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tatumrileyslover · 3 days ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: vampire!AU, victorian!AU, strangers to lovers, slow burn, forbitten forbidden love, eventual light smut, angst, gothic,

Warnings: blood, death, smut, manipulation, possessive behavior, mild violence, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, gaslighting.

Word count: 30k

Summary: In a grand countryside estate, where roses bloom with unnatural darkness, a mysterious stranger appears seeking shelter. Park Jimin, with his otherworldly beauty and cultured charm, quickly becomes an intimate companion to the Baron's daughter. But as girls in the village begin falling mysteriously ill and strange dreams plague her nights, she discovers his dark nature - and must choose between the warmth of mortal days or an eternal night in his arms.

a/n: ok so this isn’t meant to be in two parts I just hit the tumblr limit so this is the first part. this was originally supposed to be out for Halloween but god did I get too into it and made it more than double the length I want it to be lol. anyway this is based of the gothic novel Carmilla.

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬

The house sat like a slumbering beast against the autumn sky, its grey stone walls rising from mist-shrouded gardens that had long since forgotten their original design. What was once carefully manicured grandeur had softened over decades into something wilder, though no less beautiful - roses climbed beyond their trellises to embrace weathered statues, and ancient trees stretched their branches toward leaded glass windows that caught the dying light like caught tears.

It was the last great house for fifty miles in any direction, a fact that both the local townspeople and its inhabitants were acutely aware of. While other noble families had slowly surrendered to changing fortunes, selling their lands and titles piece by piece, the family had endured it all. Their walls remained strong, their cellars remained stocked, and their daughter remained safely tucked away behind iron gates and stone walls.

(Y/n) stood at her bedroom window, watching the road that wound through the valley like a black ribbon. Soon it would bring Bertha, her dear friend from the finishing school in Graz. The thought brought a smile to her face as she pressed her fingertips to the cool glass. Three years had passed since they'd last seen each other, maintaining their friendship through letters that grew increasingly infrequent as distance and time worked their inevitable magic. But now, finally, Bertha would be here - bringing with her stories of balls and suitors and all the life that seemed to exist everywhere except within these walls.

A rap at the door drew her attention. "Come in, Papa."

Her father entered, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the candlelight. Though still handsome, years of solitude had etched themselves into the corners of his eyes and mouth. Since her mother's death twelve years ago, he had devoted himself to his studies and his daughter in equal measure, though the former often seemed to win out over the latter.

"Still watching the road, my dear? It will not make her arrive any faster."

"I know, Papa." (Y/n) turned from the window, her skirts rustling against the thick carpet. At nineteen, she possessed the kind of beauty that came from never knowing hardship - skin untouched by sun, hands that had never known labor, eyes that still held the bright curiosity of childhood. "But I cannot help it. The house feels different already, knowing she's coming. Less..."

"Less what, my dear?"

"Less like a cage," she said softly, then immediately regretted her words at the shadow that crossed her father's face. "Forgive me, Papa. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know everything you do is for my protection."

He crossed to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You are all I have left in this world, (Y/n). Your mother..." He paused, as he always did when speaking of her mother. "She made me promise to keep you safe. The world beyond these walls grows more dangerous with each passing year."

(Y/n) nodded dutifully, though her heart ached. She knew every inch of this house, from the wine cellars with their dusty bottles to the attic where her mother's belongings still sat in trunks, untouched since the day she died. She knew which floorboards creaked, which windows caught the morning light, which corners held shadows even at midday. The servants were kind but distant, treating her with the careful reverence one might show a precious object in a museum.

Her world was contained within these walls, and while she could not truly miss what she had never known, sometimes she felt like a character in one of her beloved novels - the imprisoned princess waiting for life to begin. Her only real glimpses of the outside world came from her books, filled with adventures and romance, and from her occasional trips into town with her father for Sunday services.

Even those brief excursions felt like stepping into another world. The townspeople would stare and whisper behind their hands - not unkindly, but with the sort of fascination reserved for rare creatures. The family's wealth and isolation had bred countless rumors over the years, though none came close to the simple truth: they were just lonely, the three of them. Father, daughter, and the great house that held them both.

From her bedroom window, (Y/n) watched the winding road that cut through the valley below their estate. Even at this early hour, she could make out the occasional carriage making its way through the autumn mist. Each distant movement caught her eye, her heart quickening before inevitably sinking as they passed the turn that would bring them up towards the Manor.

"Mademoiselle, you're fidgeting again," Madame Perrodon's gentle reproach came accompanied by a firmer stroke of the hairbrush. "How can I be expected to tame these waves if you cannot sit still?"

"I apologize, Madame." (Y/n) forced herself to be still, though her eyes remained fixed on the distant road. It had been three years since she'd last seen Bertha - three years of letters describing balls and suitors and a world so different from (Y/n)'s carefully contained existence. She could still remember their last afternoon together, huddled in this very window seat, Bertha's eyes bright with excitement about the finishing school that awaited her in Graz.

"Your mother's roses are particularly beautiful this autumn," Madame Perrodon commented, her fingers working deftly to pin (Y/n)'s soft hair into an acceptable style. "Though Marcel lets them grow wild as wolves these days."

The mention of her mother drew (Y/n)'s attention to the familiar portrait hanging opposite her dressing table. The smile seemed to hold secrets, her hands painted delicately among the same roses that now grew unchecked below. Sometimes, in certain lights, (Y/n) thought she could see herself in that smile, though her own felt considerably more practiced.

Through the open door came the excited whispers of maids passing in the hallway. "The kitchen's been baking since dawn..." "All the best linens..." "Miss Rheinfeldt's room is prepared..."

On any other Sunday, they would be preparing for their weekly journey into town for services. (Y/n) felt a twinge of disappointment - she would miss her brief exchanges with Catherine and Marie, the milliner's daughters. Their whispered conversations about books and fashion during the fellowship hour were one of her few connections to girls her own age, even if her father and Madame Perrodon watched these interactions with careful eyes.

"There," Madame declared, securing the final pin. "Now you look-"

But (Y/n) had already risen, drawn to her window by the sound of wheels on gravel. Below, she could see Marcel and Emma in the gardens, their heads turning toward the sound as well. How she envied their easy companionship, the way Emma could freely kneel in the dirt beside her grandfather, learning the secrets of the gardens that had once been her mother's pride. On warmer days, (Y/n) would often sit on the stone bench nearby, watching them work while pretending to read. Marcel would share stories of her mother's passion for the roses, how she would spend hours tending them herself despite her station.

The old house creaked and sighed its morning song around her, floorboards protesting beneath thick carpets as (Y/n) made her way down the grand staircase. Carved angels watched her descent from the bannister, their wooden faces worn smooth by generations of trailing hands. Her mother had once told her they were guardians, keeping watch over the family. Now their blank eyes seemed to follow her, as if they knew something she didn't.

The morning light filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. Preparations for Bertha's arrival had stirred up the house's usual stillness. Somewhere below, she could hear Mrs. Klaus, the housekeeper, directing maids about the proper arrangement of fresh flowers. The scent of baking bread and autumn spices wafted up from the kitchen - Bertha had always loved Cook's cinnamon cakes.

Memories of their last visit together surfaced as (Y/n) paused on the landing. They had been sixteen then, sharing secrets in the library's window seat while rain drummed against the glass. Bertha, already worldlier despite their same age, had whispered about a young man she'd danced with at her cousin's wedding. (Y/n) had listened, enraptured, trying to imagine what it would feel like to waltz in someone's arms.

The great hall below bustled with unusual activity. Curtains had been drawn back fully, allowing autumn light to illuminate the family portraits that lined the walls. Generations of ancestors stared down at her, their painted eyes holding the same careful reserve she saw in her father's. Her mother's portrait was different though - hung separately near the library doors, captured in the garden she'd loved so dearly. Sometimes (Y/n) would catch her father standing before it, lost in thoughts he never shared.

The morning air had turned peculiar as (Y/n) stepped out onto the terrace. What had started as a bright autumn day now held an odd heaviness, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. The roses swayed in a wind that carried the first real bite of winter, their late blooms scattering crimson petals across the gravel paths.

Marcel and Emma were working near her mother's favorite fountain, their quiet conversation carrying across the garden. The old gardener looked up as she passed, touching his cap with soil-stained fingers.

"The weather's turning, Miss," he called, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Best not stay out too long."

But (Y/n) was already moving toward her favorite spot - the ancient oak that stood sentinel by the pond. Its branches spread like protective arms above the water, creating a private world beneath its canopy. Here, she had spent countless hours reading, dreaming, watching the play of light on water. Here, she and Bertha had shared their last goodbye, promising to write every week.

