.”

He turns you in a slow spin, elegant, effortless. From a distance, the court sees perfection. A prince and his new bride, radiant under the candlelight.

But you know better.

You feel the space between your bodies like a scar that hasn’t healed yet.

“Do you love her?” you ask, quiet enough for only him to hear.

He doesn’t answer.

His silence slices deeper than any truth could.

You feel your chest tighten, throat burning. But your face? Your face stays royal. Untouched. Serene.

“Will I ever be more than her shadow to you?”

You see something flicker in his gaze, but it’s gone as fast as it comes.

“You were not the choice,” he says at last.

You blink. You stop moving for half a second. Your shoes nearly slip on the polished floor. The world tilts.

But then the music carries on.

So you do too.

He guides you back into motion, and you match him- fluid, poised, empty.

When the music ends, he steps back. Bows. You curtsy.

Applause erupts across the hall. And you smile so wide it almost cracks your face open.

═══════

The halls are empty when you’re escorted to the royal bedchamber.

No music now. No guests. No watching eyes. Just the sound of your heels against marble and your pulse humming beneath your skin.

The doors are already open.

He’s already inside.

You step in carefully, unsure of what you’ll find. The room is as grand as you imagined- pillars of carved obsidian, embroidered silks draped from the high ceiling, a fire crackling in the hearth like it’s mocking you with its warmth. A table is set with untouched wine. Rose petals litter the floor like someone believed romance could be faked.

He stands by the window, facing away from you. Still dressed in full ceremonial regalia. Still silent.

The doors shut behind you with a hollow thud.

You wait.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Instructions? Affection? A beginning?

Instead, you get nothing.

You unclasp your cloak. It falls silently around your feet. Your hair is pinned and tight, your corset aching against your ribs. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to be held.

But he still won’t look at you.

“It’s done,” you say quietly, just to break the silence.

He hums in acknowledgment. Doesn’t turn.

You take a step forward, cautious. “Is there something you’d like me to do?”

At last, he speaks. “Sleep. That’s all.”

That’s all.

The words hang heavy in the air.

You try not to show it, but your fingers curl against your side. “Isn’t this… expected?”

“I don’t owe them a performance.”

“And me?” you ask.

He turns to face you now, slowly. His expression unreadable. Cold. He looks at you like a decision he regrets making. Like a formality he’s been assigned.

“You don’t want this,” he says.

You flinch at the assumption. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You want love. Passion. Devotion.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not the man who gives those things.”

“No,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re the man who gives silence. Distance. Glances meant for someone else.”

His jaw ticks.

You keep going. You’re tired of swallowing pain. “You said your vows. You kissed me. You danced with me. And not once did you pretend I was enough.”

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Oh, so this is honesty?” you snap. “This- coldness. This rejection. This… emptiness?”

He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is quieter now. “It’s mercy.”

You shake your head. “It’s cruelty.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

You break the silence again. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to be just some treaty girl, either? That I didn’t want to marry a man in love with someone else?”

His face flickers. Just briefly.

You don’t know what emotion it is. Pity? Guilt? Regret?

But it fades too quickly to hold onto.

“You can sleep in here if you want,” he says, voice controlled again. “Or I’ll have a separate room prepared.”

You take a deep breath, walk past him toward the bed. You don’t look at him. Not this time.

“I’ll stay here,” you say softly. “Not because I want you. But because this is my marriage, too.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, spine straight, heart hollow. And he walks away without another word.

The doors close.

You are alone.

Again.

You unlace your corset with trembling fingers. You slide the jewelry off your skin like it’s shackles. You curl beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling that feels more like sky than stone.

And for the first time since the ceremony began, you let the tears fall. No one hears them. No one sees. And when morning comes, you will wear the crown like it never hurt.

═══════

The palace is dead quiet after midnight.

You lie still in the enormous bed, staring up at the carved ceiling, your body wrapped in satin, your heart wrapped in stone.

Jungkook came back hours ago.

He didn’t speak when he entered.

He didn’t speak when he undressed, carefully, methodically, folding his ceremonial uniform with military precision and draping a robe over his bare chest. He didn’t speak when he climbed into the opposite side of the bed, a world away from your side.

He just turned his back to you.

And that was that.

You listened to his breathing even out. Watched the fire in the hearth dim into embers. Let the weight of the sheets press your body down like a crown too heavy to wear.

Sleep never came.

The silence around you was too loud.

You watched the moonlight crawl across the walls until your eyes ached. You imagined what it might’ve felt like to be chosen. To be wanted. To be seen.

You almost didn’t hear it.

A whisper. Barely there.

You blink, breath catching, your body frozen as stone.

Then again- soft. Muffled. Threaded with sleep.

“…Jisoo…”

Your heart stops.

The name barely drips from his mouth- half breath, half confession- but it’s real. It slithers through the shadows between you like smoke.

“…Jisoo…”

He shifts in the bed beside you, still deep in dreams.

And you?

You’re wide awake.

The ache in your chest is immediate and consuming. Sharp enough to make your eyes water, soft enough to break you slowly. You don’t speak. Don’t move.

You lie there, paralyzed. Because how can you scream when the knife was never even meant for you?

It was a whisper. A sleep-talk. A mistake.

But it was her name. Not yours.

Not once tonight- not in his gaze, not in his vows, not in his arms- did you belong to him. But her? She owns the quietest part of him. The part he doesn’t even guard.

You turn your head toward him slowly. His face is peaceful in sleep. Untroubled. Like he hasn’t just carved you open.

You stare at him for a long time.

And for the first time since this all began, you don’t feel sad. You feel cold.

Numb. Resolved.

You pull the covers tighter around you- not for warmth, but for armor.

He may have married you.

But he dreams of her.

And if he thinks you’ll stay quiet forever, if he thinks you’ll simply live in her shadow…

He doesn’t know you at all.

═══════

The first week of marriage does not belong to you.

It belongs to the court.

Every morning begins with a maid waking you before the sun, layering you in gowns chosen by someone else, and fitting a crown so heavy you can feel it in your spine. Every day ends with aching cheeks from holding the same smile for hours.

They don’t call you by name anymore.

You’re Her Royal Highness, Princess Consort of the Northern Kingdom.

A title. Not a person.

The palace calendar is full- parades, charity luncheons, handshakes with foreign diplomats, appearances at schools, hospitals, markets. At each stop, you are arranged like part of the decor. A jeweled accessory for the prince’s arm.

He almost never offers it.

When he does, it’s for the benefit of the crowd. An elbow bent at a perfect angle, a smile carved into place like it was taught, not felt. He’s a master of performance.

So are you.

The people cheer for the image of you both. They throw flower petals into the street, shout blessings, push forward to glimpse their fairytale couple.

If only they knew fairytales rot when the gold is only paint.

At the textile factory, you stand beside him while the foreman gushes about the kingdom’s prosperity. At the ribbon-cutting for a new bridge, you’re handed the scissors, smiling for the press while Jungkook stares past you at some distant point, as though the moment doesn’t require him.

Sometimes, you catch yourself wondering if he forgets you’re even there.

You’ve learned the choreography. Sit still. Smile faintly. Look engaged, but not outspoken. Be regal, but not commanding. Be graceful, but not bold.

Be there.

But never be.

The only time you feel remotely human is during the carriage rides between engagements, when the curtains are drawn, and the crowds can’t see you.

That’s when the silence between you becomes unbearable. He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

But you glance at him once, catching his profile in the dim light. It’s like looking at a portrait- beautiful, distant, untouchable. You turn away before he can feel you watching.

By the end of the week, you’ve perfected the role:

A crown without a voice.

═══════

It happens because it has to.

Not because he wants you. Not because you want him. But because it’s expected. Because the kingdom will talk if it doesn’t.

The door opens without a knock. You glance up from your seat on the edge of the bed, silk robe tied loosely around your waist, hair falling over your shoulders. He steps inside, closing the door with quiet finality.

“We need to talk,” you say.

“Not tonight.” His voice is low, clipped, as he shrugs out of his coat. “This isn’t a conversation.”

Your brow furrows. “Then what is it?”

He looks at you but it’s the way a jeweler inspects a gem before deciding if it’s worth setting. “It’s what’s required,” he says. “For the line. For the crown.”

Your chest tightens. You know the court’s whispers- how the marriage will be scrutinized until you produce an heir. You know the timeline they expect. You’d expected distance. You hadn’t expected to feel like an appointment.

He approaches slowly, rolling his cuffs to his forearms. When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t touch you right away- just stands there until the air between you grows heavy.

When he stops in front of you, he looks down at you with the same expression he wears in court- measured, guarded, cold.

“Stand up,” he says.

The command leaves no room for hesitation. You rise.

His hands land on your waist, not with affection but with control, guiding you closer. His mouth meets yours in a kiss that isn’t really a kiss- no give, no hunger, no softness. You press harder anyway, trying to spark something. He responds by gripping your jaw, holding you still.

“You’re trying too hard,” he murmurs.

“At least I’m trying,” you bite back.

A slow, humorless smile curves his lips. “Careful.”

He turns you with deliberate force until your knees meet the bed. You sit. He follows, untying your robe in one smooth pull. It falls to your sides, cool air grazing bare skin.

His gaze sweeps over you- assessing, not admiring. “Beautiful,” he says, tone flat. “But beauty doesn’t make you powerful.”

You swallow. “Then what does?”

His eyes lift to yours, sharp as steel. “Control. And you don’t have any here.”

The word sends a shiver down your spine- half fear, half something you don’t want to name.

He presses you back into the mattress with a firm hand to your shoulder, sliding the robe from your arms. His touch is skilled, confident, but there’s no tenderness. Every movement feels deliberate- designed to take without giving.

You arch into him once, testing him. His palm flattens against your sternum, holding you down.

“Do you think I’ll lose myself for you?” he asks softly, mockingly. “You can’t provoke me into wanting you.”

The words burn hotter than his hands.

When he finally takes you, it’s with the same efficiency as everything else he does- controlled, unhurried, purposeful. The sounds in the room are soft but sharp: the creak of the bed, your shallow breaths, the low rumble of his voice telling you to hold still.

His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you exactly how he wants. You try to match his rhythm, to pull him closer. He shifts his hold, pinning your wrists above your head against the mattress.

“Not yours to lead,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

It’s almost clinical. Almost mechanical. Your body reacts anyway- heat, breathlessness, the helpless ache for more. But you know he’s watching every flicker of your expression like a general studying an opponent’s next move.

When it’s over, he pulls away immediately. No lingering touch. No kiss. Just rises, adjusting his clothes with the same precision he undid them.

You’re still catching your breath when he looks at you one last time. “This is duty, Princess. Don’t confuse it with anything else.”

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him.

You stay there, robe open, pulse still racing- not from closeness, but from the sting of his words.

═══════

The council chamber smells faintly of parchment, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of ambition.

You sit in the gilded chair to Jungkook’s right, posture flawless, hands folded in your lap. It’s your first time attending a full royal council since the wedding. You’re here to listen. To be silent. To play the part of the well-bred consort.

At least, that’s what they expect.

The chamber doors close, and the discussion begins. Ministers rise, presenting their concerns: border tensions with the Western Kingdom, grain shortages in the southern provinces, a brewing dispute with the merchant guilds.

Your husband listens with that same infuriating calm, speaking only when necessary, voice even, deliberate. A king in training.

But when the Minister of Trade suggests raising tariffs on imported grain to “incentivize” local production, something twists in your chest.

“That would starve half the southern provinces,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Every head in the room turns.

Jungkook’s gaze cuts to you. Sharp. Warning.

The Minister blinks, surprised. “Your Highness, the measure-”

“-would drive up prices so high,” you continue, “that families already struggling would have to choose between bread and rent. And if the people are hungry, unrest follows. That is not ‘incentive,’ Minister. That is negligence.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

Jungkook’s voice is quiet but firm. “Princess-”

You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. “Am I mistaken?”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“You are… uninformed,” he says at last.

You lean forward, resting your hands on the table. “Then perhaps inform me. Tell me how destabilizing our food supply will help secure your rule. Or ours.”

A faint gasp from one of the scribes. A few ministers look away, hiding smirks. The Minister of Trade fidgets.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker in his eyes- anger, yes, but something else. Curiosity.

You look back at the table. “Instead of tariffs, subsidize local farmers to increase production. Buy excess grain directly from them at fair prices, then sell it cheaply in the provinces that need it most. The treasury loses nothing if the surplus is sold abroad. Everyone wins. The farmers, the provinces, the crown.”

The room goes still.

Then, slowly, the Minister of Agriculture nods. “It’s… a sound plan.”

More murmurs. Agreement.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, studying you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You can feel his gaze on your skin, hot and assessing.

“Very well,” he says finally. “We’ll consider the Princess’s… suggestion.”

It’s not an admission. Not in his tone.

But you’ve already won.

When the meeting ends, you rise before he does, smoothing your skirts. As you pass his chair, you feel his hand catch your wrist under the table.

You glance down at him.

His voice is low, for you alone. “We will discuss this later.”

You smile sweetly. “Of course, Your Highness.”

And you leave the chamber with your head high, the echo of your heels a victory drumbeat in the quiet hall. Yet, the moment the council doors close behind you, you know he’s following.

Your heels click against the marble corridor, echoing between the towering pillars. You don’t turn around, but you can feel him gaining on you- steady, purposeful, silent.

You make it halfway to your chambers before his hand closes around your wrist.

He pulls you into a side room- an antechamber lined with bookshelves and an unused writing desk- and shuts the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

The air changes instantly.

He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the weight of him, the way his presence seems to draw the oxygen from the room.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, voice low, razor-edged.

You arch a brow. “Speak?”

“Undermine me in front of my council.” His gaze is molten steel, locked on yours. “You embarrassed me.”

You take a deliberate step forward, closing some of the space between you. “I saved you from making a decision that would’ve turned half your kingdom against you.”

His jaw flexes. “That’s not your place.”

“And sitting there like a decorative vase is?” Your voice is calm, but each word lands sharp.

He moves closer, forcing you to back up until the edge of the desk presses against the back of your thighs. His hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is to overstep in that room.”

You tilt your chin up. “I understand perfectly. They’ll eat you alive if they think you’re weak. And nothing says weakness like a wife too afraid to speak her mind.”

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”

“I know I am.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing. His gaze drops briefly- not to your mouth, but to the stubborn lift of your chin- then returns to your eyes.

“You enjoy provoking me,” he says quietly.

“Only when you deserve it.”

One corner of his mouth twitches- not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Careful, Princess. If you make a habit of this, you might find I have… inventive ways of teaching obedience.”

You lean just slightly into the space between you, your voice a whisper. “And if you keep underestimating me, you might find I have inventive ways of winning.”

The tension between you is almost unbearable- not heat, not tenderness, just raw defiance meeting raw authority.

Finally, he pushes back, giving you space. “You’re not stupid,” he says. “But you are mine to manage.”

You smooth your skirts, stepping past him toward the door. “If you think I’ll be managed, Your Highness… you really haven’t been paying attention.”

You don’t wait for him to follow.

═══════

5 years earlier (jungkook’s pov): 

The gala had been suffocating.

Perfume and politics choked the air inside the ballroom. Every step, every word, every glance felt calculated. The music was loud enough to cover whispers but not loud enough to drown them out.

Jungkook slipped through a side door.

The night air hit him like a blessing- cool, crisp, tinged with the scent of rain. He loosened his collar and exhaled, letting the weight of the crown’s expectations roll off his shoulders, if only for a breath.

That’s when he saw her.

Jisoo.

She was standing at the edge of the balcony, moonlight touching the soft curve of her cheek. A pale silk gown flowed around her like water. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her lips moving faintly as she hummed something he didn’t recognize.

She turned when she heard him.

“Oh- Your Highness,” she said, voice light, careful. She curtsied, the movement graceful, unhurried. “I didn’t realize anyone else would be out here.”

“I needed air,” he admitted.

Her smile was small but knowing. “So did I.”

They stood there for a moment, the muffled music from the ballroom spilling through the open doors. He should have gone back inside. Instead, he found himself asking, “Do you come to many of these events?”

“More than I’d like.” Her gaze drifted toward the gardens below. “But my father says it’s important to be seen.”

The words were simple. Obvious, even. But the way she said them- steady, resigned, without bitterness-  struck him. She wasn’t like the others inside, scrambling for attention or advantage.

“I suppose he’s right,” he said.

She looked at him then, really looked, and for a second, he thought she might see past the prince to the man beneath. “You wear the pressure well.”

The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. It was the kind of thing royals said to each other all the time. But there was no jest in her tone, no false sweetness. It felt… clean.

Someone called her name from inside- a soft summons from a lady-in-waiting.

She dipped her head. “I should go.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Jungkook stayed on that balcony long after, the faint sound of her humming still in his ears.

It had been nothing- a polite exchange in the quiet. But in a life where every word was a weapon, her simplicity had felt like a shield.

Years later, he still told himself she was different.

He never noticed that he didn’t know a single thing more about her.

═══════

Two months change nothing… and everything.

The last time you and Jungkook stood together in the council chamber, you defied him in front of his ministers. He hasn’t forgotten. Neither have you.

The winter gala is your first appearance together since then.

The ballroom glitters under crystal chandeliers, every corner alive with silks, jewels, and the low hum of politics disguised as conversation. Gold light spills across polished marble, and the air is warm with the scent of champagne and candle wax.

You’ve chosen your gown carefully.

Silk the color of deep wine, cut low enough at the back to reveal the elegant dip of your spine, the fabric clinging to your curves before spilling loose in a daring slit high on your thigh. By court standards, it’s scandalous. By yours, it’s perfect.

You don’t tell Jungkook you’ve done it for him.

You tell yourself it’s for you.

The heads turn as soon as you enter on his arm. Ministers pause mid-sentence. Noblewomen whisper behind jeweled fans. Men look longer than they should. You feel the power in it- the way the room bends toward you.

Jungkook’s grip on your arm is tight enough to bruise.

“Enjoying yourself already?” you murmur, eyes fixed forward.

“You think this is clever?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Every man here staring at what’s mine?”

“Every man here staring at their future queen,” you correct softly.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel the tension radiating off him.

And then you see her.

Jisoo.

She stands near the far end of the room, surrounded by a small cluster of dignitaries. She’s dressed in soft silver, hair pinned in perfect curls, a picture of refined restraint. The kind of elegance that draws admiration without scandal.

She sees you. She smiles- polite, warm, and just a little too knowing. You smile back, the kind that could be taken for friendliness or challenge.

You make your rounds, greeting nobles, shaking hands, accepting compliments that dance on the edge of impropriety. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you even when he’s not beside you- especially when you laugh at another man’s joke, your fingers brushing his sleeve as you speak.

When you finally return to Jungkook’s side, his jaw is tight.

“Careful, Princess,” he says under his breath. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You sip your champagne, unbothered. “So are you.”

The orchestra swells, the floor clears for the next dance. He offers his hand, not out of romance, but because tradition demands it.

You place your hand in his and let him lead you into the spotlight.

Around you, the court watches. Some curious, some envious, some waiting for one of you to slip.

Under the chandeliers, his hand rests low on your back, almost possessive.

You wonder if he’s imagining Jisoo in your place. You wonder if it’s killing him that he can’t look away from you.

═══════

The ride back to the palace is silent.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that crackles with things unsaid.

You can feel him beside you in the carriage, his body still wound tight, his hand flexing once on his knee as though resisting the urge to act. He doesn’t look at you, but his gaze burns into the side of your face all the same.

When the carriage stops, he’s out first, striding through the palace doors without a word. You follow, heels clicking against marble. He doesn’t slow down until you’re inside your chambers.

The door shuts hard behind you.

“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” His voice is sharp, each word laced with steel.

You slip off your gloves one finger at a time. “Do you enjoy pretending you own me?”

He takes two steps forward, closing the space between you. “Everything you did tonight- the dress, the smiles, touching him-”

“-was diplomacy,” you cut in. “Something a ruler should understand.”

His eyes flash, and then he’s crowding you backward until your spine meets the wall. His hand presses against it beside your head, trapping you in place.

“You wanted my attention?” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “Now you have it.”

Your heart kicks hard, but you lift your chin. “And what will you do with it, Your Highness?”

His mouth crashes onto yours- not gentle, not tentative, but claiming. His other hand drags up your thigh, finding the slit in your gown and shoving the silk higher.

“Prove to you,” he murmurs against your lips, “that you can play with anyone else in the room… but you’ll still end up here.”

You bite his lower lip, pulling back just enough to smirk. “And if I’m not impressed?”

His grip tightens on your hip. “Then I’ll try harder.”

He turns you toward the bed in one swift movement, the skirt of your gown bunching in his fist. You go willingly, but when he pushes you down, you twist to look over your shoulder.

“Still just duty?” you taunt.

He freezes for a fraction of a second- then his hands are on you again, rougher now, dragging you back against the hard, unmistakable shape of his cock through his trousers. “Tonight? It’s a lesson.”

The dress comes off in a series of impatient tugs, pooling on the floor. His palms roam over your bare skin like he’s taking inventory, thumbs digging into your ass before parting you just enough to feel the heat of his breath between your legs. You shiver, but refuse to turn your face away.

His clothes follow- not rushed, but stripped with deliberate precision, every motion dripping with control. When he finally presses the heavy, hot length of him against your entrance, he holds there for a moment, letting you feel every inch before he pushes in.

The stretch is deep and sudden, making your breath catch, your nails digging into the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust- his hips drive forward in hard, unrelenting strokes, the thick slide of him hitting deep enough to make you gasp every time. His hands lock your hips in place, forcing you to take him exactly how he wants, his pace a brutal, steady rhythm meant to grind down your defiance.

But you meet every thrust, rocking back against him with just as much force, your slick making every connection filthy and loud.

“Say you belong to me,” he orders, voice ragged.

You shake your head, breathless but smiling even as pleasure twists low in your belly. “No.”

His mouth is at your ear in the next breath, teeth grazing the shell before his words pour over you like molten heat. “You will.”

You push back harder, grinding until the head of his cock drags against that sweet, swollen spot inside you. A moan slips free- you swallow it down before it can give him satisfaction. “Or you’ll learn I don’t belong to anyone.”

The challenge hangs between you, thick as the sweat on your skin. Neither of you slow down, each thrust sharper, wetter, more desperate. The slap of skin fills the room, your breaths tangled with curses and broken sounds you’d never admit to making.

You’re so close you can feel it buzzing in your bones but you hold it back out of spite, out of sheer will. His fingers slip down between your thighs, finding your clit and circling hard until your resolve cracks and your body shudders around him.

He follows with a deep, savage thrust, spilling into you with a low groan, hips grinding through the aftershocks like he’s branding you from the inside.

When it ends, you’re both breathless, flushed, staring at each other across the tangle of sheets.

He doesn’t kiss you. You don’t ask him to.

“You’re exhausting,” he says finally.

“You’re obsessed,” you reply.

And you both know you’re right.

═══════

Two weeks have passed since that night.

The night where anger blurred with want, where neither of you surrendered but both of you took.

Since then, you’ve spoken little. Polite exchanges in public, calculated silences in private.

The world sees perfection. You see the cracks.

This morning, the palace gardens are alive with late winter sunlight. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of blooming camellias and damp earth. You’ve always preferred this part of the palace- away from the council chambers, away from the eyes of the court.

Your ladies follow at a respectful distance as you take the marble path toward the upper terrace. The view from there sweeps over the river, the towers, and the city beyond- a reminder of everything that belongs to the crown, if not to you.

You’re halfway up the wide steps when your heel catches on the edge of your gown.

The world tilts.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as your foot slides on the slick marble. You stumble forward, ankle twisting hard. The pain shoots up your leg before your knees hit the ground.

And then- 

Strong hands catch you before you collapse completely.

The scent of warm spice and leather floods your senses.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent.

You blink up into Jungkook’s face. For once, his expression isn’t composed. His eyes are wide, scanning you for injury.

“My ankle,” you breathe, wincing as the weight shifts.

Without hesitation, he bends and sweeps you into his arms. The motion startles you, your hands gripping his shoulders instinctively.

“Put me down,” you protest.

“Not a chance,” he says, his tone sharp but not cold. It’s threaded with something you’ve never heard from him before. Fear.

He carries you to a shaded bench, lowering you carefully. His fingers are warm and gentle as they press around the swelling ankle, his jaw tight.

“You’ll be off it for a day at least,” he says.

“It’s just a twist-”

“You’ll rest,” he interrupts, brooking no argument. “I’ll have a physician sent immediately.”

You tilt your head. “Are you… worried?”

His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. “You are my wife,” he says finally, voice softer than you expect. “What happens to you matters.”

“You’ll stay in your chambers today. I’ll make the arrangements.”

And before you can protest, he bends again, one arm hooking under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing.

“Jungkook-”

“Save your breath,” he says, eyes fixed forward. “You’re not walking on it.”

The world tilts in a different way now, the solid heat of him under you, the steady rhythm of his steps carrying you through the garden paths. Court attendants bow as he passes, some openly staring, but he doesn’t slow.

He carries you up the palace steps, down the corridors, and straight into your chambers-  only setting you down on the bed once you’re surrounded by the familiar silk and shadow.

His hands linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he steps back. “Rest.”

Then the mask is back, and he’s gone.

═══════

The physician leaves just before noon.

“It’s only a mild sprain,” he’d said, binding your ankle with clean linen and instructing you to stay off it for a day or two. “Nothing serious, Your Highness. As long as you rest.”

You’re propped against a fortress of pillows in your bed, silk sheets spilling over your legs, a cup of cooling tea at your side. The room is too still, too quiet. You’ve never been good at sitting still.

Your ladies-in-waiting keep offering to read to you or bring fresh flowers, but you send them away after the fourth polite interruption. It’s not their fault you feel caged. The crown fits heavy enough without being confined to your chambers.

You’re staring at the gilded canopy when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” you call.

Jungkook steps inside.

You blink. “I thought you had meetings all afternoon.”

“I do,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. He crosses the room, the sound of his boots muffled against the carpet. “I wanted to see if you were following orders.”

“Orders?” you repeat, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize marriage came with a chain of command.”

His gaze flicks to your bandaged ankle. “You’re still in bed. That’s a start.”

You expect him to leave after that, but instead, he moves toward the table and pours you fresh tea, setting the cup within reach. You catch the faintest furrow between his brows, the one that appears when he’s thinking too much.

“You didn’t have to-”

“It was closer to me than to you,” he cuts in.

“Right,” you murmur, hiding a small smile behind the rim of your cup.

He stands there a moment longer, as if debating something. “If you need anything-”

“I’ll send for a guard?” you finish for him, teasing.

His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no heat in it. “Exactly.”

He turns to go, and something in you flares- curiosity, stubbornness, maybe both. “Jungkook.”

He pauses at the door.

“You caught me before I fell,” you say. “Why?”

For a heartbeat, his eyes meet yours. “Because you’re mine to protect.”

Then the door shuts behind him.

You’re left staring at it, unsure whether his words were a claim, a duty… or something else entirely.

═══════

By morning, the dull ache in your ankle has faded to something tolerable. Not gone- but not enough to keep you trapped in bed.

You dress yourself in a pale blue day gown, something soft and unassuming, and braid your hair back in a way that says I am perfectly fine, thank you. Your ladies-in-waiting hover nervously as you make your way to the sitting room.

“Your Highness,” one begins gently, “perhaps you should-”

“I’ve rested long enough,” you say, taking the first careful step toward the door. “There are things I need to see to.”

They exchange looks but say nothing.

The moment you open the door, you nearly collide with him.

Jungkook stands there, dressed in deep charcoal, the morning light catching on the silver clasp at his cloak. His gaze drops immediately to your feet, to the subtle limp you try- and fail- to hide.

“Where are you going?” His tone is calm, but there’s a weight to it.

“For a walk,” you say. “It’s a palace, not a prison.”

His jaw flexes. “Not without me.”

You fold your arms. “You’re busy. I can manage.”

He steps past you into the room, closing the door behind him. “You can barely walk without favoring that ankle.”

“I can walk,” you counter. “And I intend to.”

Something flickers in his eyes- not anger, not quite- before he exhales sharply. “Then I’ll escort you.”

It’s not a request.

You consider arguing, but there’s something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that tells you it will only waste time. So instead, you smile- sweet, false. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

He offers his arm. You take it, because refusing would feel like losing, and you refuse to lose to him in anything.

The walk is slow, deliberate. The gardens are busy with attendants pruning roses and sweeping paths. You can feel the eyes on you- the court always watches. Jungkook’s hand stays steady under yours, guiding you away from uneven ground, adjusting his pace without comment when you falter.

It’s infuriating how natural it feels.

When you reach the far end of the garden, you stop beside the fountain, pretending to admire the lilies floating on the surface.

“See?” you say. “Perfectly capable.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re controlling,” you reply. “Somehow, we make it work.”

For a moment, it almost feels like truce.

Almost.

Then he says, “Next time, I’ll carry you from the start.”

And before you can respond, he turns and starts back toward the palace, leaving you to follow with the faintest, most infuriating smile tugging at your lips.

═══════

The royal conservatory smells faintly of jasmine and politics.

Today’s luncheon is meant to honor a visiting trade delegation, but as always, it’s also a performance- a showcase of unity between the prince and his consort. You sit at Jungkook’s right, posture perfect, hands folded loosely in your lap.

The conversation drifts from tariffs to art to upcoming festivals. You answer politely when addressed, keeping your smile fixed in place.

Until Lord Jimin speaks.

He’s old money, old power, and old enough to think his opinion is law. Leaning back in his chair with a practiced smile, he says, “It’s lovely to see you out and about again, Your Highness. I’d heard you’d been… recovering from a fall? I suppose marble steps can be dangerous… for those unused to palace life.”

A polite ripple of laughter travels the table. The words are coated in courtesy, but the meaning is sharp- a reminder you’re an outsider, unaccustomed, and perhaps unfit.

You meet his gaze without flinching. “It’s true. I fell. Luckily, my husband was there to catch me.”

“Yes,” Jimin says smoothly, “though I imagine His Highness has far more pressing matters than tending to scraped ankles. Affairs of state require… sturdier footing.”

It’s a dig. Gentle enough to pass as banter, but you hear the insinuation beneath it: fragile, ornamental, a burden.

You’re ready to respond, but Jungkook speaks first.

“Lord Jimin,” he says, voice even but edged with steel, “you mistake grace for weakness.” The table quiets instantly. “The Princess has already proven herself in council and in matters of policy. She is not a burden. She is my partner.”

Jimin blinks, caught off guard.

“And,” Jungkook continues, his gaze locking with the older lord’s, “if I ever hear you suggest otherwise again- even in jest- I will ensure you regret it.”

A ripple of stunned silence follows. Somewhere down the table, a glass is set down a little too quickly.

Jimin forces a smile. “Of course, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”

“Then perhaps,” Jungkook says, his tone softening but not losing its weight, “you should choose your words more carefully.”

The conversation resumes, but the balance at the table has shifted.

You glance at Jungkook. His expression is unreadable, his focus already on the next course being served.

But under the table, you let your fingers brush his hand- not a thank-you, exactly, but an acknowledgment.

He doesn’t pull away.

The luncheon ends in a blur of polite farewells and murmured congratulations. You don’t remember half the names of the people you shook hands with- not because they weren’t important, but because you could feel Jungkook beside you.

Not just beside you. With you.

Every time you replay his words- “She is my partner”- your pulse stirs a little faster.

The doors close behind the last of the guests. Servants move to collect the empty glasses, but Jungkook’s voice stops them.

“Leave us.”

The room empties quickly. You’re still standing by the long banquet table when he crosses to you, his steps unhurried, but his gaze locked on yours like he’s already made a decision.

“You enjoyed that,” you murmur, chin lifting.

“What?” he says, stopping just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“Defending me.” You allow a slow smile. “Making it clear I’m yours.”

His hand is at your waist before you can react, pulling you flush against him. “You are mine.”

The words aren’t cold this time. They’re hot. Dangerous.

You open your mouth to retort, but his lips crash onto yours- not claiming like before, but taking, deep and insistent, like he’s been holding it back all afternoon. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you, coaxing a soft sound from the back of your throat.

Your fingers curl into his jacket, dragging him closer. The kiss breaks just long enough for him to murmur, voice rough, “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

He lifts you onto the table in one motion, your skirts spilling over polished wood. His mouth moves to your neck, your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before his hands shove fabric higher and higher, until your thighs are bare.

“This isn’t about duty,” you breathe, half dazed.

He pushes you back so you’re lying on the table, bunching your dress up, and then he drops to his knees between your legs. Your breath catches. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open. 

“No,” he agrees, his voice low, almost dangerous. “This is about you.”

And then his mouth is on you- a slow, deliberate lick over your slit that makes you jolt.

He doesn’t give you time to think before his mouth is on you- hot, wet, and devastatingly slow. His tongue slides from your entrance to your clit in one unhurried stroke, making you jolt.

His hands grip your thighs like steel, keeping you open while his tongue circles lazily, deliberately avoiding giving you enough pressure to push you over. He pulls back just enough to blow a warm breath over you, watching the way you shiver.

“Already wet,” he murmurs, smirking before diving in again, licking you like he’s savoring every drop. He alternates between slow, languid strokes and fast, focused flicks over your clit until your hips are rocking into his face.

You try to pull him closer, but he shakes his head against you, forcing you to take his pace. “You’ll come when I say,” he growls, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking hard. The sound that tears from your throat is half-moan, half-curse.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue fucks into you, wet and insistent, before returning to your clit. The obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room, mingling with your ragged breathing. You’re panting now, thighs trembling against his grip, every muscle wound tight.

When your climax finally breaks, it’s sharp and shuddering, your back arching off the table. He holds you there, riding out every wave, his mouth never leaving you until you whimper from oversensitivity.

Only then does he rise, mouth slick, eyes dark. He leans over you, his cock already pressing against your thigh. “You don’t get to keep pretending after this,” you whisper, still catching your breath.

His hips still for a second, gaze locked on yours. Then he leans to your ear. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

He frees himself and pushes into you in one deep, steady thrust, the thick stretch forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. The aftershocks of your orgasm make every inch of him feel amplified, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out.

He doesn’t give you time to settle- his hips draw back slow, almost teasing, before slamming forward again, the table groaning under the force. The rhythm he finds is hard and sure, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your breath hitch. His hands grip your hips, dragging you into every snap of his body, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the quiet room.

You cling to him, nails digging into the back of his jacket as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand himself into your muscles. The slick slide between you is filthy, your wetness coating him, making each thrust faster, harder.

When his mouth finds yours again, the kiss is desperate-  teeth, tongue, shared breath- his pace never faltering. He swallows your moans, dragging them out until they’re rough, uncontrolled sounds you swore you wouldn’t make for him.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, angling him deeper, and he growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your mouth. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and circling just hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice ragged. You do- helplessly- your body clenching around him as the climax rips through you. He groans, hips driving deep one last time before he spills inside you, grinding through the aftershocks until you’re both shaking.

For a moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing.

When it’s over, he stays inside you just long enough to make you feel the weight of it- then pulls out, tucking himself back in with slow precision. He adjusts his jacket, then reaches down, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You should eat dinner in your chambers tonight,” he says.

It sounds like an order. It feels like care.

═══════

It’s only been a few days since the luncheon- and what happened after- but already, the edges between you and Jungkook are back to cutting.

The council chamber is thick with debate. A dispute over land rights has ministers talking over one another, and you’ve had enough. You speak up, cutting through the noise with a solution that’s both strategic and bold.

The room goes quiet. Even the scribe pauses his pen.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you catch the way his knuckles tap the table once- a subtle warning meant for you.

When the meeting adjourns, you rise with the others, smoothing your skirts. You expect him to walk beside you. Instead, he barely glances your way.

“You enjoy taking command in front of my council,” he says as you step into the corridor. His tone is light enough that an outsider wouldn’t catch the bite beneath it.

“They were wasting time,” you reply evenly. “I offered a solution.”

“You offered my solution,” he says, eyes forward. “Before I could give it.”

“That’s not my fault,” you counter, but he’s already striding ahead.

By the time you reach the great hall, he’s gone. No explanation. No dismissal. Just gone.

You wander the palace to cool your temper, your steps echoing in the quiet corridors. You’ve never cared much for the east wing- it’s quieter, more private- but today, you find yourself there.

A door at the end of the hall stands slightly ajar.

Jungkook’s office.

You hesitate, but curiosity wins.

Inside, the space is meticulously ordered- shelves lined with ledgers, a polished desk, the faint scent of ink and parchment in the air. You trail your fingers along the edge of the desk, noticing the papers stacked with military precision.

And then, near the bottom of one stack, you see it.

An envelope. Unsealed. Your name isn’t on it and the handwriting is Jungkook’s.

The date at the top freezes your breath in your chest- the day after your wedding.

You shouldn’t read it. You know that. But your fingers are already sliding the page free.

The first word you see is her. 

Jisoo.

Your stomach twists.

You look toward the door- still closed- then back at the page, your pulse loud in your ears.

You sink into his chair, the letter trembling slightly in your hands.

Whatever’s written here, you already know it’s going to hurt.

═══════

My dearest Jisoo,

I should not be writing to you. Every reason I have been given tells me to let go- to accept the reality they have bound me to. But it is not reality I am living in. It is a sentence.

Yesterday, I stood at the altar with your sister. I said the vows. I placed the ring on her finger. I lifted her veil. And the entire time, all I could think was how wrong it was that it was her standing there, and not you.

You should have been my bride. You should have worn the crown beside me.

But politics is a crueler ruler than either of us. You know as well as I do that your father would never have allowed it- not with the trade agreement your marriage prospects could secure for your kingdom.

You were promised long before I had the right to ask.

Lord Dae-Hyun’s second son was a match your father could not afford to lose, and once your name was spoken, it could not be withdrawn. By the time I realized, you were already gone- sealed off by duty, unreachable by even my title.

They told me it was impossible. That I had to take the match offered. That she was the only way to solidify the alliance.

As though I should be grateful.

I am not.

Y/N is… restless. Too quick to speak, too unwilling to simply be still. She moves like she’s waiting for a fight that no one has offered her, and perhaps that is the part I resent most- her constant need to be seen, to be heard. Even in these first hours as husband and wife, she seems determined to prove something, though I cannot imagine what it is, or to whom.

She will make noise, I am sure, and perhaps even cause enough distraction to make the ministers believe she is worth the trouble.

But she is not you.

She does not have your grace. Your steadiness. The way you can command a room without raising your voice.

When I look at her, I see only the shadow of what could have been. And it is unbearable to wake each day beside the wrong sister, knowing the one I wanted most is still within reach, yet impossibly far.

I do not expect you to answer this. Perhaps you will not even read it. But I needed you to know that, in every way that matters, I am still yours.

I will always be yours.

- Jungkook

═══════

You don’t remember standing.

One moment, you’re staring at the ink-  the words curling across the page like they were meant to strangle you- and the next, you’re shoving the letter back into the envelope with shaking hands.

Your legs move without thought, carrying you out of his office and through the palace corridors. You don’t care if anyone sees you. You just need to be away from there. Away from him.

By the time you reach your chambers, your breath is uneven, your vision swimming. The ladies-in-waiting rush to greet you, offering tea, asking if you’d like to change before dinner.

“Leave,” you say, your voice tight.

They freeze. “Your Highness-”

“Please,” you add, softer this time, but your voice cracks around the word. “I need to be alone.”

They bow and file out, glancing back as though worried to leave you like this. The door shuts.

The silence is crushing.

You press your back against it for a moment before sliding down to the floor. The sob breaks free before you can stop it-  raw, shattering, the kind that leaves you gasping.

You push yourself up and stagger to the bed, sinking into the mattress as if the weight of the letter is still pressing down on you. The tears come harder now, unstoppable. You press your hands over your mouth to muffle the sounds, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one left to hear.

Every word replays in your mind- restless, wrong sister, always be yours. Each one cuts deeper, tearing through every fragile thread of dignity you’ve tried to hold together since the wedding.

Hours pass. The light outside dims to gold, then gray, then nothing. You don’t move. Dinner comes and goes. You don’t send for food. You don’t light the lamps. The only glow in the room is the faint spill of moonlight across the floor.

The knock at the door comes late. Before you can answer, it opens.

Jungkook steps inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You weren’t at dinner.”

You don’t reply.

His gaze shifts to your face- the flushed skin, the reddened eyes, the damp lashes. His body stills.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You just stare at him, the letter’s words burning between you like a secret only you know.

You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet when he steps closer.

“What happened?” he asks again.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “If my father let you marry her right now,” you say, your voice shaking, “would I still be here?”

His brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”

“Answer me!” Your voice rises, breaking against the walls. “Would I still be here, Jungkook?”

His eyes narrow. “You went through my things.”

“You wrote it!” you shout, the tears burning hot again. “You wrote it the day after our wedding! You said you wished it was her. You said I was the wrong sister. You said you’d always be hers.”

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays level- too level. “And what if I did? It was the truth.”

Your breath catches.

“I married you for politics,” he says, each word deliberate, cold. “Not for love. And yes, everything in that letter is true.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under you.

You take a step back, but he follows, his voice sharper now. “You think snooping through my office will make you more than what you are? It doesn’t. You were a convenience, Y/N. Nothing more.”

The sob rips from your throat before you can stop it. “You’re cruel.”

“And you’re naive,” he snaps. “If you thought this marriage was anything else, that’s on you.”

It’s the final blow- not just the words, but the way he says them, like they’re facts, not daggers.

Your vision blurs. You turn away before he can see the collapse happening inside you. “I’m going home.”

“You can’t just-”

But you’re already moving, shoving past him, through the door, and down the corridor.

Within the hour, you’re in the stables, your guards scrambling to follow orders they didn’t expect. The palace fades behind you as the carriage rattles toward your father’s kingdom.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you might see the shadow in the window- a figure watching you leave, unmoving until you vanish from sight.

═══════

jungkook’s pov: 

The door slammed behind her hours ago. And yet, the echo of her voice still lingers.

Jungkook sits at his desk, the untouched glass of brandy in front of him reflecting the moonlight. He’d been furious when she confronted him- furious she’d been in his office, furious she’d read the letter. But fury fades fast when it’s replaced by the memory of her face, wet with tears, breaking in front of him.

Six months.

They’ve been married six months. Long enough for him to know the sound of her laughter when she’s not guarding it, the precise way her brow furrows when she’s deciding whether to speak her mind, the warmth in her voice when she’s talking to anyone who isn’t him.

And long enough for him to notice her- truly notice her. The way she moves, carries herself, commands attention without even trying. The way her beauty isn’t something the court dresses gave her, but something she wears like armor.

He’d told himself from the start that she was a political necessity, nothing more. The letter he’d written to Jisoo had been the truth back then or at least the truth he’d chosen to believe. But now?

Now he remembers the garden. How light she’d felt in his arms when he carried her back to her chambers. How she hadn’t flinched when Lord Jimin made his sly dig, but met it with a smile that made Jungkook want to break the man’s teeth.

The way her hand had brushed his under the table after he defended her. The faint smile she tried to hide.

And after everyone left , the way she’d come apart under his hands. How the urgency between them had been more than anger, more than duty. The taste of her still lingers on his tongue, the sound of her voice when she moaned his name still carved into his memory. It hadn’t been detached, like before- not when he was buried inside her, not when his mouth was on her, not when her nails clawed at his shoulders like she was trying to hold him there forever. He’d been closer to her in that hour than in the entire six months of their marriage.

God, he’d said she was a convenience. Nothing more.

The lie tastes bitter.

He pushes back from the desk and stands abruptly, the chair scraping the floor. His coat is on in seconds, boots echoing against the stone floors as he makes for the stables.

It doesn’t matter that it’s past midnight. It doesn’t matter that the journey to her father’s kingdom will take hours.

He has to see her.

Not as a prince, not as a husband fulfilling some duty- but as a man who knows he’s made a mistake.

The groomsman barely has time to saddle his horse before Jungkook swings into the saddle. The cold night air bites at his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness in the palace without her.

He rides hard.

He’s going to bring her home.

═══════

The warmth of your father’s manor is different from the one you left.

Here, the air doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down on you. The corridors smell faintly of cedar and fresh bread instead of cold stone. You can breathe without worrying about who’s watching.

For the first time in months, you let yourself sit without the weight of the crown. Wrapped in a thick blanket in your father’s private sitting room, you sip tea, listening to the muted hum of distant conversation.

You’re not healed. You know that. But for now, you’re home.

The knock on the front doors comes just as you set your cup down. Footsteps cross the marble foyer, and then- a voice you never thought you’d hear here.

“Is she here?”

Your blood runs cold.

Jisoo’s voice answers, careful but unmistakably surprised. “Jungkook.”

You freeze, every muscle locking in place.

“I need to see her,” he says- no hesitation, no preamble.

Before you can even decide whether to stand or run, he’s inside. His eyes find you across the room in an instant. And then he’s moving- past Jisoo, past the threshold, crossing the space between you like nothing else exists. He’s in front of you before you can even get to your feet.

Jungkook drops to his knees, the movement sharp and sudden, his hands coming up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. His eyes search yours- not for anger, not for forgiveness, but for proof you’re real.

“Y/N-”

You shove his hands away, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Don’t.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then Jisoo, sensing the air between you, murmurs something to your father and slips from the room. The door shuts behind them, leaving only the two of you.

Your voice is low, but cutting. “You don’t get to come here, after what you said, and pretend it never happened.”

He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you- truly looks- as though you’ve hung the stars and he’s only just realizing it.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it. For the letter. For what I said after. For every time I made you feel unwanted.”

You fold your arms, holding your ground.

“I didn’t know I was falling for you,” he continues, “until it was already happening.”

You scoff. “Falling for me?”

“The winter gala,” he says, and you can hear the truth in his voice. “You walked into that room and the whole court bent toward you, even when I was furious. The garden- when you fell, I’ve never been that afraid in my life. Your wit, the way you see through people at council. The luncheon- the way you touched my hand under the table like you knew exactly what it meant. And after… when we were together, it wasn’t just anger or duty anymore. For the first time, I felt like I was with you, not just my wife.”

He swallows hard. “And the quieter things. Dinners where you laughed with the servants and made them forget you were royalty. The way you read late at night, biting your lip when you turn the page. The way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

Your breath catches, but you mask it with a shake of your head. “Words are easy, Jungkook. You’ve had six months to show me I matter and you didn’t. Why should I believe you now?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I’m standing here, asking you to come home.”

You meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “No. Not until you prove it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but you don’t look away. For the first time since you’ve known him, he nods- not in dismissal, but in acceptance.

“I will.”

═══════

jungkook’s pov:

The court is already buzzing when Jungkook walks into the great hall. Ministers in rich silks murmur over parchment, their jeweled rings catching the light. They fall silent when they see what he’s carrying.

An envelope. Old. Unsealed.

He walks to the center of the room, past the council table, past the throne. The letter-the one he wrote to Jisoo six months ago-  feels like it weighs more than steel in his hand.

Without preamble, he sets it atop the silver brazier meant for burning old decrees.

“This letter,” he says, his voice carrying easily in the vaulted hall, “is a lie I let live too long.”

The ministers glance at one another.

He strikes a match and drops it onto the parchment. Flame curls the edges, swallowing the words, until nothing remains but black ash.

“I have one queen,” he continues. “Not simply a wife to fulfill politics, not a placeholder for another. Y/N is my queen- in title, in duty, and in my heart.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

“She is the woman who has stood beside me when I gave her no reason to. Who has shown strength where others expected silence. Who has matched me in wit, in will, and in fire.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “And I love her.”

The last of the letter collapses into ash.