The oak's massive roots created a natural seat, worn smooth by years of use. Settling herself against the trunk, (Y/n) opened her book but found herself watching the drive instead. The mist had thickened rather than burning off, unusual for this time of day. It crept up from the valley like something alive, wreathing the gardens in white tendrils that seemed to reach for her with ghostly fingers.

The mist continued to thicken, unusual for this time of day, creeping up from the valley like something alive. A chill wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"Please hurry, Bertha," she whispered, pulling her shawl tighter. The weather seemed determined to spoil their reunion. Already the bright autumn morning had given way to something more ominous - clouds gathering above the estate like mourners, the air heavy with unshed rain. If the Rheinfeldts didn't arrive soon, they risked traveling these winding roads in a storm.

The sound of approaching hooves cut through her thoughts. (Y/n) straightened, heart leaping - but no, this was a single rider, not the Rheinfeldts' carriage. Through gaps in the mist, she could make out a figure in a dark coat, riding with the urgent purpose of a messenger rather than a social caller.

From their position near the roses, Marcel and Emma paused in their work to watch the rider's approach. A servant hurried out to meet him, and even at this distance, something in their exchange made (Y/n)'s stomach tighten. The messenger's stance, the careful way the servant accepted what appeared to be a letter...

"That doesn't bode well, does it?" Emma's voice carried softly across the garden.

"Hush, girl," Marcel replied, but his tone held worry rather than rebuke.

(Y/n) turned back to the pond, forcing herself to dismiss their concerns. Perhaps it was simply business for her father - he often received correspondence from his associates in Vienna. The water's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting the gathering clouds. A few fat drops of rain began to fall, creating perfect circles that spread and disappeared.

Footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. Her father approached slowly, his usual brisk stride replaced by something heavier, more measured. Without speaking, he lowered himself to sit beside her on the oak's roots - an intimacy so unusual that (Y/n) felt her breath catch.

"Papa?" Her voice sounded very young suddenly, even to her own ears.

He didn't speak immediately, his hands working at something in his lap. When he finally turned to her, she saw he held a letter. The broken seal bore the Rheinfeldt family crest.

"My dearest," he began, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to cover her ears. "I have news about Bertha."

With trembling fingers, (Y/n) accepted the letter. The paper was fine, expensive - the kind Bertha's father always used for his correspondence. But as she unfolded it, the familiar letterhead seemed somehow more formal, more foreboding:

From Baron Rheinfeldt

Castle Rheinfeldt

October 15th, 1872

My Dear Friend,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must write to you, bearing news that has shattered our household and will, I fear, bring great sorrow to your own - particularly to your dear (Y/n), whose friendship meant so much to my beloved Bertha.

I know you were expecting us within the week, and I cannot express the pain it causes me to instead send this letter. My darling daughter, my only child, has been taken from us in circumstances so peculiar and distressing that I can scarcely put them to paper. Yet you must know, if only to spare your household the anxiety of waiting for an arrival that can never come.

Three weeks ago, Bertha began to speak of strange dreams. She would wake in the night, claiming visitations from a dark figure that left her weak and frightened. We dismissed these as mere fancies at first - you know how imaginative she could be. But soon she grew pale and listless, her strength declining day by day. The local physician could find no cause for her malady, though she complained of a sharp pain in her breast and a gradual suffocation that seemed to worsen as each night fell.

Two nights ago, she woke screaming that the figure was in her room, but when we rushed to her aid, nothing was amiss. By morning, she could barely speak, her pulse so faint as to be almost imperceptible. Before the sun set that day, my beautiful child, my darling Bertha, had left this world.

The doctors speak of a mysterious illness, but can offer no true explanation for how a young woman in the bloom of health could decline so rapidly. I write this not only to explain our absence but to warn you - there have been other cases in our region of young women suffering similar fates. Perhaps it is some fever that has yet to be understood by medical science.

Please convey my deepest apologies to (Y/n). I know she and Bertha had been planning this reunion with great excitement. The thought of their joy makes this tragedy all the more bitter to bear.

Your friend in profound grief,

Baron Frederick Rheinfeldt

The letter trembled in (Y/n)'s hands, its meaning somehow both clear and incomprehensible. She read it again, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less final.

"But," she said finally, her voice small, "we've prepared her room. Cook made cinnamon cakes."

Her father's hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture only made everything feel more wrong.

"The roses," she continued, the words spilling out like water. "They're beautiful right now - Bertha always loved them in autumn. She said they looked like sunset caught in flowers. We were going to press them in books, like we used to. I saved that collection of poetry she wrote about in her last letter - the one with the blue binding she described. It's on her bedside table, waiting..."

Tears came then, not in great heaving sobs, but in silent streams that seemed to surprise her. She touched her cheek, looking at the moisture on her fingers as if she couldn't quite understand where it had come from.

"She can't be..." (Y/n) smoothed the letter in her lap, focusing on removing every crease. "We were going to show her the new kittens in the stable. She doesn't even know about them yet. And her room - we put fresh lavender in all the drawers, just as she likes. The blue guest room, Papa. Her favorite. Madame Perrodon helped me arrange dried flowers just as she described seeing at that ball in Vienna..."

The afternoon light had begun to fade, the mist curling thicker around the garden's edges. Her father shifted uncomfortably on the oak's roots beside her.

"My dear, perhaps we should-"

"And the piano," (Y/n) interrupted, her voice taking on a peculiar, singsong quality. "We've had it tuned specially. That new piece she mentioned - the Mozart sonata. I've been practicing it for weeks so we could play it together. She was so excited about showing me how her technique has improved since finishing school. She said..." Her voice cracked. "She said we would play it for you, after dinner on her first night here."

A cool wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending dead leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"(Y/n)." Her father's voice was gentle but insistent. "The weather is turning. We should return to the house."

But she shook her head, clutching the letter tighter. "Just a little longer. She might still... There could be a mistake. Baron Rheinfeldt is older now, he could have become confused. If we just wait..."

The hours crept by, marked only by the gradual darkening of the sky and the periodic attempts of servants to coax them inside. First Marcel, pausing in his work to suggest rain was coming. Then Emma, sent by Cook with a tray of tea that grew cold, untouched. Finally Madame Perrodon herself, wringing her hands in distress at the sight of her charge sitting so still in the growing dark.

"Mademoiselle, please. You'll catch your death."

"You see?" (Y/n) seized on the common phrase with desperate hope. "People say that - 'catch your death.' But they don't really die. It's just something people say."

The sun had long since disappeared behind heavy clouds, the mist thickening into true darkness. One by one, lights began to appear in the house windows, warm squares of yellow that seemed to emphasize the gathering gloom in the garden. The pond's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting nothing now but the occasional ripple of rain drops.

Her father had remained beside her throughout, his silence both a comfort and a terrible confirmation. Now he stirred again, his joints surely aching from sitting so long on the hard roots.

"My dearest," he began, but stopped at the sound of distant carriage wheels on the road below.

(Y/n)'s head snapped up, hope flaring painfully in her chest. Through the mist, she could make out the bobbing lights of carriage lanterns, weaving their way up the treacherous road that led to their estate.

"You see?" she whispered. "You see? I knew if we just waited-"

The crash, when it came, was distant but unmistakable - the splintering of wood and the high, terrible scream of frightened horses cutting through the night air. The lantern lights jerked violently, then disappeared altogether.

Father and daughter sat frozen, straining to hear through the darkness. The silence that followed seemed to stretch eternally, broken only by the soft patter of rain on leaves.

"Papa?" (Y/n)'s voice had lost its childish insistence, fear creeping in at last.

(Y/n) was moving before her mind could catch up with her legs, her skirts gathered in trembling hands as she rushed toward the road. Behind her, she could hear her father's voice calling out, "(Y/n)! Wait!" but the sound seemed distant, unimportant.

The path down to the road was treacherous in daylight; in the gathering dark it was nearly impossible. Her boots slipped on wet leaves, branches caught at her hair and dress like grasping fingers. The mist had settled thick between the ancient trees, turning familiar paths into something alien and forbidding. Behind her, she could hear the gathering sounds of pursuit - servants calling out, the bounce of lantern light, her father's increasingly urgent voice.

It wasn't until she reached the road itself that doubt began to creep in. The fog here was even thicker, seeming to swallow the weak moonlight whole. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches forming a dark canopy overhead that blocked what little light remained. Every sound seemed muffled, wrong - as if the fog itself was drinking them in.