He turns to the royal scribe. “Send word to her father’s court. Let it be known across both kingdoms.”

═══════

The day is uneventful until the envoy arrives.

The royal messenger steps into your father’s receiving room, his cloak still dusted with travel, the sealed scroll in his hand gleaming with Jungkook’s crest.

“For Her Highness, the Princess Consort,” he says, bowing as he offers it.

Your father watches you break the seal.

The parchment is brief but formal- the kind of statement meant to be read in public squares and whispered over in taverns:

A letter burned. Your name spoken in the great hall. You, named not only wife, but queen. And the final line, in Jungkook’s unmistakable hand: I love you.

Your fingers tighten on the parchment. You can hear the pounding of your own heart.

“Seems he’s made his choice,” your father says quietly.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not yet.

You’re still staring at the proclamation when Jisoo slips into your room.

“So… he burned it?” she says, perching lightly on the edge of your bed.

You nod, the parchment still in your lap. “In front of everyone. Declared me his queen. Said he loves me.”

Jisoo studies your face. “And you don’t believe him?”

“I want to,” you admit, your voice low. “But wanting to and trusting are two different things.”

Jisoo’s expression softens. “You’ve always been braver than you think, Y/N. Go see him. Make him prove it in person.”

The next day, you do.

The journey back to his kingdom feels shorter this time, though your heart is heavier with each mile.

When the carriage pulls into the palace courtyard, you expect the usual line of attendants and guards. You don’t expect him- standing at the base of the steps, dressed simply, holding a bouquet of deep red roses.

The door opens, and the early Spring air rushes in.

He looks up at you, something unguarded in his eyes. “Welcome home, Y/N.”

You step down from the carriage, the scent of the roses reaching you before his hands do.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he offers them to you. You take the roses, the petals velvety against your fingers.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, your voice careful.

“They’re not enough,” Jungkook replies.

You blink up at him. “Then why give them to me?”

“Because I needed something in my hands when I saw you,” he admits. “Otherwise I might not have been able to keep from-” He stops himself, his jaw flexing. “-from saying too much, too soon.”

The words catch you off guard.

An attendant moves to take your luggage, but Jungkook waves them off. “I’ll walk her.”

You glance at him, then at the long climb up the palace steps. “You don’t usually play porter.”

“I don’t usually try to win back my wife,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Inside, the corridors are quieter than usual. He walks beside you, matching your pace, and doesn’t speak again until you reach your chambers.

“I know words won’t be enough,” he says, stopping at the threshold. “So I’ll show you.”

“How?” you ask, wary but curious.

“By being the man you deserve,” he answers without hesitation. “By giving you reason to believe me every day, not just when it’s convenient for me. By making sure you never have to doubt you are my queen- in every way that matters.”

You search his face, looking for cracks in the resolve. But his gaze holds steady.

“Then start proving it,” you say finally, stepping into the room.

Before the door closes, you hear him say softly, “I already am.”

═══════

The council chamber feels different this morning.

The air isn’t thick with the weight of being tolerated- it hums with the quiet acknowledgment of your place at the table. The ministers rise when you enter, bowing not out of obligation, but something closer to respect.

Jungkook takes his seat at the head of the table. You take yours at his right but for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re in his shadow.

A dispute over the naval fleet’s funding takes center stage. Two ministers argue over whether to cut costs or invest in new shipbuilding.

You listen. And when their voices climb over each other, you speak.

“Cutting costs now will cost us more later,” you say, your tone firm but measured. “If we invest in the fleet, we secure our trade routes. That’s more revenue in the long term- and more security for our allies.”

All eyes shift to you.

One minister hesitates. “But, Your Highness-”

“She’s right,” Jungkook cuts in smoothly, his gaze steady on you. “The Princess’s proposal is sound. It will be implemented.”

You allow yourself a small smile, meeting his eyes.

The discussion moves on, but the shift lingers- ministers asking for your opinion, valuing it, weighing it as they would his. And each time you speak, Jungkook listens. Not with the detached patience of before, but with intent, his attention fixed on you as though no other voice in the room matters.

By the end of the session, the room feels different again. Not because you’ve changed, but because they’ve started to see you as you’ve always been.

A queen in the room.

═══════

The council chamber has long since emptied, but the weight of the day lingers in your shoulders.

You find him in his office, the golden light of late afternoon spilling over the maps and scrolls spread across his desk. He looks up when you enter, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.

“You were remarkable today,” Jungkook says, leaning back in his chair. “The fleet’s commanders will be sending you wine for that decision.”

You smile faintly but don’t sit. Instead, you step closer, your skirts whispering over the polished floor. “I need to ask you something.”

His gaze sharpens. “Anything.”

You stop a few feet from him, folding your hands in front of you. “What do you see in me,” you ask slowly, “that you never saw in Jisoo?”

The room stills.

He blinks once, as if he’s not sure he heard you right. “Why are you asking me that now?”

“Because,” you say, keeping your voice even, “you’ve told me you love me. You’ve burned your letter. You’ve defended me in court. But there’s still a part of me that wonders if you love me for me, or because I became what you needed.”

He rises from the chair, closing the distance until he’s standing right in front of you. “You think I’d confuse the two?”

“I think,” you answer, meeting his eyes, “that I deserve to know the difference.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle, marking each second between you.

And then he nods once- slow, deliberate. “Alright. I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t look away when he speaks.

“When I thought of Jisoo,” Jungkook begins, “I saw… calm. The kind of quiet the court praises. She was gentle, and she fit the image of a queen in everyone’s mind, including mine. But it was a dream I built out of fragments. I didn’t know her. I had a single conversation with her.”

He takes another step closer. “And when I married you… I told myself it was only politics. But then the reality of you started undoing me.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t interrupt.

“The winter gala,” he says softly. “You walked in wearing that wine-red gown, and the entire court turned toward you- not because of your title, but because you owned the room. And I hated how much I noticed. The garden, when you fell-  I’ve been in battles where men were dying around me, and I wasn’t as scared as I was in that moment.”

His voice lowers. “Your wit in council. The way you don’t back down, even when I’ve given you every reason to. That day you outmaneuvered Lord Jimin with a single look and a sharper tongue- I wanted to kiss you in front of everyone.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding.

“And the luncheon,” he continues. “When you touched my hand under the table, I thought it was nothing. But afterwards… when I had you in my arms, when you let me in completely- it wasn’t anger, or duty, or proving a point. It was you. Just you. And I realized I’d never had that with anyone before.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t just fit the image of a queen. You are one. And I see you, Y/N- not the crown, not the alliance, not my title beside yours. Just you. And I love what I see.”

He runs a hand through his hair, almost like he’s searching for the right words. “I think I was in love with you before I even understood it. Before I let myself admit it. Every time you challenged me, every time you made me see the world differently, it was another thread pulling me toward you. And now… now I can’t imagine a world where you’re not mine.”

The silence between you is different now- not the sharp-edged kind that’s filled your marriage, but something warmer. Something that pulls you toward him instead of pushing you away.

When he reaches for you, it’s not rushed. His hands frame your face gently, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His kiss is unhurried, deep, and you taste the truth of everything he’s just said in the way his mouth moves against yours.

You let him guide you back toward the bed, but this time there’s no battle for control- only the steady pull of his hands and the unspoken promise in his touch. Every glance, every brush of his fingers is a question, and you answer without hesitation, giving him all of you.

When his lips trail down your throat, you feel the weight of his love in the way he lingers, his mouth pressing gentle kisses, his nose brushing your skin like he’s breathing you in.

Clothing falls away slowly- not torn, but removed like it’s precious. He studies every inch of revealed skin with eyes that are soft and heavy with want, his hands tracing you as though he’s committing each curve to memory.

He eases you back onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs, and lowers himself until his breath ghosts over your core. The first kiss he presses there is slow, deliberate, making you gasp. “You’re so beautiful here,” he murmurs, before his tongue drags through your folds.

The first wave comes quickly- his mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking just right while two fingers slide inside you, curling until you’re gasping his name. He hums, the sound sending shivers through you as you clench around him, hips rocking helplessly.

He doesn’t let you come down. His mouth never leaves you, his fingers easing out only to be replaced by the wet slide of his tongue dipping inside you, tasting everything you give him. You whimper, overstimulated already, but his hands pin your hips to the mattress, holding you there until the second orgasm crashes over you- sharper this time, your thighs trembling around his head.

When you sag against the bed, panting, he kisses your inner thigh, his voice low and reverent. “One more for me, love.”

You can barely shake your head before his mouth is back on your clit, slower this time, coaxing instead of demanding. His fingers return, pumping deep and steady while his tongue traces lazy circles. The build is excruciatingly tender, your body tightening until you spill over again, crying out and clinging to him like you might drown without him.

Only then does he finally come up to you, his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “Perfect,” he whispers, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “You’re perfect.”

He lines himself up and pushes into you with a long, steady thrust, the head of his cock stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried fully inside. Your lips part in a shuddering gasp, your body still fluttering from the last climax, the aftershocks wrapping around him and drawing a deep groan from his chest.

He stills there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard like he’s savoring every second of being inside you. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I love you so much.”

His hips begin to move- slow at first, dragging all the way out before pressing back into the hilt, making you feel every inch. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his hand finding yours between your bodies and lacing your fingers together like he’s anchoring himself.

He kisses you through it, the kind of kisses that steal your breath- soft one moment, hungry the next. His free hand strokes your cheek, tucks your hair back, touches you like you’re fragile and the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You take me so well,” he breathes against your lips. “Every time… every time you feel like home.”

The words make your chest ache in the best way, your hips rising to meet his as the rhythm builds. He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts until the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His thumb finds your clit again, stroking in slow, perfect circles that have you gasping into his mouth.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his voice almost desperate. “Please… I need to feel you.”

It hits you fast, your body clenching hard around him as your climax rips through you. He follows instantly, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside, groaning your name into the crook of your neck. He keeps moving, slow and gentle now, riding out every aftershock until you’re both trembling and breathless.

When it’s over, he stays inside you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand still laced with yours. Finally, he eases out, tucks himself back in, and gathers you against him. His lips brush your temple in a soft, lingering kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, quieter now, like the words are meant just for you.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and for the first time since you married him, you let yourself believe it.

═══════

Four months pass, and the court is no longer divided over you.

You’ve stood in the council chamber beside Jungkook, your voice carrying as much weight as his. You’ve walked the gardens with visiting dignitaries, negotiated trade proposals, and heard the people’s petitions in the great hall. Every step, every decision, every glance exchanged with him has been watched- and now, no one doubts.

Today is the day it becomes official.

The great hall is a sea of color, banners of both your kingdoms and his draped from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight pours through stained glass, scattering jewels of light across the marble floor. Nobles, ministers, and foreign rulers fill the room, their eyes on the dais where two thrones sit side by side.

Jungkook is already there, dressed in ceremonial black and gold, a crown resting lightly on his head. He turns when you enter, and the faint smile that touches his lips is for you alone.

The High Chancellor’s voice rings out, carrying over the hush. “By the will of the Crown and the grace of Almighty God, let it be known throughout this realm and beyond its borders: Princess consort Y/N, beloved daughter of the realm and consort to His Majesty the King, having been found worthy in faith, in honor, and in steadfast devotion, is this day anointed and crowned.

From henceforth she shall be known as Her Most Gracious Majesty, Y/N, Queen Consort of this Kingdom, Guardian of the Crown’s dignity, and sworn companion to the Sovereign.

May her counsel be wise, her heart steadfast, and her reign beside His Majesty bring peace, prosperity, and glory to the realm.

Long live the Queen!”

You step forward, and the crown- lighter than you imagined, yet impossibly heavy with meaning- is placed upon your head.

When you rise, Jungkook takes your hand in front of the entire court, his grip warm and steady. The cheers that follow echo through the hall, the sound of a kingdom bearing witness.

You glance at him, your heart steady and certain.

Once, his heart was elsewhere. Now, it beats for me alone.

═══════

♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 08/15/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @asyr97 @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @yu-justme @bangtaniess @roseda @hottigerboba @xumyboo @bangtansfav-7 @ggukieskookie @granataepfelchen @blubird592 @mellyyyyyyx @gukkiemybaby @likeesapphire @jaerisdiction @amarawayne @elithenium @heyinwluv85s @prilnextdoor23 @Strxqrd1 @uli_o7 @jojojoliejolene @kyrasworldd @sc05

[jkwrites-m]

after daddy kookie do you have plans for another fic? do you write supernatural stuff like werewolves, fae etc?

♡ so after Daddy Kookie i do have a couple drabbles, one shots, and requests to do, but supernatural stuff isn’t usually my go-to (besides ghosts??) i just don’t think i’d do it full justice 😭

♡ i’ve also never really read werewolf, hybrid, or fae fics… but i’m totally down to at least try!!

♡ do you have any ideas?? 👀 bc honestly idek where to even start with that genre lol

[jkwrites-m]

omg thank you for accepting my request 😭❤️ about the arrange marriage older jk and younger y/n fic where jk keeps talking about y/n’s older sister instead I am a sucker for angsty fics like that where you feel the dread in your stomach you feel like throwing up from the pain and the redemption the grovelling afterwards 😭. I am so excited for thr fic

♡ honeybun- you have no idea how excited i am to post it 😭

♡ i hope it’ll live up to expectations bc i think it’s pretty good 🫣🤭

♡ i’ll be posting it later today (it’s 2am lmao)

[jkwrites-m]

Can we have a drabble for Custody ending domestic life?

Maybe something along with their kid

Thank you 💜 The story was amazing. I’m a sucker for stockholm syndrome yandere fics

♡ eeee! tysm 🫶and SAME- i’m also a total sucker for stockholm syndrome yandere fics, so i get it. while i’m not going to write any drabbles for this series, i’m totally down to answer questions 👀

♡ sooo yes, they do have a beautiful baby boy. jungkook basically does a full 180 when it comes to his son- super attentive, very present, slightly softer… but also teaching him some questionable lessons like “go for what you want,” “don’t ever take no as an answer,” and “people will never understand you” (aka just… bad lessons lol).

♡ this actually becomes a fight between y/n and jungkook. she’s trying to teach their son empathy and compassion, and jungkook is still very possessive over her, so he’s loving but now slightly pissy about her “softening” him through their kid.

♡ hopefully this answered your question 😭🫶

[jkwrites-m]

Ik in ending c jungkook tells her that they're are others but I wonder does she ever dig deeper? Or question him? Or would that just make her jealous once the Stockholm syndrome fully sets in? Ik you said they argue but I can't help but wonder if that's one of the arguments or what their arguments are like in general? Thx im obsessed with pull over its my roman empire atp

♡ omg i love expanding on Pull Over without writing actual drabbles so ty for this question 😭🫶

♡ so for the others arguments- yes, she definitely brings it up at some point and it does cause an argument. jungkook ends up reassuring her that she’s the one who was made for him, that she’s so good, he’ll take care of her forever, blah blah blah obsessive boy math.

♡ most of their arguments are actually kind of “normal” (ew)- think jealousy over strangers looking at her, household stuff like her not folding his shirts right, or her complaining about him being too controlling in certain moments.

♡ jungkook usually gives in pretty quickly because he’s obsessed with keeping her happy and maintaining that stockholm syndrome.

♡ buuut there have been a couple of bad arguments where he’s had to “discipline” her, but lightly now, since at this point she apologizes first (full syndrome locked in).

♡ and tysm for reading!! i’m so glad Pull Over is your roman empire 🫶🥰

[jkwrites-m]

why do i feel like eun ae’s gonna have a sibling 👀

🫣🤭🤫

[jkwrites-m]

Are you still continuing extra credit?

♡ maybe in the future?? tbh, i actually like the way Extra Credit was left off, but i totally get why it feels like it could use one more chapter!!

♡ at the moment i’ve got my hands full with Daddy Kookie, a requested one-shot, and another little mini series (?) that was requested- but who knows, maybe i’ll circle back to it one day 👀

[jkwrites-m]

y’all:

♡ PLEASE don’t hate me 😭

♡ but i am literally rewriting chapters 12+ bc i left out literally a whole chunk of the story by accident (tell me why i thought i wrote it?? ig i had a senior moment 🤸)

♡ but also bc i’m a horrible person i have added multiple chapters as i truly can’t help myself so it’s going to be longer than i originally planned 🫩

♡ soooo while we wait for that i am going to drop the royalty fic (:

[jkwrites-m]

just finished reading pull over and like i don’t even know how to explain this without sounding insane but you’re literally a genius 😭😭😭 all alt endings were soooo good and i love all 3. i can't choose one fav but i'll rate from 1 to 3 instead:

#3 — 1st 💗 bc i’m a complete sucker for happy endings. i just want jungkook and y/n to be happy and alive and breathing and maybe holding hands idk is that too much to ask??? 🥹

#1 — 2nd is actually satisfying. CHILLS really. that ending was so cinematic. true crime levels of unsettling

#2 — last place ONLY bc i don’t usually read mcds and this one hit too hard. like i was actually sad i couldn’t take it 😢

♡ thank you so much for reading Pull Over all the way through- i know it can be a LOT 😭 and omg i LOVE your rating list!!

♡ i’m such a sucker for stockholm syndrome stories so it was 100% NECESSARY to have that ending in here (plus it was actually the original one lol).

♡ i also really wanted to include a “justice” type ending because like… isn’t that logically the best one?? even if it doesn’t exactly feel like it.

♡ and, i totally get your thoughts on main character deaths- they’re heavy, and not everyone enjoys sad endings. it’s one of those things that just hits different, and not always in a fun way 😅

[jkwrites-m]

I just finished reading Make Our Own Music. It’s beautiful and it hits right home. I lost my dad pretty early too. I’m a little older than Eun Ae back then, I was 10. We’re way past the dances that time but there were different moments like the dilemma on what course you will take in college, where’s the best place to install the television and all the handyman works around the house, and then there’s the time when you need to learn how to drive - all would’ve been easier and lighter if a dad was around. But thank you for putting into words how everyone should appreciate their moms. Mom carried whatever she can, the best way she can so I can fly lighter, freer, farther. That was a good cry I didn’t know I needed. Thank you for everything you do for us, your readers.🙏🏽

♡ oh wow… this genuinely got me teary 🫶

♡ thank you for sharing such a personal piece of your story with me. i can’t even imagine the weight of those moments- the big milestones and even the little everyday things- and how much heavier they feel without a dad there. it means so much that Make Our Own Music resonated with you in that way.

♡ i really wanted to show how deep and loving the relationship between y/n and eun ae is. that bond where a mom (or mother figure) quietly carries as much as she possibly can so her child can grow more than them. moms are truly some of the strongest people in the world, and i have so much love and respect for them.

♡ thank you for trusting me with your feelings and for letting me know this story gave you that good cry 🫶it means everything.

[jkwrites-m]

reading through chapters of daddy kookiemakes me sad fr:( yk why? bcoz i wonder how ppl of this fandom and others will react when they all come out with their reltionships irl? i hope some toxic armies dont actually behave like this and accept whover their partners are! i hope they leave their privacy to themselves and not over analyse every fukn thing!! and not compare them to any other person or comment on their looks, personality etc!! these things ACTUALLY bugs me at times... i hope the boys stays happy forever touchwood! TALKING ABOUT DK 08, LOVED IT.. ACTUALLY IMMA GO READ ALL 8 CHAPTERS TOGETHER IN ONE GO COZ I'M MESSING UP THE SEQUENCE OF EVENTS SOMETIMES THANKS TO MY 2 BRAINCELLS:) TYSM, LY!<3

♡ ugh i KNOW 😭 it’s so upsetting how toxic some people can be to them and to any of their future partners!!

♡ like… we cannot seriously expect 7 FINE AS FUCK men to not be in relationships or at least getting some 😭😂 i get it, we all want that y/n moment and i fully support being delulu, but c’mon now 😭 i just hope their future partners are some strong ass, beautiful people who can handle all that comes with it.

♡ and yessss i know the Daddy Kookie timeline can get confusing with the multiple tours and then me just casually throwing in random drabbles 😭 that’s why i try to keep it chronological in the masterpost- at least then it’s all in one place for our silly selves 🫶

[jkwrites-m]

naaaaah... you're not telling me that THAT FOETUS JUNGKOOK from school triology made y/n preggo im not ready to accept that cuz he just looks.... 🤏 ps: im not the same person who sked for that, and i would rather choose to visualise him from diff eras....

♡ LMAOOO listennnn… for timeline purposes it just made sense for it to be school trilogy Jungkook 😭

♡ but if you wanna imagine him as 190811 Jungkook the whole fic then POP OFF!! i support your vision 🫡

[jkwrites-m]

Hello lovely! I instantly fell in live the moment I read the first chapter of Daddy Kookie 🥲💜 Patiently waiting for the next chapters! 🫶

♡ ahhh tysm angel 🥹 that means the world!! i’m so excited for you to read the next chapters!!!

[jkwrites-m]

Additional Taglist:

@rinkud @withluvjm @singingjk @ficluvr613 @roseidol @looneybleus @ermno97 @rainandmatcha @katie-tibo @cheolwoo @blueyesuguru @royal-sunflower @castle2317 @aesthetic-winchesters @jalexad @avawants2havefun @mianiini @cherriesanddreams @jeonjamiekim @pitchblack0309 @dna2723 @jksusawife @hani0407 @victoria-rue @justslightlymental @shiffpring @hoseokteardrop @emirawht @emmie2308 @dragonflygurl4 @luvinghauntt @iiamnotsure @lavender2ari @aaliy89 @superstarfishsandwich @nia197 @jungkookswifeeeeeee @carobrekker @bunnyjk97 @mochisabs @baekpop05 @wisebouquetbarbarian @indiphira @tteokbokbyjk @authorslastwill @nanmolla @mils244 @kyrasworldd @cmdjk @neouimaeum

Make Our Own Music

Pairing: Eun Ae (OC) x female reader

Genre: parents au, fluff, angst?

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: A school dance without a dad becomes a night of their own magic.

Setting: This drabble takes place eleven months before Y/N and Jungkook reunite. (after Ghosts Can’t Be Dads)

Warnings?: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, heavy fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, cuddling, implied absent parent, implied single parent struggles, slight crying, mother-daughter bonding, school dance, bittersweet moments

A/N: as promised a double post (: here’s a cute lil mommy-daughter bonding moment 🫶🥹

Note: eun ae’s pov is in blue, y/n’s is normal.

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

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Ms. Park claps twice at the front of the room and all the glitter glue stops squeaking. “Alright, girls,” she says, “big announcement. Next Friday is our Daddy–Daughter Dance! Tell your dads to mark their calendars. We’ll have music, snacks, and a photo booth.”

Half the class explodes. Hannah says she’s getting a sparkly dress with a bow the size of a hamburger. Lara puts two crayons under her nose like a mustache and says “I’m a dad,” and everyone laughs even though Ms. Park says, “Lara, crayons are for paper.”

I don’t laugh. I press my fingers into the mark on my desk where someone carved a tiny heart and pretend I’m very, very busy with the corner of my worksheet. Ms. Park walks up and down the rows, handing out a paper with a big cartoon of a dad and a daughter dancing. There are stars around them. The girl has pink shoes and a white wrist flower. The dad is wearing a suit.

When she gets to me, she sets the paper down like it weighs something. “You can put it in your folder, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, but my voice sounds tiny. Ms. Park’s hand hesitates on my desk for a second. Then she keeps going.

At recess, it’s all anyone talks about. Whose dad is going to do a silly dance, whose dad is going to embarrass them, whose dad is going to pick them up and spin them like in the movies. I go on the swings and pump my legs so high my stomach drops. When I get to the top of the forward part, I close my eyes so the sky is all I see.

On the walk home, the paper is heavy in my backpack. My straps squeak. My shoes make that scuff-scuff sound because I forgot to lift my feet all the way. When I open the door, home smells like garlic and something warm. Mommy is chopping onions, her hair up, the radio talking softly in Korean like a friend on the counter. I don’t know all the words, just some tiny ones I learned.

“Hi, baby,” she says. “How was school?”

I climb onto the stool and my feet swing because they can’t reach the bar. “It was okay.”

“Just okay?” She glances at me. There’s a strand that never listens stuck out of her bun. I want to tuck it back but my hands feel buzzy.

“There’s a dance.” My voice wobbles on the last word.

Her knife stops for half a second. If I blink, I miss it. “A dance?”

“Next Friday.” I stare at the onion bits. “It’s for daddies.”

She sets the knife down very carefully. Wipes her hands. Walks around the counter like the floor might break if she steps too hard. “Come here,” she says.

When I slide down, her arms go around me and I press my face into her shirt and smell laundry soap and the outside air that always sticks to her after work.

“Sometimes,” she says into my hair, “schools do dances like that. But they don’t mean it to make anyone sad.”

“I’m not sad,” I say, which is a lie. My nose burns. “I just… where is he?”

She pauses. I can feel her swallow. “Do you remember how we talk about families being all kinds of shapes?”

I nod against her.

“Some have one mama. Some have two. Some have grandparents. Some have a dad who lives far away. Ours is you and me. And that’s a really good shape.”

“Does my daddy live far away?”

She takes a breath. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Her hand keeps rubbing my back. “Because sometimes grown-ups make choices that take them far from the people they love. And sometimes they don’t know how to come back.” She kisses the top of my head. “But if he could be here for you, he would.”

That makes the hot sting slip out of my eyes. “So he wants to be here?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “He should want that.”

“Then why isn’t he?” It comes out small, like when you ask for water in the middle of the night.

She doesn’t talk for a second. The radio keeps talking. The pot of water starts to bubble. “I don’t know, baby,” she says finally. “But I know you are loved. All the way to the moon and back and back again.”

I nod like that helps my heart feel better. It doesn’t. But I like when she says it.

She lets me stir the pot even though I splash and a noodle sticks to the stove. At dinner, she tells me a story about when she was little and her mom- my halmoni- made noodles too long to slurp and they got sauce on the ceiling, and we laugh until the sad part goes away.

That night, she sleeps in my bed. I curl into her, my cheek on her arm, and when I wake up in the dark, I can hear her not sleeping, her breath staying too shallow like she’s trying to pretend she’s a quiet ocean. I think about the paper in my folder. I wish it had stars around a mom and a daughter.

I don’t tell her. I just tuck my fingers under her palm until she squeezes them once.

═══════

I don’t look at the school paper until she’s asleep and the cat-shaped nightlight paints little moons on the wall. I sit at the kitchen table with the cheap overhead light buzzing like a gnat and flatten the permission slip with my palm. The cartoon dad smiles up at me like he knows something. I flip it over. Blank.

In the morning, I put it on the fridge and stick it with a magnet shaped like a peach. I make a list on a sticky note: dress? tights? hair? I underline hair and then scratch it out because I always figure it out. The sticky note flutters to the floor when the fridge opens and closes all day. I put it back up every time.

The week feels loud. Everywhere, tiny reminders. A dad at the bus stop, half-shaved, grinning, holding his coffee in one hand and his daughter’s pink backpack in the other. Two men in suits arguing gently about whether you should step on the two or the three in a waltz while their girls jump between them. A mother in line behind me at the grocery store telling her friend about how her husband cried at last year’s dance. “It’s silly,” she says, dabbing her eyes. “But they’re only little once.”

I forget onions. Go back. End up in the aisle with greeting cards. The Father’s Day section already started for next month, all the cards with big block letters and golf jokes. I pick one up. Put it back. Pick up another. Put it back. I don’t know whose hands I think I’m filling. I stand there too long and feel stupid and leave with toothpaste we don’t need.

At work, the venue is getting ready for a jazz festival. The production manager fights with a vendor about a rigging point and I translate the subtext: we don’t have it in the budget. The hallway smells like popcorn even when there’s no popcorn. I file things I don’t have to file just so I can keep moving.

When I stop moving, I think too much.

On Thursday, Ms. Park texts me a photo of the gym. Paper lanterns. A banner someone hand-painted. A corner where she says there will be a “family photo booth- all families welcome.” I hold the phone in my palm like it’s trying to warm me. I text back:

Y/N: “thank you.”

That night, we stand in front of the mirror and I curl her hair. I don’t own hot rollers or a wand fancy enough to do the Instagram waves, so I twist and pin with the little clips that look like silver ducks. She tells me about recess and how Hannah said her dad is going to do “a spinny thing” that makes people clap.

“He practices in the kitchen,” she says. “He puts on socks and slides.”

I laugh. “Dangerous.”

“Will you slide?”

“For you? I’ll slide.”

She considers me, serious. “You don’t have to be a dad.”

“I know,” I say, and kiss her forehead. “But I can be the person who steps on your feet while you lead.”

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “I’ll lead.”

When she falls asleep, I go into the living room and open the box on the top shelf of the bookcase. The one with the old photos and the things I sometimes look at when the night gets too heavy. There’s a picture of me and my mom under a cheap party balloon. There’s a hospital bracelet with my name, small and thin. There’s a folded piece of paper with a few lines of lyrics he sent me when we were sixteen, scribbled in the corner of math notes. I don’t take that one out. I just rest my fingers on the lid and then put the box back.

I already made a promise to myself: this week isn’t about what’s missing.

It’s about what’s here.

I go to bed and dream about a gym floor that keeps growing longer as I try to cross it, like a tongue rolling out forever.

═══════

When Mommy says “we have a surprise,” I think maybe a puppy. It’s not a puppy. It’s better. She holds up a dress that’s light blue on top and shimmery on the bottom like a fish. “Do you like it?”

I do, and I say it with my whole body, bouncing so hard the dress bounces too. She zips me in and I twirl and the skirt tries very hard to fly like a bird. She puts little flowers in my hair that look like they’re made of sugar. When I look in the mirror, I have to put my hand on my mouth and squeak because I didn’t know I could look like this.

“Magic,” Mommy says, and I nod like yes, obviously, magic.

We walk to school because it’s not far and because Mommy says it’s good to feel the night on your cheeks when you’re about to do something brave.

The gym is different. It smells like cleaner and cupcakes. The lights are lower and everything looks soft. There’s music, a song I know, and there are dads- so many dads- with their girls. One dad has a beard and his daughter keeps touching it while she laughs. Another dad dips his daughter carefully like he saw it in a movie and she squeals like fireworks.

I hold Mommy’s hand tighter because for a second the brave goes away.

She squeezes back twice. That means I love you. I squeeze three times. That means I love you more.

“Shall we?” she asks, and nods at the dance floor.

“We shall,” I say, and it comes out like a captain in a pirate ship.

We start with the easy songs. The ones that tell you what to do.

“Slide to the left,” the song says, and we slide. “Criss-cross,” and we criss and we cross and I step on Mommy’s toes and she says “Ow,” but in a laughing way.

When the song tells us to freeze, we freeze so hard I almost fall over and she catches me around the middle and we wiggle like noodles. We go to the snack table and there are tiny water bottles and cupcakes with too much frosting and a bowl of pretzels that smells like my backpack.

A girl from my class, Mina, waves. Her dad is tall and wears a blue tie like Sarah said real men wear. “Your dress is pretty!” Mina says.

“Yours too!” I say, and I mean it because hers has stars.

“Is that your mom?” she asks.

“Yep,” I say, and the word feels like a coin in my mouth. I’m not sure what game you play with the coin. “She’s good at sliding.”

Mina’s dad smiles at Mommy. “You two look great out there.”

Mommy says thank you and touches the top of my hair like it might fly away. “We practiced on the sidewalk,” she lies.

I don’t say it’s a lie. I like it better as a story.

When we go back to the dance floor, a slow song starts. The kind that makes me feel like snow might start even if it’s not winter. I hold up my hands because I don’t know what to do. Mommy lifts me, my legs around her waist like when I was littler, and rocks us in a circle. I lean my ear to her shoulder and hear her heart doing a steady thump. I try to match my breath to it. For once, I catch it.

I pretend if I look over her shoulder I might see him. A dad with my eyes. A dad who recognizes me because we have the same smile. But all I see are other girls, other smiles, other dads who belong to them.

I close my eyes. I keep rocking.

═══════

The room is a kaleidoscope of small joys. Someone’s bow comes untied and a dad kneels to retie it while the DJ plays a song from ten years ago. Two girls in the corner make a conga line with a chain of dads stumbling behind them, laughing like they forgot their suits. A teacher with glitter on her cheek picks up a kindergartener whose shoes are off and keeps dancing, sock toes sliding like she’s on ice.

When the slow song pours into the room, my arms know what to do before my head does. I pick up my daughter and sway, her breath warm on my neck. For a second, I let myself look at the other side of the gym, where the photo booth pops with a flash. A dad dips his daughter and someone claps. The clapping makes a wave of more clapping. It rolls over to us, soft as foam, and I smile because it’s better to ride a wave than pretend it’s not there.

I don’t notice the man until he’s already in front of me. He’s one of the school administrators, I think; I’ve seen him at pickups. He’s holding a stack of raffle tickets and has that exhausted kindness people who work in schools wear like a second shirt.

“Hey there,” he says. “We’re making sure everyone gets a photo. We’ve got a ‘family’ sign if you want.”

For a second I mishear it as pity. Then I see the way he keeps his voice the same for everyone. A dad stumbles into him and he laughs and keeps the stack of tickets steady.

“We’re good,” I say. “But thank you.”

“If you change your mind.” He taps the pen on his ear. It leaves a tiny blue dot on his temple. He doesn’t notice.

Eun Ae lifts her head. “Can we do a picture, Mama?”

The word rings in me. Mama. It’s the word that grew skin for me when I thought I’d lost mine. “We can do a picture,” I say, and put her down.

We stand in front of the camera. The paper banner behind us says NIGHT TO REMEMBER in uneven brushstrokes. I let her choose the props. She picks two crowns and a tiny chalkboard that says Queen. She hands me the one that says Queen and takes the one that says Also Queen.

“Ready?” the volunteer asks.

“Ready,” I say.

The flash goes off, not too bright. The volunteer hands us a strip of photos a minute later, warm and smelling vaguely like a printer. Four little squares: silly, sillier, too-silly, and us looking at each other instead of the camera, our noses almost touching.

“Put it on the fridge,” she says, like she knows where memories go.

“We will,” I say.

Later, when she is pink-cheeked and soft with cupcake and dancing, we sit on the bleachers and watch. A dad ties a sneaker. Another wipes frosting from a nose with his thumb. One hums the wrong words to the song and gets them more wrong on purpose so his daughter laughs.

My girl leans her head on my shoulder. “My legs are sleepy.”

“I’ll carry them home,” I say.

“Can you carry my arms too?”

“All of it.”

She laughs. It lands light and stays.

═══════

When we step outside, the air smells like the gym let out all the sugar and it’s floating toward the moon. Mommy’s hands are tight and her feet make clicky sounds on the sidewalk. Somewhere a dog barks like it knows all our secrets and wants to tell them, but then it doesn’t.

“We were the best,” I say. “Even better than Mina because she tripped.”

“Mina was excellent,” Mommy says, because she is nice. “And you were… unstoppable.”

“Like a train.”

“Exactly.”

We stop at the crosswalk and the light says red like it always does at first. I look up at the windows over the bakery because sometimes they have cats in them. Tonight they have a sign that says NEW COOKIES!!! and I decide that is almost as good as a cat.

“Do you think he dances?” I ask without thinking. The words jump out and stand on their own in the cold.

Mommy doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean. She waits one step. Then two. “I think… if he was here, he would try.”

I picture a man, my man, stepping on my toes in socks and sliding the wrong way and making the wrong face and saying oops and both of us laughing until our bellies hurt. It feels like a TV show in my head. Not real. But colorful.

When we get home, Mommy helps me take off my shoes like they are treasure. I put them in the closet where my backpack sleeps. I don’t want to mess up my curls so I sleep on my back like a queen. Mommy lifts my crown off carefully and puts it on the dresser. It looks like it knows magic even alone.

“Best dance?” she asks.

“Best dance,” I say, and yawn so big my eyes water. “You’re the best dad.”

She smiles in a weird way, like the smile got brave and sad at the same time. “I’m your mom,” she says.

“I know,” I say, but I also know that she can be both when I need it. She kisses my forehead. “Goodnight, my tiger.”

“Goodnight, my Mama.”

When she leaves the door open a little (I like the slice of light), I roll to my side and pick up Mr. Cat. He has one eye because I loved the other one off. I whisper into his soft ear, “I wish you met my dad. He’d like you.” Mr. Cat doesn’t say anything because he’s a cat, but I pretend he purrs.

My chest feels hot and cold at once. I don’t cry, not really. My eyes leak a little like the sink when it’s not turned all the way off. I fall asleep with Mr. Cat trying to drink them.

═══════

I stand in the hallway and listen to the metronome of a settling apartment: a pipe clunk, the fridge motor, the distant elevator. The night holds us like a big hand. For once, I let it.

On the coffee table, I set the photo strip in the center like a throne. Beside it, her little crown. I take a picture of both with my phone and almost send it to a number that doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t. I delete the message and then set my phone face down.

I make tea and forget it twice. When I finally sit, it’s lukewarm and somehow that is the correct temperature for everything we are. I think about writing a letter to a person who won’t read it. I don’t. I press my thumb into the edge of the photo strip until I feel the paper give a little.

At the sink, I wash a plastic cup with pink fingerprints at the rim. There’s a song stuck in my head from the gym, a song that was popular when I was younger, when love felt like a dare instead of a ledger. I hum it twice and then stop because it makes my chest tight.

When I brush my teeth, I look at my face and try to see what she sees- “you look like magic,” she said- and for a very brief second, I almost believe her.

I go into her room to tuck the blanket around her one more time. Mr. Cat is lodged under her arm like he guards a cave. Her mouth is open a little. She sleeps like she trusts the world to catch her. It’s my job to make sure it does.

I whisper, because sometimes words can put a net under a person: “You are loved. You are safe. You are mine.”

Back in the living room, I put the permission slip in the recycling. I don’t like the cartoon dad smiling from the bin. I turn it over so he looks at the cardboard instead. On the fridge, I move the sticky note list to the side and put the photo strip where the peach magnet was. The peach holds us without complaint.

I almost open the box on the shelf again but I don’t. I go to bed. On the way, I catch my reflection in the dark TV. Two crowns on a table. A small corsage wilting in a dish. A living room that looks like it held joy for an hour and plans to again.

Under the covers, my body remembers the sway of the slow song. The gym floor under my shoes. The way her fingers tapped the beat against my shoulder like a secret code. I let sleep find me. It walks in slow, careful not to wake the child down the hall.

═══════

On Monday morning, the curls on one side of my head look like they got into a fight and lost. I don’t mind. I like wild.

At breakfast, I use the photo strip as a placemat and get one tiny drop of syrup on the corner where Mommy is making her “oh!” face. She doesn’t get mad. She says, “That’s how you know it’s ours.”

On the way to school, I tell her I want to do the dance again on Friday. “Every Friday,” I say, because I don’t know how to ask for always without sounding greedy.

“Every Friday,” she says. “We’ll make our own music.”

In class, Ms. Park asks who went to the dance. Hands go up. Stories tumble. My story is long. It has sliding and crowns and a picture that smells like printer and the part where Mommy dipped me a little and I didn’t throw up. Ms. Park says, “That is very good,” like she means it.

At recess, Hannah says her dad cried at the end and she told him to stop because it was embarrassing. I say “my mom didn’t cry because she is very strong,” and then I think about last night when I felt her chest do a swallow thing that sounded like a cry without a sound, and I decide that strong and crying are not opposite.

At lunch, I trade my carrot sticks for two pretzels shaped like hearts and think that is a good bargain.

═══════

When I pick her up, she runs into me like she’s been saving the last five hours just to throw them at my knees. We walk home slow. She tells me she wants to keep the flowers from her hair forever and I nod like yes, we will. In the lobby, Mrs. Patel from 3B says, “I saw a picture on the school page. You two! Movie stars.”

I laugh and say, “Lighting hides a multitude of sins,” and she laughs too even though we both know neither of us believes that word, sins, belongs anywhere near our girls’ names.

Upstairs, she pulls the photo strip off the fridge and puts it back and pulls it off and puts it back like it’s a game. “Where should it go?” she asks.

“Where we can see it every day,” I say.

“Bathroom,” she says, completely serious.

“We’ll compromise,” I say, and stick it on the side of the fridge near the calendar where we write things in color- doctor in red, school in green, stay-up-late nights in blue because she insists blue is the best color and who am I to argue.

When she’s coloring at the table, I open my email just to make sure the world didn’t fall apart while we were dancing. A newsletter from the venue. A reminder about a bill.

She looks up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Thinking.”

“About what?”

“About dinner.” I grin. “Breakfast for dinner?”

She shrieks like I promised her a puppy.

We eat pancakes at the coffee table and watch an old cartoon about a cat with no mouth and a bow. She leans against me with maple on her lip and I wipe it with my thumb and she says, “Ew,” even though she doesn’t mean it. On the couch cushion between us, she lines up her crayons like soldiers.

When it’s time for bed, she takes the crown and puts it on my head instead. “You get it tonight,” she says. “I’ll have it tomorrow.”

I curtsy like I am a queen who knows what she’s doing. I don’t. But in this two-bedroom kingdom, I can pretend.

She falls asleep faster than last night, the kind of sleep you earn with dancing. I stand for a minute and think about that administrative guy with the pen dot on his temple and the way he said “family photo booth, all families welcome.” I wish I could write that on the world in big letters. All families welcome. All shapes. All try-agains.

I wash the dishes. The crown’s comb catches the light and makes a tiny sun on the cabinet. I let it sit there. A reminder that joy happens in small rooms with sticky floors. That it happened to us. That it will again.

═══════

Two days later, Ms. Park says, “Let’s write about the dance in our journals.”

I write: I went with my mom. She danced like a superhero. I drew a picture of us with crowns. Mine says Also Queen.

Ms. Park puts a sticker on the page that smells like grapes when you scratch it. I smell it too hard and sneeze. Everyone laughs. I laugh too.

At home, I take the picture off the fridge and put it back again. “Bathroom?” I ask.

“Nice try,” Mommy says.

We slide in socks across the kitchen just because. She pretends to fall. I pretend to catch her. It doesn’t feel like pretending.

When I go to sleep, I whisper to Mr. Cat, “Maybe someday.” He’s quiet. I decide he agrees.

═══════

Some nights still ache. That won’t stop because of one good Friday. But now the ache has a counterweight: four little squares printed too warm, two paper crowns, a memory with frosting on it.

When the ache comes, I open the fridge and look at us. The last square- our noses almost touching. My eyes crinkled. Her mouth a surprised O. Like the camera caught us at the exact second we remembered: this is our life. Not perfect. Not the shape they wrote on a flyer. But ours.

I don’t know what the next year will bring. I don’t know that the world will tilt. I only know that last Friday, on a gym floor with cheap lanterns, we were exactly enough.

I turn off the kitchen light. The crown throws that tiny sun again as I pass.

I walk to bed, toward tomorrow, toward whatever is next, wearing invisible paper crowns, holding onto the kind of joy you can carry in one hand and share with the other.

And in the quiet, if a little voice I know by heart asks about him again, I will tell her the truest thing I can without planting anything heavy where it doesn’t belong:

We danced.

We will dance again.

We are a family.

All families welcome.

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 08/11/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @asyr97 @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @yu-justme @bangtaniess @roseda @hottigerboba @xumyboo @bangtansfav-7 @ggukieskookie @granataepfelchen @blubird592 @mellyyyyyyx @gukkiemybaby @likeesapphire @jaerisdiction @amarawayne @elithenium @heyinwluv85s @prilnextdoor23 @Strxqrd1 @uli_o7 @jojojoliejolene @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @busanbby-jjk @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim @xmiaacxio @smoljimjim @welcometomyworld13 @marihoneywk @fiddlebiddls @battlingmyowndemons

[jkwrites-m]

Make Our Own Music

Pairing: Eun Ae (OC) x female reader

Genre: parents au, fluff, angst?

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: A school dance without a dad becomes a night of their own magic.

Setting: This drabble takes place eleven months before Y/N and Jungkook reunite. (after Ghosts Can’t Be Dads)

Warnings?: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, heavy fluff, no jungkook lol, emotional hurt/comfort, cuddling, implied absent parent, implied single parent struggles, slight crying, mother-daughter bonding, school dance, bittersweet moments

A/N: as promised a double post (: here’s a cute lil mommy-daughter bonding moment 🫶🥹

Note: eun ae’s pov is in blue, y/n’s is normal.

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

prev ♡ Ghost’s Can’t Be Dads ♡ next

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Ms. Park claps twice at the front of the room and all the glitter glue stops squeaking. “Alright, girls,” she says, “big announcement. Next Friday is our Daddy–Daughter Dance! Tell your dads to mark their calendars. We’ll have music, snacks, and a photo booth.”

Half the class explodes. Hannah says she’s getting a sparkly dress with a bow the size of a hamburger. Lara puts two crayons under her nose like a mustache and says “I’m a dad,” and everyone laughs even though Ms. Park says, “Lara, crayons are for paper.”

I don’t laugh. I press my fingers into the mark on my desk where someone carved a tiny heart and pretend I’m very, very busy with the corner of my worksheet. Ms. Park walks up and down the rows, handing out a paper with a big cartoon of a dad and a daughter dancing. There are stars around them. The girl has pink shoes and a white wrist flower. The dad is wearing a suit.

When she gets to me, she sets the paper down like it weighs something. “You can put it in your folder, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, but my voice sounds tiny. Ms. Park’s hand hesitates on my desk for a second. Then she keeps going.

At recess, it’s all anyone talks about. Whose dad is going to do a silly dance, whose dad is going to embarrass them, whose dad is going to pick them up and spin them like in the movies. I go on the swings and pump my legs so high my stomach drops. When I get to the top of the forward part, I close my eyes so the sky is all I see.

On the walk home, the paper is heavy in my backpack. My straps squeak. My shoes make that scuff-scuff sound because I forgot to lift my feet all the way. When I open the door, home smells like garlic and something warm. Mommy is chopping onions, her hair up, the radio talking softly in Korean like a friend on the counter. I don’t know all the words, just some tiny ones I learned.

“Hi, baby,” she says. “How was school?”

I climb onto the stool and my feet swing because they can’t reach the bar. “It was okay.”

“Just okay?” She glances at me. There’s a strand that never listens stuck out of her bun. I want to tuck it back but my hands feel buzzy.

“There’s a dance.” My voice wobbles on the last word.

Her knife stops for half a second. If I blink, I miss it. “A dance?”

“Next Friday.” I stare at the onion bits. “It’s for daddies.”

She sets the knife down very carefully. Wipes her hands. Walks around the counter like the floor might break if she steps too hard. “Come here,” she says.

When I slide down, her arms go around me and I press my face into her shirt and smell laundry soap and the outside air that always sticks to her after work.

“Sometimes,” she says into my hair, “schools do dances like that. But they don’t mean it to make anyone sad.”

“I’m not sad,” I say, which is a lie. My nose burns. “I just… where is he?”

She pauses. I can feel her swallow. “Do you remember how we talk about families being all kinds of shapes?”

I nod against her.

“Some have one mama. Some have two. Some have grandparents. Some have a dad who lives far away. Ours is you and me. And that’s a really good shape.”

“Does my daddy live far away?”

She takes a breath. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Her hand keeps rubbing my back. “Because sometimes grown-ups make choices that take them far from the people they love. And sometimes they don’t know how to come back.” She kisses the top of my head. “But if he could be here for you, he would.”

That makes the hot sting slip out of my eyes. “So he wants to be here?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “He should want that.”

“Then why isn’t he?” It comes out small, like when you ask for water in the middle of the night.