"Miss (Y/n)!" Marcel's voice, accompanied by approaching lantern light. "Please wait for us!"

She paused then, her heart pounding, suddenly aware of how far she'd run and how dark it had grown. The crash had sounded closer. Or had her fear made her imagine that?

Her father caught up to her first, slightly out of breath. "Reckless girl," he muttered, but there was relief rather than anger in his voice. Behind him came Marcel and two other servants with lanterns, their light creating strange, shifting shadows among the trees.

A horse's frightened whinny cut through the fog, much closer now. (Y/n) moved forward more cautiously, her father's hand firm on her arm. The lantern light caught something metallic ahead - the gleam of an overturned carriage wheel, still spinning slowly.

As they drew closer, the scene emerged from the fog like a painting being unveiled. The carriage lay on its side, one wheel completely shattered. The horses, still partially harnessed, stamped and snorted nervously, their breath visible in the cold air. This was not the Rheinfeldts' familiar family carriage - this was something altogether grander and stranger, its black lacquered surface gleaming wet in the lantern light, its gilt trim suggesting foreign wealth.

"Hello?" her father called out. "Is anyone hurt?"

A movement near the carriage door drew their attention. A woman's voice, low and melodious, called back in accented French. "Ah, thank heaven. We've had quite the accident, as you can see."

The door, now facing skyward, opened with some effort. A figure emerged - a woman, elegant even in disarray, her dark traveling clothes of the finest quality. There was something striking about her face, though (Y/n) found she couldn't quite focus on its details in the shifting light.

"Allow me to assist you, Madame," her father stepped forward, helping the woman climb down from the tilted carriage. Marcel and the other servants moved to steady her descent.

"You are most kind," the woman said, switching to perfect if accented English. "We were on our way to visit friends in the next county when our driver took ill suddenly. The fog..." she gestured eloquently at their surroundings. "The road proved more treacherous than expected."

"Your driver - is he-?" her father began.

"Gone, I'm afraid. Fled into the woods in some sort of fit. But my greater concern is my son." Here she turned back to the carriage, genuine distress entering her voice. "He was thrown rather badly when we overturned. I haven't been able to wake him."

"Several of my men might assist in extracting him, Madame," her father offered, already gesturing to the servants.

The elegant woman nodded, stepping aside with a grace that seemed out of place in their dire circumstances. The lantern light caught her features strangely - one moment sharp as cut glass, the next oddly indistinct, like a painting seen through water.

Marcel and Thomas, one of the stronger footmen, approached the carriage carefully. The fog seemed to curl around their feet as they worked, making their movements appear dreamlike and sluggish. From within the dark interior came the sound of shifting fabric, a soft groan.

"Gentle, if you please," the woman called out, though her tone held more courtesy than real concern. "He is all I have in this world."

The words were right, (Y/n) thought, but something in their delivery rang false, like an actress reciting well-rehearsed lines. She found herself watching the woman's face, trying to fix its details in her mind, but each time she looked away, the memory of those features seemed to slip like water through her fingers.

"Carefully now," her father directed as the servants began to lift their unconscious charge. The lantern light swept across the scene, and (Y/n) felt her breath catch in her throat.

The young man they carried was beauty made flesh - there was no other way to describe him. His face, unconscious and unguarded, held a quality that seemed to transcend mere human comeliness. Dark hair fell across his forehead in elegant disarray, and even in the poor light, his skin held a luminous quality, like moonlight on fresh snow. His clothes, though disarranged by the accident, were clearly of the finest quality - black velvet and silk that seemed to drink in the lantern light.

There was something about his face that tugged at (Y/n)'s memory, something tantalizingly familiar that danced just beyond her grasp. She found herself moving forward without conscious thought, drawn by an impulse she couldn't name.

"(Y/n)," her father's warning tone brought her up short. She realized she'd nearly reached out to touch the unconscious stranger's hand.

"He will be well, I think," the woman said, watching (Y/n) with an expression that might have been amusement. "Just stunned by the fall. What fortune that we should crash so near to such a grand house." Her gesture encompassed the manor, barely visible through the fog above them. "I don't suppose..."

"Of course," her father said immediately, nobility's obligations winning out over any hesitation. "We can offer shelter while arrangements are made for your onward journey."

"You are too kind." Again, that perfect courtesy that somehow felt hollow. "I hate to impose further, but I find myself in something of a predicament. I have urgent business that cannot wait - a matter of inheritance that requires my immediate presence. My son, however, is in no condition to travel."

(Y/n) watched in growing amazement as the woman outlined her request with elegant precision. Might her son remain here, under their care, while she attended to these pressing matters? She would, of course, send word within a day or two of her return date. She had friends in the region she'd been traveling to visit - though oddly, she didn't name them - who would vouch for their character.

"I cannot ask you to take on such a responsibility," she said, in a tone that suggested she expected exactly that.

"Nonsense," her father replied, though (Y/n) detected a slight unease in his voice. "We can hardly turn away those in need, especially of our own class. Your son will be well cared for until your return."

"You ease my heart," the woman said, though (Y/n) noticed she hadn't once looked back at her unconscious son since the servants had lifted him. "I can arrange alternate transport from the next town, if one of your men might assist me that far?"

It was all happening so quickly. Even as her father gave instructions for a groom to accompany the mysterious woman, even as Marcel and Thomas began their careful ascent toward the house with their unconscious burden, (Y/n) found herself struggling to understand how smoothly it had all been arranged. It was only when the woman stepped close to bid her farewell that a chill ran down her spine.

"Watch over him for me, dear one," the woman said softly, her fingers brushing (Y/n)’s cheek in a gesture that felt both intimate and alien. This close, her eyes seemed to hold a peculiar depth, like wells that went down forever. "He can be... difficult when he wakes. But I'm sure you'll manage him beautifully."

Then she was gone, disappearing into the fog with their groom, leaving behind only the overturned carriage and her unconscious son - and a lingering sense that something momentous and terrible had just been set in motion.

The house seemed to stir with nervous energy as they made their way back up the path, lanterns bobbing like will-o'-wisps through the fog. Marcel and Thomas carried their unconscious guest with careful precision, while Madame Perrodon hurried ahead to prepare the blue guest room - Bertha's room, (Y/n) thought with a sudden pang that felt almost like betrayal.

The entrance hall's warmth was a shock after the chill fog, the familiar space somehow changed by the evening's events. Servants whispered in corners, stealing glances at the beautiful stranger being carried up the grand staircase. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, ancient wood creaking under strange footsteps.

"The blue room, sir?" Madame Perrodon called down from the landing, her face pinched with concern.

(Y/n) felt her throat tighten. "Papa, not-"

"It is the most suitable guest room," her father said quietly. His hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. "And it is... available."

The blue room had always been the grandest of their guest chambers. Its walls were painted a soft cornflower blue that caught the morning light beautifully, making the gilt-framed mirrors dance with reflected sunshine. Now, in the flickering candlelight, those same walls seemed almost grey, the mirrors reflecting only shadows as they carried his limp form through the doorway.

The bed was already turned down - prepared that morning for Bertha, (Y/n) remembered with another stab of grief. The very sheets that had been aired with lavender for her friend would now cradle this strange young man. She watched as they laid him carefully on the blue silk counterpane, his dark hair stark against the pale pillows, his face ethereally beautiful in the candlelight.

"Mademoiselle," Madame Perrodon touched her arm. "Perhaps you should retire. It's been a trying day."

But (Y/n) couldn't move, transfixed by the scene before her. Mrs. Klaus had appeared with hot water and cloths, presumably to tend to any injuries. The housekeeper's usually efficient movements seemed hesitant as she approached the bed, as if she too sensed something not quite natural about their mysterious guest.

"He appears unmarked," Mrs. Klaus said finally, her voice holding a note of surprise. "Not a scratch on him, despite the violence of the accident."

"Providence," her father murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

(Y/n) found her gaze drawn to his face again. In the better light, she could study his features properly - the elegant arch of his brows, the perfect curve of his mouth, the almost translucent quality of his skin. There was something about him that nagged at her memory, like a word trapped on the tip of her tongue.

"Look how peaceful he sleeps," she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "Like a painting."

"(Y/n)." Her father's tone was sharper now. "To your room. It's not proper for you to..."

He trailed off as the boy stirred slightly, his head turning on the pillow. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze, watching, but he didn't wake. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and again (Y/n) felt that maddening sense of familiarity.