She doesn’t talk for a second. The radio keeps talking. The pot of water starts to bubble. “I don’t know, baby,” she says finally. “But I know you are loved. All the way to the moon and back and back again.”

I nod like that helps my heart feel better. It doesn’t. But I like when she says it.

She lets me stir the pot even though I splash and a noodle sticks to the stove. At dinner, she tells me a story about when she was little and her mom- my halmoni- made noodles too long to slurp and they got sauce on the ceiling, and we laugh until the sad part goes away.

That night, she sleeps in my bed. I curl into her, my cheek on her arm, and when I wake up in the dark, I can hear her not sleeping, her breath staying too shallow like she’s trying to pretend she’s a quiet ocean. I think about the paper in my folder. I wish it had stars around a mom and a daughter.

I don’t tell her. I just tuck my fingers under her palm until she squeezes them once.

═══════

I don’t look at the school paper until she’s asleep and the cat-shaped nightlight paints little moons on the wall. I sit at the kitchen table with the cheap overhead light buzzing like a gnat and flatten the permission slip with my palm. The cartoon dad smiles up at me like he knows something. I flip it over. Blank.

In the morning, I put it on the fridge and stick it with a magnet shaped like a peach. I make a list on a sticky note: dress? tights? hair? I underline hair and then scratch it out because I always figure it out. The sticky note flutters to the floor when the fridge opens and closes all day. I put it back up every time.

The week feels loud. Everywhere, tiny reminders. A dad at the bus stop, half-shaved, grinning, holding his coffee in one hand and his daughter’s pink backpack in the other. Two men in suits arguing gently about whether you should step on the two or the three in a waltz while their girls jump between them. A mother in line behind me at the grocery store telling her friend about how her husband cried at last year’s dance. “It’s silly,” she says, dabbing her eyes. “But they’re only little once.”

I forget onions. Go back. End up in the aisle with greeting cards. The Father’s Day section already started for next month, all the cards with big block letters and golf jokes. I pick one up. Put it back. Pick up another. Put it back. I don’t know whose hands I think I’m filling. I stand there too long and feel stupid and leave with toothpaste we don’t need.

At work, the venue is getting ready for a jazz festival. The production manager fights with a vendor about a rigging point and I translate the subtext: we don’t have it in the budget. The hallway smells like popcorn even when there’s no popcorn. I file things I don’t have to file just so I can keep moving.

When I stop moving, I think too much.

On Thursday, Ms. Park texts me a photo of the gym. Paper lanterns. A banner someone hand-painted. A corner where she says there will be a “family photo booth- all families welcome.” I hold the phone in my palm like it’s trying to warm me. I text back:

Y/N: “thank you.”

That night, we stand in front of the mirror and I curl her hair. I don’t own hot rollers or a wand fancy enough to do the Instagram waves, so I twist and pin with the little clips that look like silver ducks. She tells me about recess and how Hannah said her dad is going to do “a spinny thing” that makes people clap.

“He practices in the kitchen,” she says. “He puts on socks and slides.”

I laugh. “Dangerous.”

“Will you slide?”

“For you? I’ll slide.”

She considers me, serious. “You don’t have to be a dad.”

“I know,” I say, and kiss her forehead. “But I can be the person who steps on your feet while you lead.”

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “I’ll lead.”

When she falls asleep, I go into the living room and open the box on the top shelf of the bookcase. The one with the old photos and the things I sometimes look at when the night gets too heavy. There’s a picture of me and my mom under a cheap party balloon. There’s a hospital bracelet with my name, small and thin. There’s a folded piece of paper with a few lines of lyrics he sent me when we were sixteen, scribbled in the corner of math notes. I don’t take that one out. I just rest my fingers on the lid and then put the box back.

I already made a promise to myself: this week isn’t about what’s missing.

It’s about what’s here.

I go to bed and dream about a gym floor that keeps growing longer as I try to cross it, like a tongue rolling out forever.

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When Mommy says “we have a surprise,” I think maybe a puppy. It’s not a puppy. It’s better. She holds up a dress that’s light blue on top and shimmery on the bottom like a fish. “Do you like it?”

I do, and I say it with my whole body, bouncing so hard the dress bounces too. She zips me in and I twirl and the skirt tries very hard to fly like a bird. She puts little flowers in my hair that look like they’re made of sugar. When I look in the mirror, I have to put my hand on my mouth and squeak because I didn’t know I could look like this.

“Magic,” Mommy says, and I nod like yes, obviously, magic.

We walk to school because it’s not far and because Mommy says it’s good to feel the night on your cheeks when you’re about to do something brave.

The gym is different. It smells like cleaner and cupcakes. The lights are lower and everything looks soft. There’s music, a song I know, and there are dads- so many dads- with their girls. One dad has a beard and his daughter keeps touching it while she laughs. Another dad dips his daughter carefully like he saw it in a movie and she squeals like fireworks.

I hold Mommy’s hand tighter because for a second the brave goes away.

She squeezes back twice. That means I love you. I squeeze three times. That means I love you more.

“Shall we?” she asks, and nods at the dance floor.

“We shall,” I say, and it comes out like a captain in a pirate ship.

We start with the easy songs. The ones that tell you what to do.

“Slide to the left,” the song says, and we slide. “Criss-cross,” and we criss and we cross and I step on Mommy’s toes and she says “Ow,” but in a laughing way.

When the song tells us to freeze, we freeze so hard I almost fall over and she catches me around the middle and we wiggle like noodles. We go to the snack table and there are tiny water bottles and cupcakes with too much frosting and a bowl of pretzels that smells like my backpack.

A girl from my class, Mina, waves. Her dad is tall and wears a blue tie like Sarah said real men wear. “Your dress is pretty!” Mina says.

“Yours too!” I say, and I mean it because hers has stars.

“Is that your mom?” she asks.

“Yep,” I say, and the word feels like a coin in my mouth. I’m not sure what game you play with the coin. “She’s good at sliding.”

Mina’s dad smiles at Mommy. “You two look great out there.”

Mommy says thank you and touches the top of my hair like it might fly away. “We practiced on the sidewalk,” she lies.

I don’t say it’s a lie. I like it better as a story.

When we go back to the dance floor, a slow song starts. The kind that makes me feel like snow might start even if it’s not winter. I hold up my hands because I don’t know what to do. Mommy lifts me, my legs around her waist like when I was littler, and rocks us in a circle. I lean my ear to her shoulder and hear her heart doing a steady thump. I try to match my breath to it. For once, I catch it.

I pretend if I look over her shoulder I might see him. A dad with my eyes. A dad who recognizes me because we have the same smile. But all I see are other girls, other smiles, other dads who belong to them.

I close my eyes. I keep rocking.

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The room is a kaleidoscope of small joys. Someone’s bow comes untied and a dad kneels to retie it while the DJ plays a song from ten years ago. Two girls in the corner make a conga line with a chain of dads stumbling behind them, laughing like they forgot their suits. A teacher with glitter on her cheek picks up a kindergartener whose shoes are off and keeps dancing, sock toes sliding like she’s on ice.

When the slow song pours into the room, my arms know what to do before my head does. I pick up my daughter and sway, her breath warm on my neck. For a second, I let myself look at the other side of the gym, where the photo booth pops with a flash. A dad dips his daughter and someone claps. The clapping makes a wave of more clapping. It rolls over to us, soft as foam, and I smile because it’s better to ride a wave than pretend it’s not there.

I don’t notice the man until he’s already in front of me. He’s one of the school administrators, I think; I’ve seen him at pickups. He’s holding a stack of raffle tickets and has that exhausted kindness people who work in schools wear like a second shirt.

“Hey there,” he says. “We’re making sure everyone gets a photo. We’ve got a ‘family’ sign if you want.”

For a second I mishear it as pity. Then I see the way he keeps his voice the same for everyone. A dad stumbles into him and he laughs and keeps the stack of tickets steady.

“We’re good,” I say. “But thank you.”

“If you change your mind.” He taps the pen on his ear. It leaves a tiny blue dot on his temple. He doesn’t notice.

Eun Ae lifts her head. “Can we do a picture, Mama?”

The word rings in me. Mama. It’s the word that grew skin for me when I thought I’d lost mine. “We can do a picture,” I say, and put her down.

We stand in front of the camera. The paper banner behind us says NIGHT TO REMEMBER in uneven brushstrokes. I let her choose the props. She picks two crowns and a tiny chalkboard that says Queen. She hands me the one that says Queen and takes the one that says Also Queen.

“Ready?” the volunteer asks.

“Ready,” I say.

The flash goes off, not too bright. The volunteer hands us a strip of photos a minute later, warm and smelling vaguely like a printer. Four little squares: silly, sillier, too-silly, and us looking at each other instead of the camera, our noses almost touching.

“Put it on the fridge,” she says, like she knows where memories go.

“We will,” I say.

Later, when she is pink-cheeked and soft with cupcake and dancing, we sit on the bleachers and watch. A dad ties a sneaker. Another wipes frosting from a nose with his thumb. One hums the wrong words to the song and gets them more wrong on purpose so his daughter laughs.

My girl leans her head on my shoulder. “My legs are sleepy.”

“I’ll carry them home,” I say.

“Can you carry my arms too?”

“All of it.”

She laughs. It lands light and stays.

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When we step outside, the air smells like the gym let out all the sugar and it’s floating toward the moon. Mommy’s hands are tight and her feet make clicky sounds on the sidewalk. Somewhere a dog barks like it knows all our secrets and wants to tell them, but then it doesn’t.

“We were the best,” I say. “Even better than Mina because she tripped.”

“Mina was excellent,” Mommy says, because she is nice. “And you were… unstoppable.”

“Like a train.”

“Exactly.”

We stop at the crosswalk and the light says red like it always does at first. I look up at the windows over the bakery because sometimes they have cats in them. Tonight they have a sign that says NEW COOKIES!!! and I decide that is almost as good as a cat.

“Do you think he dances?” I ask without thinking. The words jump out and stand on their own in the cold.

Mommy doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean. She waits one step. Then two. “I think… if he was here, he would try.”

I picture a man, my man, stepping on my toes in socks and sliding the wrong way and making the wrong face and saying oops and both of us laughing until our bellies hurt. It feels like a TV show in my head. Not real. But colorful.

When we get home, Mommy helps me take off my shoes like they are treasure. I put them in the closet where my backpack sleeps. I don’t want to mess up my curls so I sleep on my back like a queen. Mommy lifts my crown off carefully and puts it on the dresser. It looks like it knows magic even alone.

“Best dance?” she asks.

“Best dance,” I say, and yawn so big my eyes water. “You’re the best dad.”

She smiles in a weird way, like the smile got brave and sad at the same time. “I’m your mom,” she says.

“I know,” I say, but I also know that she can be both when I need it. She kisses my forehead. “Goodnight, my tiger.”

“Goodnight, my Mama.”

When she leaves the door open a little (I like the slice of light), I roll to my side and pick up Mr. Cat. He has one eye because I loved the other one off. I whisper into his soft ear, “I wish you met my dad. He’d like you.” Mr. Cat doesn’t say anything because he’s a cat, but I pretend he purrs.

My chest feels hot and cold at once. I don’t cry, not really. My eyes leak a little like the sink when it’s not turned all the way off. I fall asleep with Mr. Cat trying to drink them.

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I stand in the hallway and listen to the metronome of a settling apartment: a pipe clunk, the fridge motor, the distant elevator. The night holds us like a big hand. For once, I let it.

On the coffee table, I set the photo strip in the center like a throne. Beside it, her little crown. I take a picture of both with my phone and almost send it to a number that doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t. I delete the message and then set my phone face down.

I make tea and forget it twice. When I finally sit, it’s lukewarm and somehow that is the correct temperature for everything we are. I think about writing a letter to a person who won’t read it. I don’t. I press my thumb into the edge of the photo strip until I feel the paper give a little.

At the sink, I wash a plastic cup with pink fingerprints at the rim. There’s a song stuck in my head from the gym, a song that was popular when I was younger, when love felt like a dare instead of a ledger. I hum it twice and then stop because it makes my chest tight.

When I brush my teeth, I look at my face and try to see what she sees- “you look like magic,” she said- and for a very brief second, I almost believe her.

I go into her room to tuck the blanket around her one more time. Mr. Cat is lodged under her arm like he guards a cave. Her mouth is open a little. She sleeps like she trusts the world to catch her. It’s my job to make sure it does.

I whisper, because sometimes words can put a net under a person: “You are loved. You are safe. You are mine.”

Back in the living room, I put the permission slip in the recycling. I don’t like the cartoon dad smiling from the bin. I turn it over so he looks at the cardboard instead. On the fridge, I move the sticky note list to the side and put the photo strip where the peach magnet was. The peach holds us without complaint.

I almost open the box on the shelf again but I don’t. I go to bed. On the way, I catch my reflection in the dark TV. Two crowns on a table. A small corsage wilting in a dish. A living room that looks like it held joy for an hour and plans to again.

Under the covers, my body remembers the sway of the slow song. The gym floor under my shoes. The way her fingers tapped the beat against my shoulder like a secret code. I let sleep find me. It walks in slow, careful not to wake the child down the hall.

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On Monday morning, the curls on one side of my head look like they got into a fight and lost. I don’t mind. I like wild.

At breakfast, I use the photo strip as a placemat and get one tiny drop of syrup on the corner where Mommy is making her “oh!” face. She doesn’t get mad. She says, “That’s how you know it’s ours.”

On the way to school, I tell her I want to do the dance again on Friday. “Every Friday,” I say, because I don’t know how to ask for always without sounding greedy.

“Every Friday,” she says. “We’ll make our own music.”

In class, Ms. Park asks who went to the dance. Hands go up. Stories tumble. My story is long. It has sliding and crowns and a picture that smells like printer and the part where Mommy dipped me a little and I didn’t throw up. Ms. Park says, “That is very good,” like she means it.

At recess, Hannah says her dad cried at the end and she told him to stop because it was embarrassing. I say “my mom didn’t cry because she is very strong,” and then I think about last night when I felt her chest do a swallow thing that sounded like a cry without a sound, and I decide that strong and crying are not opposite.

At lunch, I trade my carrot sticks for two pretzels shaped like hearts and think that is a good bargain.

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When I pick her up, she runs into me like she’s been saving the last five hours just to throw them at my knees. We walk home slow. She tells me she wants to keep the flowers from her hair forever and I nod like yes, we will. In the lobby, Mrs. Patel from 3B says, “I saw a picture on the school page. You two! Movie stars.”

I laugh and say, “Lighting hides a multitude of sins,” and she laughs too even though we both know neither of us believes that word, sins, belongs anywhere near our girls’ names.

Upstairs, she pulls the photo strip off the fridge and puts it back and pulls it off and puts it back like it’s a game. “Where should it go?” she asks.

“Where we can see it every day,” I say.

“Bathroom,” she says, completely serious.

“We’ll compromise,” I say, and stick it on the side of the fridge near the calendar where we write things in color- doctor in red, school in green, stay-up-late nights in blue because she insists blue is the best color and who am I to argue.

When she’s coloring at the table, I open my email just to make sure the world didn’t fall apart while we were dancing. A newsletter from the venue. A reminder about a bill.

She looks up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Thinking.”

“About what?”

“About dinner.” I grin. “Breakfast for dinner?”

She shrieks like I promised her a puppy.

We eat pancakes at the coffee table and watch an old cartoon about a cat with no mouth and a bow. She leans against me with maple on her lip and I wipe it with my thumb and she says, “Ew,” even though she doesn’t mean it. On the couch cushion between us, she lines up her crayons like soldiers.

When it’s time for bed, she takes the crown and puts it on my head instead. “You get it tonight,” she says. “I’ll have it tomorrow.”

I curtsy like I am a queen who knows what she’s doing. I don’t. But in this two-bedroom kingdom, I can pretend.

She falls asleep faster than last night, the kind of sleep you earn with dancing. I stand for a minute and think about that administrative guy with the pen dot on his temple and the way he said “family photo booth, all families welcome.” I wish I could write that on the world in big letters. All families welcome. All shapes. All try-agains.

I wash the dishes. The crown’s comb catches the light and makes a tiny sun on the cabinet. I let it sit there. A reminder that joy happens in small rooms with sticky floors. That it happened to us. That it will again.

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Two days later, Ms. Park says, “Let’s write about the dance in our journals.”

I write: I went with my mom. She danced like a superhero. I drew a picture of us with crowns. Mine says Also Queen.

Ms. Park puts a sticker on the page that smells like grapes when you scratch it. I smell it too hard and sneeze. Everyone laughs. I laugh too.

At home, I take the picture off the fridge and put it back again. “Bathroom?” I ask.

“Nice try,” Mommy says.

We slide in socks across the kitchen just because. She pretends to fall. I pretend to catch her. It doesn’t feel like pretending.

When I go to sleep, I whisper to Mr. Cat, “Maybe someday.” He’s quiet. I decide he agrees.

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Some nights still ache. That won’t stop because of one good Friday. But now the ache has a counterweight: four little squares printed too warm, two paper crowns, a memory with frosting on it.

When the ache comes, I open the fridge and look at us. The last square- our noses almost touching. My eyes crinkled. Her mouth a surprised O. Like the camera caught us at the exact second we remembered: this is our life. Not perfect. Not the shape they wrote on a flyer. But ours.

I don’t know what the next year will bring. I don’t know that the world will tilt. I only know that last Friday, on a gym floor with cheap lanterns, we were exactly enough.

I turn off the kitchen light. The crown throws that tiny sun again as I pass.

I walk to bed, toward tomorrow, toward whatever is next, wearing invisible paper crowns, holding onto the kind of joy you can carry in one hand and share with the other.

And in the quiet, if a little voice I know by heart asks about him again, I will tell her the truest thing I can without planting anything heavy where it doesn’t belong:

We danced.

We will dance again.

We are a family.

All families welcome.

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MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 08/11/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @asyr97 @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @yu-justme @bangtaniess @roseda @hottigerboba @xumyboo @bangtansfav-7 @ggukieskookie @granataepfelchen @blubird592 @mellyyyyyyx @gukkiemybaby @likeesapphire @jaerisdiction @amarawayne @elithenium @heyinwluv85s @prilnextdoor23 @Strxqrd1 @uli_o7 @jojojoliejolene @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @busanbby-jjk @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim @xmiaacxio @smoljimjim @welcometomyworld13 @marihoneywk @fiddlebiddls @battlingmyowndemons

[jkwrites-m]

Additional Taglist:

@rinkud @withluvjm @singingjk @ficluvr613 @roseidol @looneybleus @ermno97 @rainandmatcha @katie-tibo @cheolwoo @blueyesuguru @royal-sunflower @castle2317 @aesthetic-winchesters @jalexad @avawants2havefun @mianiini @cherriesanddreams @jeonjamiekim @pitchblack0309 @dna2723 @jksusawife @hani0407 @victoria-rue @justslightlymental @shiffpring @hoseokteardrop @emirawht @emmie2308 @dragonflygurl4 @luvinghauntt @iiamnotsure @lavender2ari @aaliy89 @superstarfishsandwich @nia197 @jungkookswifeeeeeee @carobrekker @bunnyjk97 @mochisabs @baekpop05 @wisebouquetbarbarian @indiphira @tteokbokbyjk @authorslastwill @nanmolla @mils244 @kyrasworldd @cmdjk @neouimaeum

Daddy Kookie (8)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, heavy angst, smut, fluff, childhood lovers, hurt, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, growth, stress, exhaustion, fear, apologies, trauma response, industry manipulation, leaked photos, stalking, public backlash, saesang, panic attack, some time-skips, separation angst, slight jealousy, unwanted flirting, insecurity, emotions, loving voicemails, guilt, public announcements, explicit: m. & f. masturbation, phone sex (FaceTime)

A/N: yall 😭 i’m srry i cannot write lyrics/poems so forgive me 🧎‍♀️‍➡️. also, i forgot how much i love this chapter 😭😭

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═══════

The bed was too cold.

It wasn’t even sunrise yet.

The sheets still smelled like him- fabric softener, sweat, his cologne fading just enough to make me ache.

I reached across the mattress before I was even fully awake.

And when my hand hit nothing but pillow, the silence filled the room like grief.

He was gone.

I didn’t cry right away.

I just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city waking up outside our window.

Eun Ae would be up soon.

So I rolled out of bed, tugged on one of Jungkook’s old shirts, and padded into the kitchen barefoot.

The mug he always used was still in the dish rack.

The one I’d washed last night and couldn’t bring myself to put away.

White with a little cartoon bear on it. A chipped ear. He never cared.

I didn’t drink coffee this morning.

Just poured water and stood there holding the cup like it might answer me back.

═══════

Eun Ae came into the kitchen a few minutes later, hair wild and half-asleep.

“Is Appa gone already?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

I crouched down and nodded. “Yeah, baby. He had to leave early.”

“Is he gonna be gone forever?”

I swallowed.

“No, sweet pea. Just for a little while.”

She nodded like that made sense and climbed into my lap at the table.

We sat like that for a long time.

═══════

The day passed.

I worked remotely. Checked in with the venue. Cleaned the apartment unnecessarily. Answered emails I’d been avoiding.

But everything felt off.

Like a note missing in a song I knew by heart.

It wasn’t until that night, after dinner and bathtime and one extra story, that I sat on the couch, alone, and finally felt the silence crack open.

I stared at my phone for fifteen minutes before finally putting it on the cushion beside me and looking away.

He was probably busy.

Rehearsing. Resting. Meeting with managers. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he thought I needed space.

Maybe this was the part where everything started fading again. 

Then it buzzed.

FaceTime: Kook 💜

I answered so fast I almost dropped the phone.

He was backstage somewhere- makeup still smudged under his eyes, hair falling onto his forehead, shirt damp with sweat and a towel around his neck.

“Hey, baby,” he grinned.

Just hearing his voice made my throat tighten.

“Hi,” I whispered.

He told me everything. About the show, the energy, the fans, how someone threw a plushie onstage shaped like a giant shrimp and Jin kept it.

He was laughing. Glowing.

I smiled. I laughed back. I told him Eun Ae missed him and that the fridge was already full of takeout. I tried to keep my voice steady.

I didn’t say:

I couldn’t eat this morning.

I reached for you in my sleep.

I thought maybe this would hurt less than it does.

He looked so beautiful I didn’t want to ruin it.

We said goodnight. He blew a kiss through the screen.

And then the call ended.

I didn’t cry immediately.

I stood up, pulled the phone from the charger, folded the blanket on the couch.

Then I passed the bedroom.

Saw the bed.

Saw the empty space where he always sleeps.

Saw the drawer half-open with his tour lanyard still inside.

And I just… folded.

Sat on the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees, and let the tears come.

Because he was on the other side of the world-

And I was still pretending that was okay.

═══════

They screamed my name like it was sacred.

Every lightstick, every sign, every voice shouting back lyrics I wrote in the dark- they made it feel like I was on top of the world.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that no one here called me “Appa.”

That no one in the crowd knew the weight of Y/N’s body leaning into mine at 3AM when her anxiety got loud.

Or how Eun Ae’s nose scrunched when she brushed her teeth.

Or how my chest didn’t feel like mine when they weren’t on either side of me.

I finished the last song, bowed with the guys, smiled like I was invincible- then left the stage faster than I ever had before.

The dressing room was chaos.

Water bottles flying, stylists fussing, staff whispering logistics.

I sat down in front of the mirror and peeled my in-ears out like they were suffocating me.

Jimin flopped beside me, grinning.

“You killed it.”

I nodded, still catching my breath. “You too.”

“You always perform like that when someone’s watching,” he teased.

“She’s not even here.”

Jimin shrugged. “She doesn’t have to be. You carry her with you.”

I didn’t say anything.

Because it was true.

═══════

Back at the hotel, I ducked out early. Told the staff I needed to sleep.

I showered with the water too hot. Put on the same hoodie I wore the last time I held her.

Then climbed into the cold bed with my phone and did the only thing I had the energy for:

Scrolled through our photos.

Y/N’s birthday last year- messy cake frosting on Eun Ae’s cheek.

Eun Ae at the zoo.

Y/N asleep on my chest.

Y/N laughing at something dumb I said.

Eun Ae in matching pajamas with me, holding her flamingo like it was sacred.

The ache was slow. Deep.

Not painful.

Just present.

Namjoon texted.

Namjoon: “You good?”

I stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

Jungkook: “I miss them.”

He sent back just one line.

Namjoon: “Now you know what it’s like to have everything… and still want to go home.”

I laid back, one arm behind my head, still holding my phone to my chest.

It buzzed once.

A selfie from Y/N.

She was in bed. My old t-shirt. No makeup. Barely awake.

Y/N ♥️: “I miss you 💜.”

I didn’t respond.

I just stared at the photo until the screen went dark.

And then I played the video I took of Eun Ae singing to her flamingo.

I fell asleep with it playing, the sound still faint in my ears.

Because in front of millions, I could be their star-

But in a quiet room, in the dark, they were mine.

═══════

It started with a notification I shouldn’t have opened.

A trending topic. A photo. A headline with no substance and too many comments.

Jungkook.

Laughing with a female host on some Japanese talk show.

Her hand on his shoulder.

His smile wide.

It was nothing.

He’d probably laughed like that a thousand times in the last two weeks.

But it was the comments that gutted me.

“They have such chemistry.”

“He’s glowing. Way happier than in that shadow photo.”

“Hope he’s finally over her.”

“Lowkey he could do so much better.”

“Wish he wasn’t dating anyone though. Ruins the fantasy.”

“He’s a god. She’s just… there.”

“Maybe they broke up 👀🫣”

“Wouldn’t blame him if they did tbh.”

I closed the app, then reopened it.

Switched to Weverse. Saw the same image posted with a different filter and ten thousand likes.

People weren’t asking questions anymore.

They were writing the ending without me.

═══════

I didn’t bring it up at first.

I let it sit in the back of my throat like a stone while I made dinner, while I helped Eun Ae with her reading, while I folded the laundry he hadn’t worn in two weeks.

Then he called.

FaceTime.

I answered with a smile that hurt.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice warm and soft.

“Hey,” I said back.

He noticed it immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Y/N.”

I swallowed. “I saw the picture.”

His brows pinched slightly. “What picture?”

“From that show. The one where she touches your shoulder and you smile like she just solved world hunger.”

He exhaled through his nose, not annoyed- just bracing.

“Baby- ”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I know it’s nothing. I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know how stupid it sounds.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said gently.

“I just…” My voice shook. “I know I’m not like her- like them.”

“Y/N.”

“I don’t want to be the version of me you leave again.”

That stopped everything.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t interrupt.

He just nodded, once, like my words deserved to land.

And then he said, softly, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“I know.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

He leaned closer to the camera. His voice barely a breath.

“You’re not her. You’re you. The one who made me better. The one I wake up for. The one I fight to come home to.”

My eyes burned. I didn’t cry. Not yet.

We were quiet for a long time.

Then I said, “I’m sorry. I just- ”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You told me what you needed. That’s never wrong.”

We didn’t say goodnight.

Just sat there.

Breathing together through a screen.

I fell asleep on the couch, phone in hand.

And when I woke up a few hours later, there was a voicemail waiting.

“Hey… it’s late where you are, I know. I just wanted to say that I love you. I love you more now than I ever thought I was allowed to. You’re not easy to love- you’re real. And I need that. I need you. I don’t care what people think. I care that you’re still choosing me. So I’ll keep choosing you, too. Every damn time. I love you, Y/N. So much. ”

I saved it.

Then I played it again.

And again.

Until the sun started rising, and I could finally breathe again.

═══════

I couldn’t sleep.

Even after I left the voicemail.

Even after I heard myself whisper I love you through a cracked voice and hoped it would hold her until morning.

I was still wide awake in the dark.

Hotel room. Fifth floor. London’s skyline buzzing outside my window like it didn’t care that I was unraveling inside.

So I did the only thing that ever made the ache make sense.

I reached for my guitar.

It started with one chord.

Then another.

Nothing fancy. Just soft. Quiet enough that the walls wouldn’t hear it- just my fingers, and maybe her name still lingering in the air.

I grabbed my phone. Hit record. Voice Memos.

“You’re still in the shirt I left behind.

Still in the room that remembers us.

And I’m still on stage pretending the noise doesn’t hurt more than your silence.”

I blinked.

Felt it land in my chest.

“You’re holding her hand while I hold a mic.

But it’s your hand I reach for every night.

And I keep counting days like I’m keeping faith-

like I’m holding tight to something I still believe in.”

I stopped. Swallowed.

My throat was tight.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the wood of the guitar like it could steady me.

I missed them so much it felt cellular.

Like every part of my body was reaching, stretching, aching for something just out of reach.

So I wrote the hook.

“If it’s love,

It lives in the quiet between goodbyes.

If it’s love,

It finds your breath through hotel walls and still sleeps fine.

If it’s love-

Yeah, if it’s love-

It makes it through the miles.

And I’ll prove that every night.”

I stared at the ceiling. Then at the little red dot still recording.

No filters.

No edits.

No production.

Just me.

Just the ache.

I didn’t say anything when I texted it to her.

Just the file.

2:18 long.

2 hours later, she responded.

Y/N♥️: “You always know what to say… when you’re not trying to say it.”

I smiled.

And for the first time in days… I let my eyes close without feeling like I’d forgotten something.

She’d play it.

Maybe once.

Maybe a hundred times.

And every time she did…

She’d know she wasn’t alone.

═══════

I played the song three times before noon.

The first time was for me.

The second was because I didn’t believe I heard it right the first time.

The third time was for Eun Ae.

We were sitting on the living room floor, her coloring with broken crayons while I answered emails I didn’t care about.

She tugged at my shirt and said, “Is Appa ever coming back?”

I looked down at her and said, gently, “Of course he is.”

“But he’s far away,” she pouted.

So I handed her my phone. Hit play.

She stared at it, eyes wide, listening.

“He sings different when he sings about us,” she said.

I smiled. “He does.”

She curled into my lap. I kissed the top of her head.

“He’s not here,” I whispered. “But he’s still loving us every second.”

═══════

That night, after she was asleep and the apartment was finally quiet again, my phone buzzed.

FaceTime: Kook 💜

I answered before the first ring finished.

He was already smiling.

“Hey,” I said, voice soft.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Tired. But… full.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I haven’t,” he said. “You look like you’ve been crying.”

I laughed under my breath. “You’re very observant.”

He leaned closer to the camera. “Did the song help?”

“Too much.”

He smiled. “Good.”

There was a silence that wasn’t awkward. Just charged.

His eyes dipped slightly.

“Are you in bed already?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He shifted. Sat back. Stared at me like he was already touching me in his mind.

“Is that my shirt again?”

I looked down. “Maybe.”

He smirked.

“Take it off.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

The heat that crawled up my neck was instant.

I laughed, but I did it. Slowly. Teasing. Just enough.

Jungkook’s gaze softened, his expression a mix of admiration and longing. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I miss that.”

“You’re the one who left, rockstar.”

“And now I’m the one who’s dying in a hotel bed watching the love of my life make me lose my mind over FaceTime.”

“What else do you miss?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper 

He smirked again. “Everything,” he said, his voice firm, his eyes never leaving mine. “Every curve, every touch, every sound you make when you’re with me.”

He paused, his hand moving out of frame, and I heard the soft rustle of fabric, the sound of his own shirt being discarded. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructed, his tone gentle but insistent. “Let me watch.”

I hesitated, my fingers stilling, but then I saw him, his chest bare, his muscles taut, his hand already moving, palming himself through his pants. The sight of him, the raw desire in his eyes, was enough to push me over the edge. 

Slowly, I brought my hand to my breast, my fingers, cupping the soft weight, my thumb grazing my nipple.

“Like that,” he encouraged, his voice hoarse, his breathing already uneven. “Let me see you, baby.”

I closed my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me, my fingers circling my nipple, teasing it, pulling it gently. 

I heard him breathe my name, his breathing growing heavier, his hand moving in rhythm with mine. “Prop the phone up,” he instructed, his voice urgent. “I want to see everything.”

I did as he asked, adjusting the phone so it stood on its side, giving him a full view of me. I was fully exposed now, my breasts bared, my hand moving between them, my fingers tracing the curves, the valleys, the peaks. 

I felt a flush of embarrassment, but it was quickly overshadowed by the heat, the desire, the need to be close to him, even if it was just through the screen.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice a rough edge, his hand moving faster, his pants now discarded, his erection visible, thick and hard, as he stroked himself in time with my movements. “Touch yourself, baby. Let me watch you cum.”

I moaned softly, my fingers drifting lower, my hand sliding between my legs, my fingers brushing against the wetness there. I was already throbbing, aching for him, for his touch, for the connection that felt just out of reach. 

“Kook,” I breathed, his name a plea, a prayer, a desperate need for more.

“That’s it,” he repeated, his voice a low growl, his eyes dark with desire. “Say my name. Let me hear you.”

I whispered his name, slower, louder, until it was the only sound between us, a mantra, a lifeline, a reminder of what we once had, of what we still wanted. 

We moved in sync, our hands moving in time, our breaths mirroring each other’s, our moans filling the silence. 

The screen wasn’t enough, but in that moment, it had to be.

I felt the tension building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter, until I couldn’t hold back anymore. 

“Fuck,” I cried, my voice breaking, my body arching, my fingers moving faster, my hips pressing into my hand. 

I heard him breathe my name, his voice rough, his body tensing, his hand moving frantically as he followed me over the edge.

We collapsed together, our breaths ragged, our bodies flushed and glowing. 

I laughed, a soft, breathless sound, my heart still racing, my body still humming with the aftermath of our release.

Jungkook exhaled hard, his chest heaving, his eyes closed, a smile playing on his lips. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, opening his eyes to meet mine. “That was…”

“Not enough,” I finished for him, my voice soft, my heart aching with the truth. 

The screen wasn’t enough, the distance wasn’t enough, the momentary connection wasn’t enough. But it was all we had, and in that moment, it had to be.

“Reminds me of the first time we did this,” he said, breathless.

Then he winked.

And I blushed like I was still seventeen and sneaking into the greenhouse.

He grinned at my reaction, soft and satisfied.

We stayed on the call even after we were quiet.

Even after the lights were off.

Even after my eyes fluttered closed.

The last thing I heard was his voice, half-asleep:

“Goodnight, baby.

I love you so much.”

═══════

I knew something was wrong the second I woke up.

Not because I felt it-

Because my phone buzzed twelve times before I even sat up.

One from my boss.

Two from coworkers.

The rest? Unknown numbers.

And then…

One from a friend back in the states:

“Is this you??”

I didn’t even open the message at first.

I just sat there, cold creeping over my skin, heart pounding behind my ribs like it was begging me not to look.

But I did.

And there it was.

A photo.

Me.

Eun Ae.

In the park near our house.

I was crouched down tying her shoe, laughing.

She had her flamingo tucked under her arm, chocolate on her cheek.

We were completely unaware.

But the angle-

It was zoomed. Hidden.

Stolen.

And it had already been reposted.

Circulating on Weverse.

Twitter.

Instagram.

Fancams. Fan captions. Fan theories.

“Is this Jungkook’s daughter??”

“Is this a joke?”

“Why is she out in public like this?”

“Is she trying to be famous now?”

“That kid is cute, but this is so reckless.”

“This confirms it. She wants attention.”

“If she really loved him, she’d stay hidden.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Eun Ae was still asleep in the next room.

Peaceful.

Safe.

And all I could think was- they’re following us.

I called Jungkook before I could even think.

The second he picked up, I was crying.

“Baby- what happened? What’s going on?”

“They stalked us,” I choked. “A photo. It’s everywhere. Me and Eun Ae. From the park. Someone was watching and I didn’t even know, I- ”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got you. Where are you right now?”

“Home.”

“Are the doors locked?”

“Yes.”

“Is Eun Ae with you?”

“She’s asleep.”

“Okay. That’s all that matters.”

I heard him breathing hard, like he was pacing. Or clenching his jaw.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I just wanted a normal day. I didn’t even post anything. I just tied my daughter’s damn shoe and now I’m-”

My voice cracked.

“I’m scared, Jungkook. What if someone tries to come here again? What if they follow her to school next time?”

He was silent for a moment. And then he said, low and dangerous:

“I’m going to handle this.”

I looked out the window like someone might already be standing there with a camera.

I checked the locks again.

Closed the curtains.

Eun Ae stirred in the next room, mumbling in her sleep.

I didn’t wake her.

But I curled up outside her door, knees pulled to my chest, phone still pressed to my ear.

“Jungkook…” I whispered, “I don’t think I’m built for this.”

His voice was steel.

Soft steel.

“You don’t have to be.”

“But- ”

“I’ll be. For both of us.”

I closed my eyes.

And for a second… I let him carry me.

═══════

I didn’t say anything when I logged into the HYBE Zoom meeting.

Didn’t wait for an invite. Didn’t care if the screen said “in session.”

I clicked the link, turned on my camera, and stared into it like I wanted it to flinch.

The execs were already mid-sentence.

“- we just need to assess reach, and if we let this settle for 72 hours, sentiment might- ”

“No.”

All their heads turned.

“Jungkook,” one said slowly, “we understand you’re emotional, but- ”

“Stop. Talking.”

Silence.

“I’m not here for spin,” I said. “I’m not here to watch you strategize around my family’s pain. Someone took a photo of my fiancée and our daughter. Without consent. And you’re talking to me about sentiment?”

“We’re simply trying to avoid escalation- ”

“Escalation already happened.”

One of them cleared their throat. “If we delay public-“

“Then I’ll post it myself.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

“I’ll go live. I’ll tag Y/N. I’ll post the photo in high-res and tell everyone what you were too afraid to.”

“Jungkook- ”

“She’s not your brand to protect. She’s mine. And that little girl you all keep calling a liability? That’s my daughter.”

Namjoon had joined the call, quiet until now. He nodded once. “He’s right.”

Another voice. Jimin. “We support him.”

“I’m not asking for permission,” I added. “But I’m giving you a chance to stand on the right side of this.”

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

“Fine,” the CEO said. “But do it your way. Your words. Your video. Your responsibility.”

“Gladly.”

═══════

I didn’t use a stylist.

Didn’t ask for a filter.

Didn’t call management for notes.

I opened the camera, sat on the hotel bed, and hit record.

The silence before I spoke felt like the entire fandom holding its breath.

Then:

“Hi. It’s me. Jungkook. I wasn’t going to do this. I thought maybe if I kept my personal life quiet, I could protect the people I love most. But that’s not what happened.”

“A photo of my fiancée and my daughter was taken without their consent. It’s been posted, dissected, and speculated on. I’ve seen the comments. I’ve heard the questions. And now I’m going to give you an answer.”

“That woman is Y/N. She’s the love of my life. She’s not a secret. She’s sacred.”

“And the little girl in that photo? She’s my daughter. My whole world. The reason I breathe.”

I looked into the lens.

“You don’t get to touch them.”

“You don’t get to question their worth or their place in my life.”

“You don’t get to spin love into shame.”

“You want me to be honest? There you go.”

I ended the video.

Posted it.

Turned off my phone.

Then sat back and stared at the ceiling.

For once, I didn’t feel scared.

I felt free.

═══════

It went up at 3:42AM.

I was still awake.

Sitting on the floor in the dark, knees tucked under my chin, phone gripped like a lifeline.

And then the words appeared:

“Hi. It’s me. Jungkook.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just… watched.

Every second of that video played like a confession- raw, shaking, undeniably him.

He didn’t stutter.

He didn’t ask for forgiveness.

He just claimed us.

And when he said,

“She’s not a secret. She’s sacred.”

I stopped breathing.

It was reposted everywhere.

Every platform.

Every language.

Every fan account.

I couldn’t open an app without seeing my face beside his.

I also couldn’t open an app without seeing hate.

“She looks tired. She’s not that pretty.”

“He deserves better.”

“This is such a mistake.”

“I hope they break up before the tour ends.”

“Protect Jungkook from this clout-chaser.”

“Imagine letting your daughter be used for PR.”

“She’s gonna ruin his career.”

And worse.

Comments that named our street.

Photos from months ago, analyzed.

DMs with threats.

One email with a photo of our front door.

I shut my laptop.

Turned off my phone.

Closed every curtain in the house.

And then I sat in the hallway and sobbed until I couldn’t feel my face.

Eun Ae found me.

“Mommy?” she whispered.

I wiped my face quickly. “I’m okay, sweet pea.”

She crawled into my lap. Curled there like she always had- so small, so certain.

“Why are you sad?”

“People are saying mean things.”

“Why?”

“Because Appa loves us. And some people don’t understand that.”

She was quiet for a second.

Then said, “Appa said mean people are loud because they’re scared.”

I blinked. “He told you that?”

She nodded proudly. “He said loud doesn’t mean right.”

I didn’t respond.

I just held her tighter than I had in weeks.

═══════

Later that night, Jungkook called.

I answered and didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either.

Just looked at me through the screen like he could see straight into the pit of my chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“No.”

Pause.

“But I’m still here,” I added.

He nodded slowly. “I know it hurts. But you don’t have to be strong.”

“I don’t?”

“No,” he said, voice breaking. “You just have to trust me. I’ll be strong for both of us.”

I wiped another tear and whispered, “What if this ruins you?”

“It won’t.”

“But what if-”

“I’d rather be ruined beside you than worshipped without you.”

That broke me.

But this time… the tears felt lighter.

═══════

The press conference wasn’t optional.

HYBE scheduled it in a panic- trying to clean up a mess I wasn’t calling a mess.

I didn’t wear anything special.

No tie. No stylist.

Just black jeans and a shirt that Y/N once stole from my closet.

The camera lights popped like flashbulbs on a landmine.

I sat down beside Namjoon and waited.

═══════

First question.

“Do you stand by your video?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Some say it was emotional. Unplanned.”

“I was emotional,” I said. “And it was absolutely planned. I planned to stop letting people treat the best thing that ever happened to me like a liability.”

═══════

Next question.

“Do you worry it will affect your career?”

I smiled for the first time.

“It’s already changed it. For the better.”

“What do you say to the fans who are disappointed?”

My voice didn’t waver.

“I say I love you. But I don’t owe you my silence.”

A murmur swept through the crowd.

Namjoon glanced at me, proud. Quiet. Solid.

═══════

Later, in a one-on-one interview, a woman asked:

“So… who is she to you?”

She meant Y/N.

She meant the woman they couldn’t paint into a fantasy anymore.

I didn’t even pause.

“She’s not part of my image,” I said. “She’s part of my reality.”

“And the child?”

“My daughter,” I said, with the kind of smile that makes people believe in heaven. “The brightest thing I’ve ever helped create.”

═══════

That night, I scrolled through social media just once.

There was hate, sure.

But louder than that?

#JungkookXY/N

“I didn’t know I needed this from him.”

“He sounds in love. Like real love.”

“This is what growing up looks like.”

“I used to want to marry him. Now I just want him to stay happy.”

“I don’t care who he loves. I just love how he loves.”

“Damn. This is the bar now.”

I texted Y/N:

Jungkook: “They tried to make you small.”

Jungkook: “But I only ever see you as the center of my world.”

She replied ten minutes later.

Y/N ❤️: “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

My fingers trembled as I typed:

Jungkook: “Then don’t.”

Jungkook: “Be mine. Loudly.”

She replied with one word:

Y/N ❤️: “Always.”

═══════

I almost turned around.

I had my hand on the front door, keys in my pocket, jacket half-zipped.

Eun Ae was already lacing up her sneakers behind me, babbling about wanting to feed ducks and maybe, if we were lucky, find a dragon in the trees.

But I just stood there.

Frozen.

Because I knew the second I stepped outside…

Someone would see.

Maybe they wouldn’t take a photo.

Maybe they wouldn’t scream or post or tweet.

But someone would see me.

See us.

And that had never felt safe before.

Until now.

“Mama?” Eun Ae called. “You coming?”

I turned.

She had on her little sunglasses and her flamingo backpack and this grin that could slice through concrete.

I smiled back.

“Yeah, baby. I’m coming.”

We walked to the park. No disguises. No hats. No hoods.

Just me. Her. The sun.

I felt eyes.

Heard whispers.

Someone lifted their phone and pointed it in our direction.

I didn’t flinch.

Not this time.

Eun Ae skipped beside me, holding my hand and singing a song she made up on the spot called “No One Can Catch Us ‘Cause We’re So Cool.”

I laughed.

And when we reached the same bench where that first photo was taken, I sat down.

The wind picked up.

I pulled my phone from my pocket.

Snapped a photo- just us. Natural. No filters. No faces hidden.

Eun Ae climbing the bench.

Me mid-laugh, head tilted up toward the sun.

I stared at the image for a long time.

Then I opened Instagram.

Selected the photo.

No caption.

Just one geotag:

“Home.”

And I posted it.

Just like that.

Let them look.

Let them see.

This wasn’t a scandal.

This was our life.

And for the first time…

I didn’t apologize for it.

Didn’t explain it.

Didn’t hide it.

Didn’t shrink myself.

I held my daughter’s hand.

I looked up.

And I breathed.

═══════

I woke up without checking the locks.

It didn’t hit me at first.

Just shuffled into the kitchen like I always did- barefoot, hair a mess, half-asleep and half-listening for the soft patter of Eun Ae’s footsteps down the hall.

But somewhere between pouring the coffee and grabbing two cereal bowls, I realized…

I wasn’t scared.

Not bracing.

Not flinching.

Not rehearsing a hundred responses in my head for whatever might be waiting on the other side of my screen.

Just breathing.

Existing.

Eun Ae came in like a storm of pink- flamingo pajamas, glittery headband, and a request for three marshmallows inside her cereal this morning.

I gave her two and a wink.

We sat at the table in the glow of early morning light.

She talked about school. About how her best friend stole her pink marker and she might need to “lawyer up.”

I sipped my coffee and nodded seriously. “I’ll represent you.”

She grinned.

And for the first time in what felt like months-

We didn't mention him.

Not because he wasn’t in our hearts.

But because he was everywhere already.

In the mug I used- his favorite.

In the quiet playlist humming in the background—songs he wrote.

In the text he sent me earlier:

Kook 💜: “Eat breakfast. Kiss the tiny gremlin for me. Love you.”

After breakfast, I dropped her at school, waved at the teacher I liked, and walked home with my coat unbuttoned and my head up.

Not scanning.

Not rushing.

Just moving forward.

═══════

Later, I worked from the living room.

Emails. Planning meetings. A budget review that almost made me cry.

Then I did something I hadn’t done in over a year.

I pulled out my old leather journal.

The one I used to carry everywhere.

I flipped past pages written in grief.

Heartbreak.

Hope.

Until I found a blank one.

And I wrote:

“The world knows. And yet somehow… it’s quieter than ever. Not empty. Not gone. Just still. And I think… maybe… It’s okay to be happy this softly.”

I didn’t sign it.

Didn’t date it.

Didn’t close the book.

Just left it open on the counter.

Like maybe I’d write more tomorrow.

═══════

Osaka was beautiful.

Clean air, soft breeze, neon lights humming like lullabies.

The fans were loud tonight- really loud.

They screamed my name like it tasted good in their mouths.

But as soon as the lights went out, I missed the quiet.

I missed her.

I sat on the balcony of the hotel, hoodie pulled over my head, fingers raw from guitar strings and mic grip.

I scrolled through my camera roll, not for anything in particular- just to feel them.

A blurry photo of Y/N making a face at me over pancakes.

A video of Eun Ae singing into a spoon like it was a microphone.

A voice memo of Y/N reading Goodnight Moon because I’d asked her to record it once when I couldn’t sleep.

I closed my eyes and let her voice fill the silence:

“And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush…”

God, I missed her laugh.

Her breath.

Her fingers tracing mindless patterns on my chest while she told me about her day.