"Come, mademoiselle." Madame Perrodon's grip on her arm was firmer now. "You've had a shock. First the news about poor Bertha, and now this excitement. You must rest."

The mention of Bertha's name seemed to break whatever spell had held (Y/n) in place. She allowed herself to be led from the room, though she couldn't help glancing back one last time. In the moment before the door closed, she could have sworn she saw his lips curve in the slightest smile.

Sleep proved impossible that night. (Y/n) lay in her bed, listening to the house settle around her with unfamiliar creaks and sighs. Even Madame Perrodon's usual soft breathing from the adjoining room provided little comfort. The events of the day swirled in her mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind - Bertha's letter, the crash, the strange elegant woman, and most persistently, the beautiful unconscious young man now sleeping in what should have been her friend's room.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, hauntingly perfect in the candlelight. That maddening sense of familiarity tugged at her thoughts, like a half-remembered dream. There was something about the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow...

A floorboard creaked in the hallway - probably just Mrs. Klaus making her nightly rounds, but (Y/n) found herself holding her breath, straining to hear. The blue room was just down the corridor. Was their mysterious guest still sleeping? The woman - his mother, though something about that relationship felt odd - had said he might be 'difficult' when he woke. What had she meant by that?

The wind picked up outside, branches scratching against her window like skeletal fingers. The sound reminded her of the carriage crash, of the fog-shrouded road. How strange that the woman had left so quickly, abandoning her supposedly beloved son to the care of strangers. And where had the driver gone? The more (Y/n) thought about it, the more questions arose.

She must have drifted off eventually, for she found herself in that strange space between sleeping and waking, where reality blurs at the edges. The moonlight through her window seemed to pool like silver water on the floor, and in its glow, she thought she saw a figure standing at the foot of her bed. A beautiful face looking down at her, familiar yet wrong somehow...

(Y/n) jerked awake, her heart pounding. The room was empty, the moonlight now nothing more than pale squares on the carpet. But the sense of a presence lingered, making her skin prickle with unnamed awareness.

"Madame?" she called softly, but only silence answered from the adjoining room.

Sleep proved even more elusive after that. She lay awake until the first grey light of dawn began to creep through her windows, bringing with it the usual morning sounds of the household stirring to life. She could hear servants moving below, their muffled voices carrying up through the floorboards. The smell of breakfast began to wind its way up the stairs - fresh bread and coffee, the normal rhythms of the house attempting to reassert themselves after the previous day's disruption.

A knock at her door made her start. "Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, come in."

The French woman entered, already dressed for the day, her face carrying an odd expression. "Your father requests your presence at breakfast. Our... guest still sleeps."

The morning light in the breakfast room seemed too harsh, too ordinary after the strangeness of the night. (Y/n) picked at her toast, aware of the unusual tension around the table. Her father sat at his customary place, the morning paper untouched beside his coffee cup. Even the servants seemed to move differently, their usual efficient routines interrupted by frequent glances toward the ceiling - toward the blue room above.

"Has anyone checked on him?" (Y/n) finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.

"Mrs. Klaus looked in at dawn," her father replied, frowning slightly. "Still sleeping, apparently. Quite deeply."

"It's nearly ten o'clock," Madame Perrodon observed, her usual calm manner betraying a hint of unease. "Should we perhaps summon Dr. Werner?"

"The mother said he would sleep unusually long," her father said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Something about a previous illness making him sensitive to travel."

"Did she?" (Y/n) asked, trying to recall the woman's exact words from the night before. But like so much about their mysterious visitor's mother, the details seemed to slip away when examined too closely.

The breakfast room fell silent again, broken only by the clink of silver against china and the tick of the great clock in the hall. Through the windows, (Y/n) could see Marcel in the gardens, seemingly intent on his work but positioned suspiciously close to the section beneath the blue room's windows.

Hours crept by with excruciating slowness. (Y/n) attempted to focus on her needlework, but found herself counting the chimes of the clock instead. Eleven. Twelve. One...

It was well past two in the afternoon when Mrs. Klaus appeared in the drawing room doorway, her usually unflappable demeanor slightly disturbed. "Sir," she addressed (Y/n)'s father, "The young gentleman is awake. He's asked to pay his respects to the household."

Something in the housekeeper's tone made (Y/n) look up sharply. Mrs. Klaus's face held an odd expression - not quite fear, but something adjacent to it.

"How does he seem?" her father asked, setting aside his book.

"Most..." Mrs. Klaus paused, seeming to search for the right word. "Most elegant, sir. Though perhaps still somewhat affected by his ordeal. He's asked to dress properly before receiving visitors."

"Of course," her father nodded. "We shall receive him here when he's ready."

The next half hour was torture. (Y/n) found herself smoothing her skirts repeatedly, hyper-aware of her reflection in the drawing room mirrors. That nagging sense of familiarity had returned, stronger now that their guest was awake.

When the drawing room door finally opened again, the late afternoon sun had begun to slant through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. In that golden light, their guest appeared like something from a painting - perfectly composed, unnaturally beautiful. His dark clothes were immaculate, showing no sign of the previous night's accident. His face...

(Y/n) felt her breath catch. In the daylight, that sense of recognition was almost overwhelming.

He moved into the room with impossible grace, every gesture deliberate yet fluid, like a dancer marking steps to unheard music. His dark eyes found (Y/n)'s immediately, and something passed between them - recognition, connection, a current of awareness that made her hands tremble in her lap.

"Sir," he addressed her father with a slight bow, his voice musical and deeply cultured. "I must express my profound gratitude for your hospitality. My name is..." Here he paused, almost imperceptibly, "Park. I find myself indebted to your kindness."

"Not at all," her father replied, though (Y/n) noticed he seemed slightly dazzled by their guest's presence. "We could hardly leave you in such circumstances. I am the Baron, and this is my daughter, (Y/n)."

Those dark eyes returned to her face. "Mademoiselle." He took her offered hand, his fingers cool against her skin. "Your beauty rivals the stars in their midnight dance"

(Y/n) felt herself flush, acutely aware of how forward such a comment was - and how, strangely, no one seemed to mind. Even Madame Perrodon, usually so quick to enforce propriety, appeared captivated.

"You must still be recovering from your ordeal," (Y/n) found herself saying. "Please, sit." She gestured to the chair nearest hers, then wondered at her own boldness.

He smiled - a subtle thing that seemed to transform his entire face - and accepted the seat. "You are too kind. Though I confess, the accident itself is somewhat... hazy in my memory."

"Not unusual, given the circumstances," her father said. "Your mother mentioned you'd been unwell recently?"

Again that barely perceptible pause. "Yes, a recurring condition that makes travel... challenging. Which makes your generous offer of shelter all the more appreciated."

"How fortunate that you were so near when the accident occurred," (Y/n) said, then immediately worried it might sound accusatory.

But he only turned that devastating smile on her again. "Fortune indeed. Though I believe some meetings are destined, don't you? Written in the stars, as poets would say."

The way he looked at her as he said it - as if they were sharing a private joke, as if they'd known each other forever - made her heart flutter strangely. That nagging sense of familiarity grew stronger.

"Do you read poetry, Mademoiselle?"

"(Y/n)," she corrected without thinking, then blushed again. "And yes, I'm particularly fond of the Romantics."

"Ah!" His entire face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Then we must discuss Byron. 'The Dream' has been much in my thoughts lately." He began to recite softly:

"'Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world...'"

His voice seemed to caress each word, giving them new meaning. (Y/n) found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by his presence, his passion for the poetry she loved.

Her father cleared his throat, but she noticed his expression had softened. It had been weeks since he'd seen her truly engaged with anyone, she realized. Not since the excitement of planning Bertha's visit...

The thought of Bertha should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant compared to the magnetic presence of their guest.

"Perhaps," her father said carefully, "you might show our guest the library after tea? I understand you share a love of literature."

Tea had been a strangely intimate affair, their guest, displaying impeccable manners while barely touching his cup. Now, as (Y/n) led him through the manor's winding corridors toward the library, she found herself acutely aware of his presence behind her, the way the air seemed to change when he moved.

The library had always been her sanctuary, its floor-to-ceiling shelves creating the impression of a forest made of books. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden snow in the air. She turned to gauge his reaction and found him already watching her, that same knowing smile playing at his lips.

"Your home is remarkable," he said, moving past her to trail his fingers along the spines of nearby books. "These volumes... quite a collection. Your father's?"

"Many were my mother's," (Y/n) replied, watching as he pulled out a volume of Byron. "She had quite passionate opinions about literature."