I texted her:

Jungkook: “How are you?”

She replied a minute later:

Y/N ❤️: “Peaceful.”

That one word felt like a hug and a punch.

I wanted to be the one making her feel that way.

With my hands.

Not my distance.

═══════

I talked to Jimin over room service.

“Is it weird I feel worse now than when things were still secret?”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Worse how?”

“I’m… scared again.”

“Of what?”

“Of it hurting anyway. Even though it’s all out there now. Even though I’m not hiding. Even though I love her the right way this time.”

He nodded slowly. Didn’t dismiss it.

“You think it’s gonna hurt her?”

I shrugged. “She’s stronger than me. But I know what absence feels like. I made her live in it for years.”

“Yeah, you did,” he said, soft. “But she chose you again. Even knowing that.”

I didn’t respond.

Because sometimes love is louder than reason.

And sometimes fear whispers louder than both. 

═══════

Later that night, I sat on the edge of the bed and whispered into a voice memo app:

“I’m sorry I’m not there. Not just tonight. For all of it. For the lost years. The missed birthdays. The nights I turned my phone off instead of calling. I know you’ve forgiven me. But I’m still learning how to forgive myself.”

I opened Instagram one more time.

Saw the photo she’d posted the week before.

Her and Eun Ae in the sun. No caption. Just the word “Home.”

I didn’t like it publicly.

I just stared at it for a long time.

And whispered to the screen:

“I’ll get there.

I swear.

I’ll come home again.”

═══════

I wore lipstick for the first time in months.

Not red.

Just a soft berry tone that used to make me feel… like myself.

Or whoever she used to be.

The babysitter arrived right on time.

A sweet college student with pink braids and a tote bag full of stickers.

Eun Ae barely noticed me leave.

“Have fun, mommy!” she chirped, already halfway into her sticker kingdom.

I forced a smile. “I’ll try.”

═══════

The bar was louder than I remembered.

Too many people. Too many lights.

Too much pretending I wasn’t scanning every face for a camera.

My coworker waved me over- Jaehyun. 

Charming. Talkative. The kind of guy who always smells like cedarwood cologne and plans brunch two weeks in advance.

“You clean up nice,” he said, eyes trailing a little too slowly down my dress.

I laughed softly. “It’s just makeup and good lighting.”

He handed me a drink, his fingers lingering around mine in a way that made it impossible to pull back without making a scene.

“You know…” his gaze crawled over me, unhurried, “I always thought Jungkook was a lucky guy.”

I froze for half a second.

“But now that I’ve seen you in person like this…” his smile was thin, deliberate, “I think he’s the one who should be worried about leaving you alone in a room with me.”

He didn’t look away- just let the silence stretch, like he wanted me to hear everything he wasn’t saying out loud.

I smiled politely. Subtly spitting my sip out.

But my stomach turned.

This wasn’t a date.

It wasn’t even wrong.

But it felt like cheating.

On a man who wasn’t here.

On a love that had already survived the worst.

On the version of myself that fought to feel safe again.

I left early.

═══════

Back home, the babysitter told me Eun Ae had fallen asleep mid–bedtime story.

I kissed my daughter’s forehead and stood in the doorway too long.

Just listening to her breathe.

Then I walked into my room, grabbed my phone, and called him.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” he said, voice low and sleepy.

“I went out tonight,” I whispered.

He sat up slightly. “Yeah? How was it?”

“Awkward. Weird. Loud. Wrong.”

He was quiet for a second. “Wrong how?”

“I got hit on by Jaehyun.”

A pause. Longer than I expected.

“Since you started there, he had a thing for you,” he said quietly.

“I left right after. I didn’t even drink my drink.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I just… I know you.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, fingernails pressed into my palm.

“I felt like I was cheating on you. And I didn’t even do anything.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to.”

I heard him exhale, soft and full of longing.

“I hate being this far,” he said. “I hate that you felt that alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” I said. “That was the problem. He was there and you weren’t.”

Another pause. Then- 

“I’ll be there next month.”

“What?”

“We get a break in the tour. Two weeks. I already told the label I’m flying home.”

My throat closed up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to make sure I could pull it off first. Flights are booked. The boys understand. I’m staying with you.”

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Two weeks?”

“Fourteen nights of me being exactly where I belong.”

I started crying before I could stop it.

“I’m sorry I left tonight.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Because you came back.”

“I miss you.”

═══════

The hotel room was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Just the low hum of the heater and the scratch of my pen against paper.

The guitar sat in my lap. My notebook was wide open. I was three verses deep into a song that hadn’t existed two hours ago- until she called.

We didn’t talk long. Just enough to feel each other’s breath on the line.

But it was enough.

She said, “I miss you.”

That was all it took.

Now I was here.

Midnight in Singapore.

Writing like the ink might run out if I didn’t finish before morning.

“Somewhere in between the silence and the show, I’ll find you waiting. I’ll always go.”

“I’ll bring the sky in my suitcase, your laugh in my throat. You don’t need to follow- you’re already home.”

I ran a hand through my hair and leaned back against the headboard.

The demo was rough, but I’d play it for her when I got back.

Back.

God, just saying it in my head felt like oxygen.

═══════

One month.

Four weeks.

Thirty days and I’d be on a flight, back in that apartment, holding her against the kitchen counter and not stopping until she begged me to.

I missed her in every way imaginable.

I missed her mind. Her scent. Her sarcasm.

But mostly…

I missed the way she looked at me when she was falling apart in my hands, her eyes dark with desire, her body trembling with need.

I reached for my phone, my fingers scrolling through the voice memos until I found the one she’d sent a week ago.

She didn’t know what it would do to me.

Just thirty seconds.

I pressed play, her voice filling the room like a whisper in the dark.

“Hey… I just got out of the shower and thought of you. I’m wearing your shirt. The long one... It still smells like your cologne. And I’m lying here wishing your mouth was on me. Soooo yeah… I love you. Call me when you can.”

Her words were like a spell, weaving through my senses, pulling me under. My hand was already moving before the message ended, my fingers tracing the outline of my cock through my sweatpants. 

I closed my eyes, letting her voice play again, and again. Each time, it hit lower, sinking into my bones, stirring something primal and aching.

My breath staggered, my hips flexing involuntarily as I imagined her in that shirt, the fabric clinging to her curves, the scent of my cologne mingling with hers. I bit my lip to keep from saying her name too loud, but the sound of her voice, soft and yearning, was too much to bear. 

My hand tightened around my cock, my strokes slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of her words.

I replayed the message, her voice a constant backdrop to my growing arousal. 

“I’m wearing your shirt… It still smells like your cologne… I’m lying here wishing your mouth was on me…”

The words blurred together, a litany of desire that fueled my fantasies. 

I imagined her lying there, the fabric of my shirt brushing against her skin, the scent of me surrounding her. 

I imagined my mouth on her, my lips tracing the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her navel. 

I imagined her moans, soft and desperate, filling the silence between us.

My breath came in sharp gasps, my body tense and coiled like a spring. I could feel the pressure building, a tight knot in my gut that demanded release. 

I whispered her name, a plea and a promise, as my hand moved faster, my strokes more urgent. 

“Y/N…”

The sound of her name on my lips was like a catalyst, sending me over the edge. I came with a sharp cry, my body arching off the bed, my cock pulsing hot and hard in my hand. 

Her voice played on, a distant echo, as I rode out the waves of my orgasm, her name a song on my lips. “Y/N… Y/N…”

As the pleasure subsided, leaving me trembling and spent, I lay there, my heart pounding, my skin slick with sweat. The room felt heavier, the silence more oppressive, now that the storm had passed. L

After, I cleaned up, grabbed my phone, and laid flat on the mattress, heartbeat still wrecked.

I didn’t send her anything.

Didn’t need to.

Just hit play on her message one more time.

And drifted off to sleep with her voice in my ear.

═══════

We packed peanut butter sandwiches and juice boxes and headed to the park.

No disguises.

No hiding.

No second-guessing. 

It was the same place we’d been photographed.

The same bench I’d cried on.

The same sidewalk I used to speed-walk down with my head ducked and my heart in my throat.

But today?

I strolled.

Slow. Easy. Present.

Eun Ae skipped ahead, dragging her flamingo backpack like it was a cape and she was some tiny, chaotic superhero.

I sat down on the bench, pulled my sunglasses down, and just… existed.

There were other people here.

A couple walking a dog.

Two teens vaping near the fountain.

A dad pushing a stroller and humming off-key.

No one looked at me twice.

And if they did?

They kept walking.

No phones.

No whispers.

Just… life happening.

Beside me, Eun Ae plopped onto the grass, opened her sandwich, and said with a mouthful:

“This is the best day ever.”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Because I have peanut butter and you didn’t put celery in it this time.”

I rolled my eyes. “That was one time.”

“Unforgivable,” she said dramatically, then took another bite.

I leaned back against the bench.

Closed my eyes. Let the sun rest on my skin.

No thoughts about cameras.

No mental rehearsals for interviews.

No pretending I wasn’t lonely.

I was lonely.

But I wasn’t empty.

For the first time since that morning he left for tour…

I wasn’t waiting.

Not for his text.

Not for permission.

Not for the fear to come back and take everything.

I was just here.

In the grass.

In the sun.

In the soft sound of my daughter singing to a squirrel.

I whispered it quietly- just to myself:

“This isn’t waiting anymore.

This is life.”

And I let it be true.

═══════

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 08/11/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @asyr97 @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @yu-justme @bangtaniess @roseda @hottigerboba @xumyboo @bangtansfav-7 @ggukieskookie @granataepfelchen @blubird592 @mellyyyyyyx @gukkiemybaby @likeesapphire @jaerisdiction @amarawayne @elithenium @heyinwluv85s @prilnextdoor23 @Strxqrd1 @uli_o7 @jojojoliejolene @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @taetaecatboy @busanbby-jjk @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @somehowukook @songbyeonkim @xmiaacxio @smoljimjim @welcometomyworld13 @marihoneywk @fiddlebiddls @battlingmyowndemons

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (8)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, heavy angst, smut, fluff, childhood lovers, hurt, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, growth, stress, exhaustion, fear, apologies, trauma response, industry manipulation, leaked photos, stalking, public backlash, saesang, panic attack, some time-skips, separation angst, slight jealousy, unwanted flirting, insecurity, emotions, loving voicemails, guilt, public announcements, explicit: m. & f. masturbation, phone sex (FaceTime)

A/N: yall 😭 i’m srry i cannot write lyrics/poems so forgive me 🧎‍♀️‍➡️. also, i forgot how much i love this chapter 😭😭

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═══════

The bed was too cold.

It wasn’t even sunrise yet.

The sheets still smelled like him- fabric softener, sweat, his cologne fading just enough to make me ache.

I reached across the mattress before I was even fully awake.

And when my hand hit nothing but pillow, the silence filled the room like grief.

He was gone.

I didn’t cry right away.

I just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city waking up outside our window.

Eun Ae would be up soon.

So I rolled out of bed, tugged on one of Jungkook’s old shirts, and padded into the kitchen barefoot.

The mug he always used was still in the dish rack.

The one I’d washed last night and couldn’t bring myself to put away.

White with a little cartoon bear on it. A chipped ear. He never cared.

I didn’t drink coffee this morning.

Just poured water and stood there holding the cup like it might answer me back.

═══════

Eun Ae came into the kitchen a few minutes later, hair wild and half-asleep.

“Is Appa gone already?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

I crouched down and nodded. “Yeah, baby. He had to leave early.”

“Is he gonna be gone forever?”

I swallowed.

“No, sweet pea. Just for a little while.”

She nodded like that made sense and climbed into my lap at the table.

We sat like that for a long time.

═══════

The day passed.

I worked remotely. Checked in with the venue. Cleaned the apartment unnecessarily. Answered emails I’d been avoiding.

But everything felt off.

Like a note missing in a song I knew by heart.

It wasn’t until that night, after dinner and bathtime and one extra story, that I sat on the couch, alone, and finally felt the silence crack open.

I stared at my phone for fifteen minutes before finally putting it on the cushion beside me and looking away.

He was probably busy.

Rehearsing. Resting. Meeting with managers. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he thought I needed space.

Maybe this was the part where everything started fading again. 

Then it buzzed.

FaceTime: Kook 💜

I answered so fast I almost dropped the phone.

He was backstage somewhere- makeup still smudged under his eyes, hair falling onto his forehead, shirt damp with sweat and a towel around his neck.

“Hey, baby,” he grinned.

Just hearing his voice made my throat tighten.

“Hi,” I whispered.

He told me everything. About the show, the energy, the fans, how someone threw a plushie onstage shaped like a giant shrimp and Jin kept it.

He was laughing. Glowing.

I smiled. I laughed back. I told him Eun Ae missed him and that the fridge was already full of takeout. I tried to keep my voice steady.

I didn’t say:

I couldn’t eat this morning.

I reached for you in my sleep.

I thought maybe this would hurt less than it does.

He looked so beautiful I didn’t want to ruin it.

We said goodnight. He blew a kiss through the screen.

And then the call ended.

I didn’t cry immediately.

I stood up, pulled the phone from the charger, folded the blanket on the couch.

Then I passed the bedroom.

Saw the bed.

Saw the empty space where he always sleeps.

Saw the drawer half-open with his tour lanyard still inside.

And I just… folded.

Sat on the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees, and let the tears come.

Because he was on the other side of the world-

And I was still pretending that was okay.

═══════

They screamed my name like it was sacred.

Every lightstick, every sign, every voice shouting back lyrics I wrote in the dark- they made it feel like I was on top of the world.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that no one here called me “Appa.”

That no one in the crowd knew the weight of Y/N’s body leaning into mine at 3AM when her anxiety got loud.

Or how Eun Ae’s nose scrunched when she brushed her teeth.

Or how my chest didn’t feel like mine when they weren’t on either side of me.

I finished the last song, bowed with the guys, smiled like I was invincible- then left the stage faster than I ever had before.

The dressing room was chaos.

Water bottles flying, stylists fussing, staff whispering logistics.

I sat down in front of the mirror and peeled my in-ears out like they were suffocating me.

Jimin flopped beside me, grinning.

“You killed it.”

I nodded, still catching my breath. “You too.”

“You always perform like that when someone’s watching,” he teased.

“She’s not even here.”

Jimin shrugged. “She doesn’t have to be. You carry her with you.”

I didn’t say anything.

Because it was true.

═══════

Back at the hotel, I ducked out early. Told the staff I needed to sleep.

I showered with the water too hot. Put on the same hoodie I wore the last time I held her.

Then climbed into the cold bed with my phone and did the only thing I had the energy for:

Scrolled through our photos.

Y/N’s birthday last year- messy cake frosting on Eun Ae’s cheek.

Eun Ae at the zoo.

Y/N asleep on my chest.

Y/N laughing at something dumb I said.

Eun Ae in matching pajamas with me, holding her flamingo like it was sacred.

The ache was slow. Deep.

Not painful.

Just present.

Namjoon texted.

Namjoon: “You good?”

I stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

Jungkook: “I miss them.”

He sent back just one line.

Namjoon: “Now you know what it’s like to have everything… and still want to go home.”

I laid back, one arm behind my head, still holding my phone to my chest.

It buzzed once.

A selfie from Y/N.

She was in bed. My old t-shirt. No makeup. Barely awake.

Y/N ♥️: “I miss you 💜.”

I didn’t respond.

I just stared at the photo until the screen went dark.

And then I played the video I took of Eun Ae singing to her flamingo.

I fell asleep with it playing, the sound still faint in my ears.

Because in front of millions, I could be their star-

But in a quiet room, in the dark, they were mine.

═══════

It started with a notification I shouldn’t have opened.

A trending topic. A photo. A headline with no substance and too many comments.

Jungkook.

Laughing with a female host on some Japanese talk show.

Her hand on his shoulder.

His smile wide.

It was nothing.

He’d probably laughed like that a thousand times in the last two weeks.

But it was the comments that gutted me.

“They have such chemistry.”

“He’s glowing. Way happier than in that shadow photo.”

“Hope he’s finally over her.”

“Lowkey he could do so much better.”

“Wish he wasn’t dating anyone though. Ruins the fantasy.”

“He’s a god. She’s just… there.”

“Maybe they broke up 👀🫣”

“Wouldn’t blame him if they did tbh.”

I closed the app, then reopened it.

Switched to Weverse. Saw the same image posted with a different filter and ten thousand likes.

People weren’t asking questions anymore.

They were writing the ending without me.

═══════

I didn’t bring it up at first.

I let it sit in the back of my throat like a stone while I made dinner, while I helped Eun Ae with her reading, while I folded the laundry he hadn’t worn in two weeks.

Then he called.

FaceTime.

I answered with a smile that hurt.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice warm and soft.

“Hey,” I said back.

He noticed it immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Y/N.”

I swallowed. “I saw the picture.”

His brows pinched slightly. “What picture?”

“From that show. The one where she touches your shoulder and you smile like she just solved world hunger.”

He exhaled through his nose, not annoyed- just bracing.

“Baby- ”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I know it’s nothing. I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know how stupid it sounds.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said gently.

“I just…” My voice shook. “I know I’m not like her- like them.”

“Y/N.”

“I don’t want to be the version of me you leave again.”

That stopped everything.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t interrupt.

He just nodded, once, like my words deserved to land.

And then he said, softly, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“I know.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

He leaned closer to the camera. His voice barely a breath.

“You’re not her. You’re you. The one who made me better. The one I wake up for. The one I fight to come home to.”

My eyes burned. I didn’t cry. Not yet.

We were quiet for a long time.

Then I said, “I’m sorry. I just- ”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You told me what you needed. That’s never wrong.”

We didn’t say goodnight.

Just sat there.

Breathing together through a screen.

I fell asleep on the couch, phone in hand.

And when I woke up a few hours later, there was a voicemail waiting.

“Hey… it’s late where you are, I know. I just wanted to say that I love you. I love you more now than I ever thought I was allowed to. You’re not easy to love- you’re real. And I need that. I need you. I don’t care what people think. I care that you’re still choosing me. So I’ll keep choosing you, too. Every damn time. I love you, Y/N. So much. ”

I saved it.

Then I played it again.

And again.

Until the sun started rising, and I could finally breathe again.

═══════

I couldn’t sleep.

Even after I left the voicemail.

Even after I heard myself whisper I love you through a cracked voice and hoped it would hold her until morning.

I was still wide awake in the dark.

Hotel room. Fifth floor. London’s skyline buzzing outside my window like it didn’t care that I was unraveling inside.

So I did the only thing that ever made the ache make sense.

I reached for my guitar.

It started with one chord.

Then another.

Nothing fancy. Just soft. Quiet enough that the walls wouldn’t hear it- just my fingers, and maybe her name still lingering in the air.

I grabbed my phone. Hit record. Voice Memos.

“You’re still in the shirt I left behind.

Still in the room that remembers us.

And I’m still on stage pretending the noise doesn’t hurt more than your silence.”

I blinked.

Felt it land in my chest.

“You’re holding her hand while I hold a mic.

But it’s your hand I reach for every night.

And I keep counting days like I’m keeping faith-

like I’m holding tight to something I still believe in.”

I stopped. Swallowed.

My throat was tight.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the wood of the guitar like it could steady me.

I missed them so much it felt cellular.

Like every part of my body was reaching, stretching, aching for something just out of reach.

So I wrote the hook.

“If it’s love,

It lives in the quiet between goodbyes.

If it’s love,

It finds your breath through hotel walls and still sleeps fine.

If it’s love-

Yeah, if it’s love-

It makes it through the miles.

And I’ll prove that every night.”

I stared at the ceiling. Then at the little red dot still recording.

No filters.

No edits.

No production.

Just me.

Just the ache.

I didn’t say anything when I texted it to her.

Just the file.

2:18 long.

2 hours later, she responded.

Y/N♥️: “You always know what to say… when you’re not trying to say it.”

I smiled.

And for the first time in days… I let my eyes close without feeling like I’d forgotten something.

She’d play it.

Maybe once.

Maybe a hundred times.

And every time she did…

She’d know she wasn’t alone.

═══════

I played the song three times before noon.

The first time was for me.

The second was because I didn’t believe I heard it right the first time.

The third time was for Eun Ae.

We were sitting on the living room floor, her coloring with broken crayons while I answered emails I didn’t care about.

She tugged at my shirt and said, “Is Appa ever coming back?”

I looked down at her and said, gently, “Of course he is.”

“But he’s far away,” she pouted.

So I handed her my phone. Hit play.

She stared at it, eyes wide, listening.

“He sings different when he sings about us,” she said.

I smiled. “He does.”

She curled into my lap. I kissed the top of her head.

“He’s not here,” I whispered. “But he’s still loving us every second.”

═══════

That night, after she was asleep and the apartment was finally quiet again, my phone buzzed.

FaceTime: Kook 💜

I answered before the first ring finished.

He was already smiling.

“Hey,” I said, voice soft.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Tired. But… full.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I haven’t,” he said. “You look like you’ve been crying.”

I laughed under my breath. “You’re very observant.”

He leaned closer to the camera. “Did the song help?”

“Too much.”

He smiled. “Good.”

There was a silence that wasn’t awkward. Just charged.

His eyes dipped slightly.

“Are you in bed already?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He shifted. Sat back. Stared at me like he was already touching me in his mind.

“Is that my shirt again?”

I looked down. “Maybe.”

He smirked.

“Take it off.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

The heat that crawled up my neck was instant.

I laughed, but I did it. Slowly. Teasing. Just enough.

Jungkook’s gaze softened, his expression a mix of admiration and longing. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I miss that.”

“You’re the one who left, rockstar.”

“And now I’m the one who’s dying in a hotel bed watching the love of my life make me lose my mind over FaceTime.”

“What else do you miss?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper 

He smirked again. “Everything,” he said, his voice firm, his eyes never leaving mine. “Every curve, every touch, every sound you make when you’re with me.”

He paused, his hand moving out of frame, and I heard the soft rustle of fabric, the sound of his own shirt being discarded. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructed, his tone gentle but insistent. “Let me watch.”

I hesitated, my fingers stilling, but then I saw him, his chest bare, his muscles taut, his hand already moving, palming himself through his pants. The sight of him, the raw desire in his eyes, was enough to push me over the edge. 

Slowly, I brought my hand to my breast, my fingers, cupping the soft weight, my thumb grazing my nipple.

“Like that,” he encouraged, his voice hoarse, his breathing already uneven. “Let me see you, baby.”

I closed my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me, my fingers circling my nipple, teasing it, pulling it gently. 

I heard him breathe my name, his breathing growing heavier, his hand moving in rhythm with mine. “Prop the phone up,” he instructed, his voice urgent. “I want to see everything.”

I did as he asked, adjusting the phone so it stood on its side, giving him a full view of me. I was fully exposed now, my breasts bared, my hand moving between them, my fingers tracing the curves, the valleys, the peaks. 

I felt a flush of embarrassment, but it was quickly overshadowed by the heat, the desire, the need to be close to him, even if it was just through the screen.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice a rough edge, his hand moving faster, his pants now discarded, his erection visible, thick and hard, as he stroked himself in time with my movements. “Touch yourself, baby. Let me watch you cum.”

I moaned softly, my fingers drifting lower, my hand sliding between my legs, my fingers brushing against the wetness there. I was already throbbing, aching for him, for his touch, for the connection that felt just out of reach. 

“Kook,” I breathed, his name a plea, a prayer, a desperate need for more.

“That’s it,” he repeated, his voice a low growl, his eyes dark with desire. “Say my name. Let me hear you.”

I whispered his name, slower, louder, until it was the only sound between us, a mantra, a lifeline, a reminder of what we once had, of what we still wanted. 

We moved in sync, our hands moving in time, our breaths mirroring each other’s, our moans filling the silence. 

The screen wasn’t enough, but in that moment, it had to be.

I felt the tension building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter, until I couldn’t hold back anymore. 