"Had?" He glanced up, those dark eyes suddenly intent.

"She passed when I was seven."

"Ah." Something flickered across his face - understanding? Recognition? "My condolences. Though I suspect she left you her love of poetry?"

(Y/n) moved closer, drawn by the way his fingers caressed the book's leather binding. "You quoted Byron earlier - 'The Dream.'"

"Yes." He turned toward her fully then, and she realized how close they'd gotten. His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You must call me Jimin. Somehow 'Park' feels... inadequate. Too formal for what I sense between us."

The way he said it - as if they shared some profound secret - made her breath catch. That nagging familiarity surged again, stronger than ever.

"Have we..." she started, then hesitated. "This may sound strange, but I feel as though..."

"As though we've met before?" His smile held something dangerous now, thrilling. "Perhaps in dreams?"

The word triggered something - a memory trying to surface - but before she could grasp it, he was moving again, graceful as a cat, pulling another book from the shelves.

"Ah, Coleridge. Another poet fascinated by dreams and the boundaries between worlds." He began to read, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality.

The library had grown darker around them, the sunset painting the sky beyond the windows in shades of blood and gold. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken things. His closeness should have made her uncomfortable, yet somehow it felt... inevitable.

"I hardly slept last night," (Y/n) found herself confessing, her voice barely above a whisper. "There was something... strange."

Jimin's expression shifted subtly, a flash of intense interest quickly masked. "Strange how?"

"I thought..." she hesitated, aware of how foolish it might sound. "I woke in the night - or perhaps I was still dreaming - and there was a figure, standing at the foot of my bed. Just... watching me."

His fingers, still lingering near her face, stilled completely. "And this frightened you?"

"No," she realized, surprised by her own answer. "It should have, shouldn't it? A stranger in my room. But it felt... familiar somehow. Like a half-remembered lullaby."

The last rays of sunlight caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "Dreams have their own truth," he said softly. "Sometimes truer than what we think we know when awake."

Something in his tone made her shiver, though not unpleasantly. She found herself studying his face in the fading light, trying to catch that elusive sense of recognition that kept dancing just beyond her grasp. "Do you dream, Jimin?"

His smile held secrets. "Oh yes. Though sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between dreams and memories. Don't you find them remarkably similar? Both grow hazy around the edges, both feel real while we're in them..." He shifted slightly closer. "Both can haunt us long after we think we've forgotten them."

The library had grown so dark that his face was now mostly shadow, yet his eyes seemed to catch what little light remained. (Y/n) was acutely aware of how improper their situation had become - alone in the growing dark, sitting far too close. Yet she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"Tell me about your life here," he said suddenly, his voice gentle. "This beautiful cage of yours."

She started at his choice of words - so similar to her own thoughts. "How did you-?"

"I recognize the look," he interrupted softly. "The way you watch the road from your windows. The hunger in your eyes when you speak of your friend... Bertha, was it?"

The name should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant in the face of his overwhelming presence. "Yes, she was... she was to visit. Before..."

"Before fate intervened," he finished for her. "Perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps I was meant to find you instead."

The presumption of such a statement should have shocked her, yet she found herself nodding. "I've never been able to talk to anyone like this," she admitted. "Even Bertha... there were always proper things to say, proper ways to be. This feels..."

"Different," he supplied. "Real. As if we've known each other forever." His cool fingers found hers in the darkness. "As if we've met before."

That nagging sense of familiarity surged again, stronger than ever. There was something about his face in the shadows, something about the way he looked at her...

The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the spell. They moved apart just as Madame Perrodon appeared in the doorway, carrying a lamp that made them both blink at its sudden brightness.

"Mademoiselle, it's nearly time to dress for dinner." Her tone held a gentle reproof. "And the lamps should have been lit an hour ago. It's not good for your eyes, reading in such dim light."

(Y/n) stood, suddenly aware of how long they'd been secluded together, how improper it must seem. But when she glanced at Jimin, he appeared perfectly composed, as if they'd been discussing nothing more intimate than the weather.

"My fault entirely, Madame," he said, rising with fluid grace. "I'm afraid I quite lost track of time, enchanted by your charge's conversation."

Something in the way he said it - so perfectly proper yet somehow suggesting deeper meanings - made (Y/n)'s cheeks flush. Madame Perrodon's expression suggested she caught the undertone as well, though she said nothing.

"Will you join us for dinner?" (Y/n) asked, not ready for their conversation to end.

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "I fear I'm still somewhat fatigued from yesterday's... excitement. Perhaps tomorrow? The daylight hours particularly tax my strength."

"Of course," she said quickly, concerned. "You must rest."

He caught her hand as she passed, his touch cool and electric. "Dream of me," he whispered, too soft for Madame Perrodon to hear.

Something about the way he said it - half playful, half command - sent another shiver down her spine. As if she could dream of anything else.

Dinner that evening felt like a strange performance where (Y/n) couldn't quite remember her lines. The familiar rhythms of the household - the clink of silver against fine china, the measured steps of servants, her father's occasional comments about estate matters - seemed to come from very far away. Her thoughts kept drifting upstairs, to the blue room where Jimin now rested.

"(Y/n)?" Her father's voice broke through her reverie. "You've been pushing the same pea around your plate for ten minutes."

"I'm sorry, Papa." She forced herself to take a bite, though the food held little interest. "I suppose I'm a bit tired."

Her father studied her over his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. "Our guest seems... interesting. You spent quite some time in the library today."

Something in his tone made her glance up sharply, but his face held only mild curiosity. If anything, he looked pleased - the first time she'd seen such an expression since Bertha's letter arrived.

"He's very well-read," she offered carefully. "We discussed poetry, and..."

"And?" her father prompted when she trailed off, remembering the intensity of Jimin's gaze in the falling darkness.

"He understands things," she found herself saying. "About feeling... isolated. Different." The words came out before she could stop them, more honest than she'd meant to be.

Her father's face softened. "I know these past years have been lonely for you, my dear. Perhaps it's providence that brought him to us, especially after..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Bertha's death hung between them, an invisible weight.

"Yes," (Y/n) whispered, though something about suggesting providence in connection with Jimin felt strange, almost blasphemous.

"Still," Madame Perrodon interjected from her place at the table, "proper chaperoning must be maintained. A young man, however well-bred..."

"Of course, of course," her father waved off the concern. "But surely some companionship would do (Y/n) good. And he seems a perfect gentleman."

Perfect. The word echoed in (Y/n)'s mind. He was perfect - too perfect, perhaps. Like a painting of a person rather than a person themselves. Even now, she found she couldn't quite recall the exact details of his face, though she'd spent hours studying it. It was as if his features shifted slightly in her memory, like reflections in moving water.

"Mademoiselle?" One of the maids - Anne - was at her elbow. "You've gone quite pale. Are you unwell?"

"Just tired," (Y/n) repeated, though tired wasn't quite the right word. She felt... anticipated, as if she were waiting for something to begin. "Perhaps I should retire early."

"A wise choice," Madame Perrodon said, rising to accompany her.

As they climbed the grand staircase, (Y/n) found her eyes drawn to the blue room's door. No light showed beneath it, but she had the strangest feeling that behind that heavy oak panel, in the darkness, Jimin was awake. Waiting. Thinking of her as she thought of him.

"Sweet dreams, my dear," Madame Perrodon said as they reached (Y/n)'s room. Something in her tone suggested she'd noticed the lingering glance at the blue room's door.

Alone in her room, (Y/n) moved to her window. The night was clear, stars scattered across the sky like diamond dust. Somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale began to sing. The sound made her think of Jimin's voice, the hypnotic way he'd spoken of dreams and memories.

Her reflection in the window glass looked strange to her - pale, eyes too bright, as if she were already half in a dream. Behind her, shadows gathered in the corners of her room, and she could have sworn they moved like living things...

That night, sleep came to (Y/n) like a creeping tide. The moon hung full and low outside her window, casting strange shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, time began to slip and stretch like pulled taffy.

She first became aware of her paralysis when she tried to turn away from the moonlight. Her limbs felt leaden, refusing to obey even the simplest commands. The air in her room grew thick, heavy with an invisible presence that seemed to press down upon her chest.

Then came the smell - that peculiar sweetness she'd noticed about Jimin, like roses on the edge of decay mixed with something older, something that reminded her of ancient books and midnight gardens. Instead of frightening her, the scent brought an odd comfort, making her mind drift deeper into that strange half-conscious state.

The mattress dipped beside her, as if someone had sat down with infinite care. Cool fingers seemed to brush her cheek, trail down her neck with exquisite tenderness. She should have been terrified - would have been, in any other circumstance. But there was something achingly familiar about the touch, about the presence that filled her room like smoke.

A weight settled over her, not crushing but encompassing, as if she were being embraced by the night itself. That sweet, strange scent grew stronger, and with it came a sensation of being cherished, desired, consumed - all at once. The moonlight caught something moving above her - a face perhaps, beautiful and terrible in equal measure - but before she could focus on its features, consciousness began to slip away entirely.

The last thing she felt was a sharp, sweet pain just above her breast - two points of exquisite sensation that sent waves of pleasure-pain through her increasingly distant body. A voice might have whispered something, ancient words in a language she didn't know but somehow understood, but by then she was falling into deeper dreams...

Morning came with strange heaviness. (Y/n) woke feeling as though she'd been drugged, her limbs weighted with an unfamiliar lethargy. Sunlight streamed through her windows, yet she felt none of its warmth. There was a peculiar sensation in her breast - not quite pain, but a presence, as if someone had pressed their hand there and the pressure lingered, though nothing showed.

"Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you unwell? It's past nine..."

"Just tired," (Y/n) managed, though 'tired' wasn't the right word. She felt simultaneously drained and oddly euphoric, as if she were floating just slightly above herself.

The morning passed in a dream-like haze. She found herself drifting off during breakfast, her father's voice fading in and out like a poorly tuned piano. The tea tasted strange in her mouth, the toast turning to ash on her tongue.

"Perhaps you should rest today," her father suggested, watching her with concern. "You're quite pale."

But the thought of returning to bed held no appeal. Instead, she found herself drawn to the upper corridor, to the blue room where their guest presumably still slept. The door, she noticed, was firmly locked - Mrs. Klaus's knocking going unanswered as she attempted to deliver tea.

It wasn't until late afternoon that Jimin finally emerged. (Y/n) had taken refuge in the library, attempting to read but finding the words swimming before her eyes. His entrance was silent - she looked up to find him simply there, watching her with those dark, knowing eyes.

"You look tired," he said softly, settling into the chair opposite hers. In the fading daylight, his own face held a similar languor, as if he too were recovering from some midnight exertion.

"Strange dreams," she found herself saying, though she couldn't quite remember them. Just impressions remained - a weight on her chest, cool fingers against her skin, a presence both terrifying and beloved.

Something flickered in his eyes - interest? Recognition? But he only smiled that secretive smile and began speaking of other things. As darkness fell, his lethargy seemed to lift. By evening, he was almost vibrant, his movements acquiring that fluid grace she remembered from their first meeting.

That week settled into a strange pattern. Each morning, (Y/n) woke feeling increasingly drained, yet somehow lighter, as if she were slowly becoming less substantial. Jimin's door remained locked until late afternoon, no amount of knocking drawing response. Their conversations, when he finally appeared, grew more intimate, more intense.

"Tell me about your dreams," he would say, his voice holding that hypnotic quality that made her want to confess everything. But the dreams remained elusive - just fragments of sensation, of presence, of a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

News came, carried by Marcel who'd been to the village, that Catherine - the milliner's daughter - had taken ill with some mysterious malady. "Weak as a kitten," the gardener reported, "and her sister Marie looking hardly better."

The information stirred something in (Y/n)'s mind - a half-formed connection she couldn't quite grasp. But then Jimin would appear, beautiful in the gathering darkness, and all other thoughts would fade away.

Their early days together fell into a strange rhythm. Though Jimin never appeared before late afternoon, the house seemed to hold its breath waiting for him. (Y/n) found herself drawn to the library as the sun began its westward descent, knowing he would eventually materialize in the doorway like a figure stepping out of a dream.

On this particular afternoon, autumn rain drummed against the windows, creating a cocoon of grey light and shadow. (Y/n) sat in her usual window seat, a book open but unread in her lap, when she felt rather than heard his approach.

"You're watching for me now," he observed, his voice holding that mixture of amusement and satisfaction that made her cheeks warm. "Do I make such entertaining company?"

"You make interesting company," she corrected, marking how the rain-light seemed to make his skin almost luminous. "Though you never speak of yourself."

He settled beside her with that fluid grace she'd come to expect. "What would you know? My histories are long and dark - hardly suitable conversation for a young lady."

Before she could press further, voices in the entrance hall drew their attention. Through the library's open door came the sound of her father greeting someone - a man's voice, educated but unfamiliar, speaking with urgent authority.

"The deaths in the neighboring village..." the voice was saying. "Most concerning patterns... Similar to cases I've studied..."

(Y/n) felt Jimin tense beside her, though his face remained perfectly composed. Something shifted in the air between them, like the pressure change before a storm.

Their visitor proved to be Father Laurent, a scholar-priest from the nearby monastery. He carried himself with the confident air of a man used to being heard, his dark robes still beaded with rain. But it was the wooden box he carried that drew (Y/n)'s attention - ornately carved with symbols she didn't recognize.

"My dear," her father gestured her forward as she and Jimin entered the drawing room. "Father Laurent has brought something he thinks might interest you. Given your recent... fatigue."

The priest's eyes moved between her and Jimin, something knowing in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. "Yes, indeed. Though I see you have a guest...?"

"Park Jimin," her father supplied. "A temporary addition to our household after an accident on the road."

"Most fortunate," Father Laurent murmured, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. His attention returned to (Y/n). "My child, I've brought something that might help with your... affliction."

From the wooden box, he withdrew a necklace - a simple leather cord from which hung a small silver charm. The metal caught the grey light strangely, seeming to hold it rather than reflect it.

"An old blessing," the priest explained, moving to place it around her neck. "For protection against... night terrors."

(Y/n) was acutely aware of Jimin's presence behind her, the way the air seemed to crackle with some unnamed tension. As Father Laurent's fingers brushed her neck, securing the charm, she heard the softest intake of breath from Jimin - something between a hiss and a sigh.

"How kind," Jimin's voice was perfectly modulated, yet somehow held an edge she'd never heard before. "Though surely a young lady has no need for such... medieval trinkets?"

In the days following Father Laurent's visit, the charm around (Y/n)'s neck grew to feel like both comfort and burden. Though she often caught Jimin eyeing it with something like distaste, he never mentioned it directly. Instead, his attempts to occupy her attention seemed to grow more focused, more intense.

One particularly languid afternoon, she found herself drawn to the blue room. The door, usually so firmly locked, stood slightly ajar - an invitation she couldn't resist. Inside, Jimin lay across the bed fully dressed, one arm thrown elegantly across his eyes.

"I wondered when you'd come," he said without moving, as if he'd been waiting for her. "The sun is so harsh today. Draw the curtains?"

She did, watching how the heavy blue velvet transformed the room into a twilight world. When she turned back, he had shifted to make space beside him on the counterpane.

"Come," he said softly. "Lie beside me. Like we used to."

The words struck her oddly - they'd never done this before - but she found herself moving forward anyway. It wasn't proper, she knew, to be here without Madame Perrodon's supervision, but Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable.

"Why do you always lock your door?" she found herself asking as she carefully settled beside him, the question that had burned in her mind finally finding voice.

His smile widened slightly, though his arm remained over his eyes. "Do I? Perhaps I sleepwalk. Perhaps I have secrets I must keep." His free hand found hers, fingers intertwining with that unnatural coolness she'd grown used to. "Perhaps I'm afraid of what might come visiting in the night."

"You mock me," she said, though without heat.

"Never." He turned then, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. The dim light caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "I would never mock your curiosity. It's one of the things I find most..." he paused, seeming to taste the word before speaking it, "...delicious about you."

The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, though not entirely unpleasant ones. They lay in silence for a moment, his cool fingers tracing abstract patterns on her palm.

"Tell me a story," he said finally. "Something from your childhood. A memory you hold dear."

She thought for a moment, and then, "I had the strangest dream once, when I was very young - perhaps six or seven. Though sometimes I wonder if it was a dream at all..."

His hand stilled in hers. "Tell me."

"I woke in the night - or thought I did. There was a figure standing by my bed, the most beautiful being I'd ever seen." As she spoke, the memory became clearer, details she'd forgotten surfacing like bodies in dark water. "They knelt beside me, stroked my hair. I felt... loved. Cherished. But also..."

"Also?" His voice had taken on an odd quality, intense yet somehow distant.

"Afraid. Not of them, exactly, but of how much I wanted them to stay. They spoke to me, though I couldn't understand the words. And then..." She touched her breast unconsciously, just below where the charm now lay. "There was a sensation, like being pierced by ice and fire at once. I screamed..."