“Fuck,” I cried, my voice breaking, my body arching, my fingers moving faster, my hips pressing into my hand. 

I heard him breathe my name, his voice rough, his body tensing, his hand moving frantically as he followed me over the edge.

We collapsed together, our breaths ragged, our bodies flushed and glowing. 

I laughed, a soft, breathless sound, my heart still racing, my body still humming with the aftermath of our release.

Jungkook exhaled hard, his chest heaving, his eyes closed, a smile playing on his lips. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, opening his eyes to meet mine. “That was…”

“Not enough,” I finished for him, my voice soft, my heart aching with the truth. 

The screen wasn’t enough, the distance wasn’t enough, the momentary connection wasn’t enough. But it was all we had, and in that moment, it had to be.

“Reminds me of the first time we did this,” he said, breathless.

Then he winked.

And I blushed like I was still seventeen and sneaking into the greenhouse.

He grinned at my reaction, soft and satisfied.

We stayed on the call even after we were quiet.

Even after the lights were off.

Even after my eyes fluttered closed.

The last thing I heard was his voice, half-asleep:

“Goodnight, baby.

I love you so much.”

═══════

I knew something was wrong the second I woke up.

Not because I felt it-

Because my phone buzzed twelve times before I even sat up.

One from my boss.

Two from coworkers.

The rest? Unknown numbers.

And then…

One from a friend back in the states:

“Is this you??”

I didn’t even open the message at first.

I just sat there, cold creeping over my skin, heart pounding behind my ribs like it was begging me not to look.

But I did.

And there it was.

A photo.

Me.

Eun Ae.

In the park near our house.

I was crouched down tying her shoe, laughing.

She had her flamingo tucked under her arm, chocolate on her cheek.

We were completely unaware.

But the angle-

It was zoomed. Hidden.

Stolen.

And it had already been reposted.

Circulating on Weverse.

Twitter.

Instagram.

Fancams. Fan captions. Fan theories.

“Is this Jungkook’s daughter??”

“Is this a joke?”

“Why is she out in public like this?”

“Is she trying to be famous now?”

“That kid is cute, but this is so reckless.”

“This confirms it. She wants attention.”

“If she really loved him, she’d stay hidden.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Eun Ae was still asleep in the next room.

Peaceful.

Safe.

And all I could think was- they’re following us.

I called Jungkook before I could even think.

The second he picked up, I was crying.

“Baby- what happened? What’s going on?”

“They stalked us,” I choked. “A photo. It’s everywhere. Me and Eun Ae. From the park. Someone was watching and I didn’t even know, I- ”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got you. Where are you right now?”

“Home.”

“Are the doors locked?”

“Yes.”

“Is Eun Ae with you?”

“She’s asleep.”

“Okay. That’s all that matters.”

I heard him breathing hard, like he was pacing. Or clenching his jaw.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I just wanted a normal day. I didn’t even post anything. I just tied my daughter’s damn shoe and now I’m-”

My voice cracked.

“I’m scared, Jungkook. What if someone tries to come here again? What if they follow her to school next time?”

He was silent for a moment. And then he said, low and dangerous:

“I’m going to handle this.”

I looked out the window like someone might already be standing there with a camera.

I checked the locks again.

Closed the curtains.

Eun Ae stirred in the next room, mumbling in her sleep.

I didn’t wake her.

But I curled up outside her door, knees pulled to my chest, phone still pressed to my ear.

“Jungkook…” I whispered, “I don’t think I’m built for this.”

His voice was steel.

Soft steel.

“You don’t have to be.”

“But- ”

“I’ll be. For both of us.”

I closed my eyes.

And for a second… I let him carry me.

═══════

I didn’t say anything when I logged into the HYBE Zoom meeting.

Didn’t wait for an invite. Didn’t care if the screen said “in session.”

I clicked the link, turned on my camera, and stared into it like I wanted it to flinch.

The execs were already mid-sentence.

“- we just need to assess reach, and if we let this settle for 72 hours, sentiment might- ”

“No.”

All their heads turned.

“Jungkook,” one said slowly, “we understand you’re emotional, but- ”

“Stop. Talking.”

Silence.

“I’m not here for spin,” I said. “I’m not here to watch you strategize around my family’s pain. Someone took a photo of my fiancée and our daughter. Without consent. And you’re talking to me about sentiment?”

“We’re simply trying to avoid escalation- ”

“Escalation already happened.”

One of them cleared their throat. “If we delay public-“

“Then I’ll post it myself.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

“I’ll go live. I’ll tag Y/N. I’ll post the photo in high-res and tell everyone what you were too afraid to.”

“Jungkook- ”

“She’s not your brand to protect. She’s mine. And that little girl you all keep calling a liability? That’s my daughter.”

Namjoon had joined the call, quiet until now. He nodded once. “He’s right.”

Another voice. Jimin. “We support him.”

“I’m not asking for permission,” I added. “But I’m giving you a chance to stand on the right side of this.”

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

“Fine,” the CEO said. “But do it your way. Your words. Your video. Your responsibility.”

“Gladly.”

═══════

I didn’t use a stylist.

Didn’t ask for a filter.

Didn’t call management for notes.

I opened the camera, sat on the hotel bed, and hit record.

The silence before I spoke felt like the entire fandom holding its breath.

Then:

“Hi. It’s me. Jungkook. I wasn’t going to do this. I thought maybe if I kept my personal life quiet, I could protect the people I love most. But that’s not what happened.”

“A photo of my fiancée and my daughter was taken without their consent. It’s been posted, dissected, and speculated on. I’ve seen the comments. I’ve heard the questions. And now I’m going to give you an answer.”

“That woman is Y/N. She’s the love of my life. She’s not a secret. She’s sacred.”

“And the little girl in that photo? She’s my daughter. My whole world. The reason I breathe.”

I looked into the lens.

“You don’t get to touch them.”

“You don’t get to question their worth or their place in my life.”

“You don’t get to spin love into shame.”

“You want me to be honest? There you go.”

I ended the video.

Posted it.

Turned off my phone.

Then sat back and stared at the ceiling.

For once, I didn’t feel scared.

I felt free.

═══════

It went up at 3:42AM.

I was still awake.

Sitting on the floor in the dark, knees tucked under my chin, phone gripped like a lifeline.

And then the words appeared:

“Hi. It’s me. Jungkook.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just… watched.

Every second of that video played like a confession- raw, shaking, undeniably him.

He didn’t stutter.

He didn’t ask for forgiveness.

He just claimed us.

And when he said,

“She’s not a secret. She’s sacred.”

I stopped breathing.

It was reposted everywhere.

Every platform.

Every language.

Every fan account.

I couldn’t open an app without seeing my face beside his.

I also couldn’t open an app without seeing hate.

“She looks tired. She’s not that pretty.”

“He deserves better.”

“This is such a mistake.”

“I hope they break up before the tour ends.”

“Protect Jungkook from this clout-chaser.”

“Imagine letting your daughter be used for PR.”

“She’s gonna ruin his career.”

And worse.

Comments that named our street.

Photos from months ago, analyzed.

DMs with threats.

One email with a photo of our front door.

I shut my laptop.

Turned off my phone.

Closed every curtain in the house.

And then I sat in the hallway and sobbed until I couldn’t feel my face.

Eun Ae found me.

“Mommy?” she whispered.

I wiped my face quickly. “I’m okay, sweet pea.”

She crawled into my lap. Curled there like she always had- so small, so certain.

“Why are you sad?”

“People are saying mean things.”

“Why?”

“Because Appa loves us. And some people don’t understand that.”

She was quiet for a second.

Then said, “Appa said mean people are loud because they’re scared.”

I blinked. “He told you that?”

She nodded proudly. “He said loud doesn’t mean right.”

I didn’t respond.

I just held her tighter than I had in weeks.

═══════

Later that night, Jungkook called.

I answered and didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either.

Just looked at me through the screen like he could see straight into the pit of my chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“No.”

Pause.

“But I’m still here,” I added.

He nodded slowly. “I know it hurts. But you don’t have to be strong.”

“I don’t?”

“No,” he said, voice breaking. “You just have to trust me. I’ll be strong for both of us.”

I wiped another tear and whispered, “What if this ruins you?”

“It won’t.”

“But what if-”

“I’d rather be ruined beside you than worshipped without you.”

That broke me.

But this time… the tears felt lighter.

═══════

The press conference wasn’t optional.

HYBE scheduled it in a panic- trying to clean up a mess I wasn’t calling a mess.

I didn’t wear anything special.

No tie. No stylist.

Just black jeans and a shirt that Y/N once stole from my closet.

The camera lights popped like flashbulbs on a landmine.

I sat down beside Namjoon and waited.

═══════

First question.

“Do you stand by your video?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Some say it was emotional. Unplanned.”

“I was emotional,” I said. “And it was absolutely planned. I planned to stop letting people treat the best thing that ever happened to me like a liability.”

═══════

Next question.

“Do you worry it will affect your career?”

I smiled for the first time.

“It’s already changed it. For the better.”

“What do you say to the fans who are disappointed?”

My voice didn’t waver.

“I say I love you. But I don’t owe you my silence.”

A murmur swept through the crowd.

Namjoon glanced at me, proud. Quiet. Solid.

═══════

Later, in a one-on-one interview, a woman asked:

“So… who is she to you?”

She meant Y/N.

She meant the woman they couldn’t paint into a fantasy anymore.

I didn’t even pause.

“She’s not part of my image,” I said. “She’s part of my reality.”

“And the child?”

“My daughter,” I said, with the kind of smile that makes people believe in heaven. “The brightest thing I’ve ever helped create.”

═══════

That night, I scrolled through social media just once.

There was hate, sure.

But louder than that?

#JungkookXY/N

“I didn’t know I needed this from him.”

“He sounds in love. Like real love.”

“This is what growing up looks like.”

“I used to want to marry him. Now I just want him to stay happy.”

“I don’t care who he loves. I just love how he loves.”

“Damn. This is the bar now.”

I texted Y/N:

Jungkook: “They tried to make you small.”

Jungkook: “But I only ever see you as the center of my world.”

She replied ten minutes later.

Y/N ❤️: “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

My fingers trembled as I typed:

Jungkook: “Then don’t.”

Jungkook: “Be mine. Loudly.”

She replied with one word:

Y/N ❤️: “Always.”

═══════

I almost turned around.

I had my hand on the front door, keys in my pocket, jacket half-zipped.

Eun Ae was already lacing up her sneakers behind me, babbling about wanting to feed ducks and maybe, if we were lucky, find a dragon in the trees.

But I just stood there.

Frozen.

Because I knew the second I stepped outside…

Someone would see.

Maybe they wouldn’t take a photo.

Maybe they wouldn’t scream or post or tweet.

But someone would see me.

See us.

And that had never felt safe before.

Until now.

“Mama?” Eun Ae called. “You coming?”

I turned.

She had on her little sunglasses and her flamingo backpack and this grin that could slice through concrete.

I smiled back.

“Yeah, baby. I’m coming.”

We walked to the park. No disguises. No hats. No hoods.

Just me. Her. The sun.

I felt eyes.

Heard whispers.

Someone lifted their phone and pointed it in our direction.

I didn’t flinch.

Not this time.

Eun Ae skipped beside me, holding my hand and singing a song she made up on the spot called “No One Can Catch Us ‘Cause We’re So Cool.”

I laughed.

And when we reached the same bench where that first photo was taken, I sat down.

The wind picked up.

I pulled my phone from my pocket.

Snapped a photo- just us. Natural. No filters. No faces hidden.

Eun Ae climbing the bench.

Me mid-laugh, head tilted up toward the sun.

I stared at the image for a long time.

Then I opened Instagram.

Selected the photo.

No caption.

Just one geotag:

“Home.”

And I posted it.

Just like that.

Let them look.

Let them see.

This wasn’t a scandal.

This was our life.

And for the first time…

I didn’t apologize for it.

Didn’t explain it.

Didn’t hide it.

Didn’t shrink myself.

I held my daughter’s hand.

I looked up.

And I breathed.

═══════

I woke up without checking the locks.

It didn’t hit me at first.

Just shuffled into the kitchen like I always did- barefoot, hair a mess, half-asleep and half-listening for the soft patter of Eun Ae’s footsteps down the hall.

But somewhere between pouring the coffee and grabbing two cereal bowls, I realized…

I wasn’t scared.

Not bracing.

Not flinching.

Not rehearsing a hundred responses in my head for whatever might be waiting on the other side of my screen.

Just breathing.

Existing.

Eun Ae came in like a storm of pink- flamingo pajamas, glittery headband, and a request for three marshmallows inside her cereal this morning.

I gave her two and a wink.

We sat at the table in the glow of early morning light.

She talked about school. About how her best friend stole her pink marker and she might need to “lawyer up.”

I sipped my coffee and nodded seriously. “I’ll represent you.”

She grinned.

And for the first time in what felt like months-

We didn't mention him.

Not because he wasn’t in our hearts.

But because he was everywhere already.

In the mug I used- his favorite.

In the quiet playlist humming in the background—songs he wrote.

In the text he sent me earlier:

Kook 💜: “Eat breakfast. Kiss the tiny gremlin for me. Love you.”

After breakfast, I dropped her at school, waved at the teacher I liked, and walked home with my coat unbuttoned and my head up.

Not scanning.

Not rushing.

Just moving forward.

═══════

Later, I worked from the living room.

Emails. Planning meetings. A budget review that almost made me cry.

Then I did something I hadn’t done in over a year.

I pulled out my old leather journal.

The one I used to carry everywhere.

I flipped past pages written in grief.

Heartbreak.

Hope.

Until I found a blank one.

And I wrote:

“The world knows. And yet somehow… it’s quieter than ever. Not empty. Not gone. Just still. And I think… maybe… It’s okay to be happy this softly.”

I didn’t sign it.

Didn’t date it.

Didn’t close the book.

Just left it open on the counter.

Like maybe I’d write more tomorrow.

═══════

Osaka was beautiful.

Clean air, soft breeze, neon lights humming like lullabies.

The fans were loud tonight- really loud.

They screamed my name like it tasted good in their mouths.

But as soon as the lights went out, I missed the quiet.

I missed her.

I sat on the balcony of the hotel, hoodie pulled over my head, fingers raw from guitar strings and mic grip.

I scrolled through my camera roll, not for anything in particular- just to feel them.

A blurry photo of Y/N making a face at me over pancakes.

A video of Eun Ae singing into a spoon like it was a microphone.

A voice memo of Y/N reading Goodnight Moon because I’d asked her to record it once when I couldn’t sleep.

I closed my eyes and let her voice fill the silence:

“And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush…”

God, I missed her laugh.

Her breath.

Her fingers tracing mindless patterns on my chest while she told me about her day.

I texted her:

Jungkook: “How are you?”

She replied a minute later:

Y/N ❤️: “Peaceful.”

That one word felt like a hug and a punch.

I wanted to be the one making her feel that way.

With my hands.

Not my distance.

═══════

I talked to Jimin over room service.

“Is it weird I feel worse now than when things were still secret?”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Worse how?”

“I’m… scared again.”

“Of what?”

“Of it hurting anyway. Even though it’s all out there now. Even though I’m not hiding. Even though I love her the right way this time.”

He nodded slowly. Didn’t dismiss it.

“You think it’s gonna hurt her?”

I shrugged. “She’s stronger than me. But I know what absence feels like. I made her live in it for years.”

“Yeah, you did,” he said, soft. “But she chose you again. Even knowing that.”

I didn’t respond.

Because sometimes love is louder than reason.

And sometimes fear whispers louder than both. 

═══════

Later that night, I sat on the edge of the bed and whispered into a voice memo app:

“I’m sorry I’m not there. Not just tonight. For all of it. For the lost years. The missed birthdays. The nights I turned my phone off instead of calling. I know you’ve forgiven me. But I’m still learning how to forgive myself.”

I opened Instagram one more time.

Saw the photo she’d posted the week before.

Her and Eun Ae in the sun. No caption. Just the word “Home.”

I didn’t like it publicly.

I just stared at it for a long time.

And whispered to the screen:

“I’ll get there.

I swear.

I’ll come home again.”

═══════

I wore lipstick for the first time in months.

Not red.

Just a soft berry tone that used to make me feel… like myself.

Or whoever she used to be.

The babysitter arrived right on time.

A sweet college student with pink braids and a tote bag full of stickers.

Eun Ae barely noticed me leave.

“Have fun, mommy!” she chirped, already halfway into her sticker kingdom.

I forced a smile. “I’ll try.”

═══════

The bar was louder than I remembered.

Too many people. Too many lights.

Too much pretending I wasn’t scanning every face for a camera.

My coworker waved me over- Jaehyun. 

Charming. Talkative. The kind of guy who always smells like cedarwood cologne and plans brunch two weeks in advance.

“You clean up nice,” he said, eyes trailing a little too slowly down my dress.

I laughed softly. “It’s just makeup and good lighting.”

He handed me a drink, his fingers lingering around mine in a way that made it impossible to pull back without making a scene.

“You know…” his gaze crawled over me, unhurried, “I always thought Jungkook was a lucky guy.”

I froze for half a second.

“But now that I’ve seen you in person like this…” his smile was thin, deliberate, “I think he’s the one who should be worried about leaving you alone in a room with me.”

He didn’t look away- just let the silence stretch, like he wanted me to hear everything he wasn’t saying out loud.

I smiled politely. Subtly spitting my sip out.

But my stomach turned.

This wasn’t a date.

It wasn’t even wrong.

But it felt like cheating.

On a man who wasn’t here.

On a love that had already survived the worst.

On the version of myself that fought to feel safe again.

I left early.

═══════

Back home, the babysitter told me Eun Ae had fallen asleep mid–bedtime story.

I kissed my daughter’s forehead and stood in the doorway too long.

Just listening to her breathe.

Then I walked into my room, grabbed my phone, and called him.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” he said, voice low and sleepy.

“I went out tonight,” I whispered.

He sat up slightly. “Yeah? How was it?”

“Awkward. Weird. Loud. Wrong.”

He was quiet for a second. “Wrong how?”

“I got hit on by Jaehyun.”

A pause. Longer than I expected.

“Since you started there, he had a thing for you,” he said quietly.

“I left right after. I didn’t even drink my drink.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I just… I know you.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, fingernails pressed into my palm.

“I felt like I was cheating on you. And I didn’t even do anything.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to.”

I heard him exhale, soft and full of longing.

“I hate being this far,” he said. “I hate that you felt that alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” I said. “That was the problem. He was there and you weren’t.”

Another pause. Then- 

“I’ll be there next month.”

“What?”

“We get a break in the tour. Two weeks. I already told the label I’m flying home.”

My throat closed up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to make sure I could pull it off first. Flights are booked. The boys understand. I’m staying with you.”

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Two weeks?”

“Fourteen nights of me being exactly where I belong.”

I started crying before I could stop it.

“I’m sorry I left tonight.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Because you came back.”

“I miss you.”

═══════

The hotel room was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Just the low hum of the heater and the scratch of my pen against paper.

The guitar sat in my lap. My notebook was wide open. I was three verses deep into a song that hadn’t existed two hours ago- until she called.

We didn’t talk long. Just enough to feel each other’s breath on the line.

But it was enough.

She said, “I miss you.”

That was all it took.

Now I was here.

Midnight in Singapore.

Writing like the ink might run out if I didn’t finish before morning.

“Somewhere in between the silence and the show, I’ll find you waiting. I’ll always go.”

“I’ll bring the sky in my suitcase, your laugh in my throat. You don’t need to follow- you’re already home.”

I ran a hand through my hair and leaned back against the headboard.

The demo was rough, but I’d play it for her when I got back.

Back.

God, just saying it in my head felt like oxygen.

═══════

One month.

Four weeks.

Thirty days and I’d be on a flight, back in that apartment, holding her against the kitchen counter and not stopping until she begged me to.

I missed her in every way imaginable.

I missed her mind. Her scent. Her sarcasm.

But mostly…

I missed the way she looked at me when she was falling apart in my hands, her eyes dark with desire, her body trembling with need.

I reached for my phone, my fingers scrolling through the voice memos until I found the one she’d sent a week ago.

She didn’t know what it would do to me.

Just thirty seconds.

I pressed play, her voice filling the room like a whisper in the dark.

“Hey… I just got out of the shower and thought of you. I’m wearing your shirt. The long one... It still smells like your cologne. And I’m lying here wishing your mouth was on me. Soooo yeah… I love you. Call me when you can.”

Her words were like a spell, weaving through my senses, pulling me under. My hand was already moving before the message ended, my fingers tracing the outline of my cock through my sweatpants. 

I closed my eyes, letting her voice play again, and again. Each time, it hit lower, sinking into my bones, stirring something primal and aching.

My breath staggered, my hips flexing involuntarily as I imagined her in that shirt, the fabric clinging to her curves, the scent of my cologne mingling with hers. I bit my lip to keep from saying her name too loud, but the sound of her voice, soft and yearning, was too much to bear. 

My hand tightened around my cock, my strokes slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of her words.

I replayed the message, her voice a constant backdrop to my growing arousal. 

“I’m wearing your shirt… It still smells like your cologne… I’m lying here wishing your mouth was on me…”

The words blurred together, a litany of desire that fueled my fantasies. 

I imagined her lying there, the fabric of my shirt brushing against her skin, the scent of me surrounding her. 

I imagined my mouth on her, my lips tracing the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her navel. 

I imagined her moans, soft and desperate, filling the silence between us.

My breath came in sharp gasps, my body tense and coiled like a spring. I could feel the pressure building, a tight knot in my gut that demanded release. 

I whispered her name, a plea and a promise, as my hand moved faster, my strokes more urgent. 

“Y/N…”

The sound of her name on my lips was like a catalyst, sending me over the edge. I came with a sharp cry, my body arching off the bed, my cock pulsing hot and hard in my hand. 

Her voice played on, a distant echo, as I rode out the waves of my orgasm, her name a song on my lips. “Y/N… Y/N…”

As the pleasure subsided, leaving me trembling and spent, I lay there, my heart pounding, my skin slick with sweat. The room felt heavier, the silence more oppressive, now that the storm had passed. L

After, I cleaned up, grabbed my phone, and laid flat on the mattress, heartbeat still wrecked.

I didn’t send her anything.

Didn’t need to.

Just hit play on her message one more time.

And drifted off to sleep with her voice in my ear.

═══════

We packed peanut butter sandwiches and juice boxes and headed to the park.

No disguises.

No hiding.

No second-guessing. 

It was the same place we’d been photographed.

The same bench I’d cried on.

The same sidewalk I used to speed-walk down with my head ducked and my heart in my throat.

But today?

I strolled.

Slow. Easy. Present.

Eun Ae skipped ahead, dragging her flamingo backpack like it was a cape and she was some tiny, chaotic superhero.

I sat down on the bench, pulled my sunglasses down, and just… existed.

There were other people here.

A couple walking a dog.

Two teens vaping near the fountain.

A dad pushing a stroller and humming off-key.

No one looked at me twice.

And if they did?

They kept walking.

No phones.

No whispers.

Just… life happening.

Beside me, Eun Ae plopped onto the grass, opened her sandwich, and said with a mouthful:

“This is the best day ever.”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Because I have peanut butter and you didn’t put celery in it this time.”

I rolled my eyes. “That was one time.”

“Unforgivable,” she said dramatically, then took another bite.

I leaned back against the bench.

Closed my eyes. Let the sun rest on my skin.

No thoughts about cameras.

No mental rehearsals for interviews.

No pretending I wasn’t lonely.

I was lonely.

But I wasn’t empty.

For the first time since that morning he left for tour…

I wasn’t waiting.

Not for his text.

Not for permission.

Not for the fear to come back and take everything.

I was just here.

In the grass.

In the sun.

In the soft sound of my daughter singing to a squirrel.

I whispered it quietly- just to myself:

“This isn’t waiting anymore.

This is life.”

And I let it be true.

═══════

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Posted: 08/11/2025

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