"And the servants came running," Jimin said softly. "With candles and concerns. But found nothing amiss, save a very frightened little girl."

(Y/n) sat up slightly, looking at him with surprise. "How did you know?"

His smile was dreamy, distant. "Because I had the same dream at that age, watching over you, caressing you. Strange, isn't it? How some souls are destined to meet, how some moments echo across time until they find their mirror?" His cool fingers brushed her cheek. "Perhaps that's why I feel as though I've known you forever."

The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with sudden warmth, but she found herself leaning into his touch despite it. Something about his words rang both true and false, like a bell with a hidden crack.

"How strange," she murmured, settling back against the pillows. "That we should share such a similar dream."

"Perhaps not strange at all," Jimin replied softly. His fingers had moved to trace the line of her jaw, touch whisper-light but somehow burning cold. "Some meetings are written in the stars, dear one. Some souls call to each other across time itself."

The room had grown darker, though she couldn't remember the sun setting. In this half-light, Jimin's beauty took on an almost painful quality - too perfect to be quite real, like a painting that moved and breathed. His dark eyes seemed to drink in her face with an intensity that should have frightened her.

"You're trembling," he observed, his cool hand sliding down to rest over her heart. "Are you afraid?"

"No," she whispered, though her pulse raced beneath his palm. "I should be, shouldn't I? Everything about this is..." She gestured vaguely at their position, at the impropriety of lying together in the growing dark.

"Everything about this is exactly as it should be." His face was very close now, his sweet, strange scent making her head spin. "You're mine, (Y/n). You've always been mine, since that dream, since before that dream. Can't you feel it?"

The charm at her throat seemed to burn, but she couldn't focus on its warning. Not with Jimin's cool fingers trailing down her neck, not with the weight of his gaze holding her like a butterfly pinned to velvet.

"Mine," he murmured again, the word carrying a weight that made her shiver. His fingers traced patterns on her skin that felt like ancient writing, like secrets too old for human understanding. "My sweet, innocent girl."

The endearment should have felt patronizing, but instead it made her feel precious, cherished. His touch remained gentle, yet there was something possessive in it that stirred feelings she had no names for. The charm at her throat felt like it was burning now, but she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is this? What are we to each other?"

His smile in the darkness was beautiful and terrible. "Everything," he breathed, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed her ear. "We are everything to each other. Past, present, future - all flowing together like rivers to the sea."

The poetic words made her head spin, or perhaps it was his proximity, the sweet-strange scent of him overwhelming her senses. His cool fingers had found their way into her hair, loosening pins until soft strands fell around her shoulders.

"Beautiful," he murmured, watching the way her hair spilled across the blue silk of the counterpane. "Like night itself made tangible." His thumb brushed her bottom lip, the touch so intimate it made her gasp. "So innocent, so pure. Do you know what you do to me, dear?"

She shook her head, unable to form words. Her whole world had narrowed to his touch, his voice, the way his dark eyes seemed to glow in the gathering shadows. This was improper - beyond improper - but propriety seemed a distant concern, as unreal as the world beyond this room.

"Everything about you calls to me," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality that made her feel as though she were drowning in honey. "Your innocence, your trust, your..." he pressed his hand against her rapidly beating heart, "...life.

The room had grown darker as they lay together, the heavy blue curtains transforming late afternoon into premature dusk. (Y/n) knew she should leave - everything about this situation defied propriety - yet she found herself sinking deeper into the feather mattress, hyperaware of Jimin's cool presence beside her.

His fingers continued their delicate exploration of her palm, each touch sending little shivers up her arm. The simple contact shouldn't have felt so intimate, yet something about the deliberate way he traced each line made her breath catch.

"Your hands are always so cold," she murmured, watching his pale fingers contrast against her skin.

"And yours so warm," he responded, bringing her wrist to his lips in a gesture that walked the line between courtly and something else entirely. His breath ghosted across her pulse point, making her shiver. "Like you've captured sunlight beneath your skin."

She should pull away. A proper young lady would never allow such liberties. But Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable. When he tugged her closer, she found herself yielding, turning to face him on the blue silk counterpane.

"Sometimes," he said softly, his free hand moving to brush a strand of hair from her face, "I wonder if you know how extraordinary you are." His touch lingered at her temple, traced the curve of her cheek with exquisite slowness. "How rare it is to find someone who sees the world as you do, who understands..."

"Understands what?" she whispered, lost in the darkness of his eyes. The room seemed to be growing dimmer still, shadows gathering in the corners like conspirators.

Instead of answering, he let his fingers trail down her neck, each touch precise and deliberate. The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with warning heat, but she could focus only on the delicious contrast of his cool skin against her flushed warmth.

"Your heart is racing," he observed, his hand settling over the rapid beat. "Are you frightened of me, dear?"

"No," she answered truthfully. She should be - everything about this situation should terrify her. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch like a flower seeking shade. "Though perhaps I should be."

His smile in the gathering dark was both beautiful and strange. "Wise girl." His fingers had found their way into her hair, carefully removing the last of the pins setting loose luscious waves that spilled across the pillows. "Though I prefer your trust to your wisdom."

The impropriety of her loosened hair struck her suddenly - this was something only a lady's maid or husband should see. Yet when Jimin's fingers carded through the strands, sending pleasant shivers down her spine, propriety seemed a distant concern.

"Like silk," he murmured, watching the way her hair caught what little light remained. His touch became more possessive, one hand tangling in the strands while the other traced patterns on her neck that felt like ancient writing. "Everything about you is so..."

He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he shifted closer, until she could feel the strange coolness that always emanated from him along her entire body. His face lowered to her neck, just beside the charm, and she felt rather than heard him inhale deeply.

"Jimin," she breathed, hardly recognizing her own voice. It came out halfway between protest and plea.

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his lips now brushing her throat with each word. "I love how my name sounds on your lips."

"Jimin," she whispered again, the name falling from her lips like a prayer. His mouth pressed against her pulse point in response, a kiss that felt more like worship.

The room spun slowly around them, or perhaps it was just her head spinning. Everything felt dreamlike - the deepening shadows, the cool press of his body against hers, the way his fingers traced arcane patterns down her arms. She was dimly aware that she should maintain some semblance of propriety, but propriety seemed to belong to another world entirely.

His hand at her waist pulled her closer still, grip possessive yet somehow reverent. "Do you know," he murmured against her skin, "how long I've waited for this? For you?"

The words made little sense, yet sent shivers down her spine nonetheless. His lips traveled up her neck with exquisite slowness, each kiss a point of delicious cold that made her gasp. When his teeth grazed her earlobe, she found herself clutching at his shoulders, unsure if she meant to push him away or draw him closer.

"My innocent girl," he breathed, his free hand now trailing down her side, following the curve of her waist. "So responsive to every touch." As if to demonstrate, his fingers splayed across her ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath her breast. Even through layers of clothing, the touch felt scandalously intimate.

She should stop this. Should remember her position, her reputation, all the careful lessons in propriety that Madame Perrodon had instilled. Instead, she found herself arching slightly into his touch, craving more of that wonderful chill.

"That's it," he encouraged softly, his nose trailing along her jaw. "Trust me. Let me..." His hand slipped higher, and she felt rather than heard his satisfaction when she gasped. "Perfect. You're perfect."

The charm at her throat burned in earnest now, but she barely noticed. Not when Jimin's mouth was leaving a trail of frost down her neck, not when his hands were teaching her body sensations she'd never imagined. Everything felt heightened, dreamlike - the silk beneath her, the weight of him beside her, the sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him now filling her lungs like incense.

His touches grew bolder, more demanding. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat while the other...

Footsteps in the corridor snapped through their private world like breaking glass. Voices approached - servants doing their evening rounds, discussing dinner preparations with comfortable familiarity.

Reality crashed back with stunning force. (Y/n) jerked away, suddenly aware of her state - hair loose and wild around her shoulders, dress rumpled, lips surely swollen from his attention. What had she been thinking? What had she allowed?

"I should..." she stumbled to her feet, face burning with shame and lingering desire. "I need to..."

"Go," Jimin said softly, still lounging on the bed with casual grace, as if nothing untoward had happened. But his eyes burned in the darkness, and his smile held something that made her shiver anew. "Dream of me."

She fled the room just as the servants' voices passed by, straightening her dress with trembling fingers. Behind her, she heard the distinctive click of his door locking once again.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔗𝔴𝔬

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scarluna · 8 hours ago

Text

Y/N, a gifted but self-conscious graphic designer, lands a job at Jeon Enterprises, a powerhouse ruled by the sharp and controlling Jeon Jungkook, whose ruthless perfectionism hides behind an enigmatic façade. Though admired and feared, Jungkook targets Y/N’s insecurities, using them as weapons against her.

Beside him stands his best friend, Min Yoongi, a sly and unpredictable force whose hot-and-cold behavior leaves Y/N questioning his motives.

Tangled in a web of cold authority, teasing games, and unspoken desire, Y/N must navigate a dangerous love triangle where ambition and emotion collide, threatening to unravel everything.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, enemies to lovers, ceo!jungkook, graphic designer!reader, mafia!yoongi

Link to the other chapters: ACT I / ACT II / ACT III / ACT IV / ACT V / ACT VI / ACT VII

Chapters: 8 / ?

Chapter Warnings: mature language, bullying, slow burn, enemies to lovers

A/N: I finally managed to make it through! *wipes sweat off my forehead* Whew.

ACT VIII.

I could feel my blood boiling as Jungkook’s sharp voice filled the room. Again.

“Do you even try to meet deadlines, or is this just a joke to you?” he sneered, tossing my portfolio onto his desk like it was garbage. I was working for so long with him that I had gotten used to his outbursts, but today was definitely not the day where he could talk to me like that. I was frustrated and heated enough to keep silent.

The knot of frustration in my chest tightened, and I clenched my fists, trying to hold back the sting of tears. I’d worked so hard on that design, but nothing was ever good enough for him. The perfectionist. The control freak. The world’s most insufferable boss.

“You know what, Boss?” I spat, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “I’m done. I’ve had it with your insults, your impossible standards, and your complete lack of basic human decency.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into that infuriating smirk. He leaned back against his chair, head tilted to the side. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” I snapped, grabbing my bag off the chair. “Find yourself another designer, because I’m not putting up with this anymore.”

I stormed out of his office, my heels clicking angrily against the polished floor. My heart pounded as I pressed the elevator button, praying it would arrive quickly. I couldn’t stay in this building a second longer.

“Y/N.” His voice echoed behind me.

I refused to turn around.

The elevator doors slid open, but before I could step inside, a strong hand caught my arm, spinning me around. My breath hitched as I came face-to-face with him, his dark eyes burning with something I couldn’t quite place.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

I yanked my arm free. “What do you care? You’ve made it perfectly clear I’m useless to you.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he’d explode. Instead, he stepped closer, forcing me back until I felt the cold metal wall of the elevator behind me.

“You think you can just quit?” he said, his voice a low rasp. “You think I’ll fucking let you?”

My breath came in shallow gasps as the tension crackled between us. “You don’t get to control me, Jungkook. Not anymore.”

For a second, neither of us moved. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between us, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of me.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, his voice raw, his eyes locked on mine.

Before I could process his words, his lips crashed onto mine, fierce and demanding. It was a collision of frustration and something deeper, something I didn’t dare name. My mind screamed at me to push him away, but my body betrayed me, my hands curling into the fabric of his blazer as I kissed him back. His tongue swirled in my mouth and I felt my knees go weak. I heard the faint "ping" sound of the elevator and soon the doors closed. But I was too focused on this, it was as if my body was burning. His hands grasped my hips and for a moment I felt insecure, but soon as I was pressed against him and his kiss became more heated, all insecurities were forgotten.

The kiss was overwhelming, igniting something wild and untamed between us. His touch was possessive, sending shivers down my spine. My head tilted instinctively, giving him better access as his lips moved down to my jawline, then my neck. My breath hitched at the sensation, my fingers curling into his soft hair.

The faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and sharp—mixed with the heat of the moment, intoxicating me further. I whimpered softly, and he growled in response, his lips pressing harder against my skin, marking me.

Then, the elevator dinged.

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. Jungkook’s lips stilled against my neck as the doors slid open.

And there stood Yoongi.

My supervisor, Jungkook’s best friend, and quite possibly the last person I wanted to see right now. His dark eyes scanned the scene, eyebrows raising slightly as he took in Jungkook’s disheveled blazer, my flushed face, and the undeniable tension crackling in the air.

“Well, this is… interesting,” Yoongi said, his tone unreadable as he stepped into the elevator.

Jungkook pulled back slightly, though his body remained close to mine, as if shielding me from Yoongi’s gaze. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and clipped.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Yoongi replied, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. “But I think the answer’s pretty obvious.” The elevator doors closed and I saw Yoongi reach over and press the red button at the top of all buttons. It was a STOP button.

I tried to straighten up, smoothing my blouse and attempting to catch my breath. “This isn’t—”

He held up a hand, cutting me off. “Spare me the explanations. I didn’t ask for a play-by-play.” His gaze flicked between us, his expression neutral but his eyes glinting with mischief. “Though, I have to say, this isn’t exactly HR-friendly behavior.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, his hand still resting on my hip as if staking his claim. “Is there a point to this, or are you just here to annoy me?”

Yoongi smirked. “Both, probably.” He stepped closer, his eyes locking onto mine. “But mostly, I’m curious. How did our dear Y/N go from hating your guts to… this?”

Heat rose to my cheeks, and I opened my mouth to protest, but Jungkook beat me to it.

“She didn’t,” he said firmly, his gaze cutting to Yoongi. “This isn’t your business.”

Yoongi’s smirk widened, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Jungkook. I’m just here to push some buttons.” He glanced at me, his tone softening slightly. “You okay?”

I nodded quickly, not trusting myself to speak.

“Good,” Yoongi said, his playful demeanor returning. “Because I’d hate to see you caught in the crossfire of his temper.”

“Yoongi,” Jungkook warned, his tone sharp.

Yoongi’s smirk didn’t waver as he stepped closer, his dark gaze unwavering and filled with something I couldn’t quite read. The air in the elevator grew even heavier, the tension palpable. My breath quickened as I felt Jungkook’s grip on my hip tighten, his body still close to mine.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook repeated a breathless warning.

But Yoongi only chuckled softly, his voice a low hum that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. “Relax, Jungkook. I’m not here to steal her. Just curious if our fiery little designer can handle the pressure.”

Before I could respond—or fully understand what he meant—Yoongi moved behind me. My breath hitched as his hands found my waist, his touch firm yet somehow reassuring. Now two sets of hands were all over my body, making me melt completely.

“See?” Yoongi said, his tone teasing as his lips hovered close to my ear. “I’m just helping out. Nothing personal.”

“Yoongi,” I stammered, my voice shaky as my heart raced. “What are you—”

“Shh,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. “Just… trust me.”

Jungkook’s eyes darkened as they met mine, his gaze flickering between my face and Yoongi’s presence behind me. There was a challenge there, unspoken but undeniable.

In an instant, Jungkook’s lips were on mine again, the kiss searing and consuming. My back pressed against Yoongi’s chest as Jungkook’s hands framed my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks with surprising gentleness. My senses were overwhelmed, caught between the two of them, their touches both grounding and electric.

Yoongi’s lips ghosted along my neck, his touch feather-light but enough to send sparks down my spine. His fingers rested on my hips, steadying me as Jungkook deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing mine in a way that made my knees weak.

I was caught between them, my body pinned in place by their presence. The weight of it, the intensity of their focus, left me breathless. Jungkook pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his voice low and rough as he muttered, “You drive me crazy.”

Yoongi chuckled softly behind me, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear as he whispered, “You’ve got both of us wrapped around your finger, you know that?”

My heart pounded wildly as I tried to find words, to make sense of what was happening.

The pressure was overwhelming, as though the walls of the elevator were closing in. My knees buckled, and just as Jungkook’s lips found mine again, the world shifted—distorted—and everything began to fade.

“Y/N...”

The whisper came again, softer this time. Fainter.

“Y/N!”

The voice echoed, a ripple in the growing void, pulling me out of the suffocating haze. The once overwhelming heat was replaced by a sterile coldness. My limbs felt weighted, disconnected from me, and my chest rose and fell in shallow, measured breaths.

“Y/N, please wake up!”

The urgency in the voice grew louder, breaking through the fog. My lashes fluttered open, and harsh fluorescent light greeted me. Blinking against the glare, I struggled to take in my surroundings. The steady beeping of a heart monitor filled the room, and the faint scent of antiseptic stung my nose.

Hospital?

“Y/N!” Rya’s voice came next, a panicked yet relieved sound. Her face swam into focus, her usually composed demeanor replaced by an expression of raw emotion. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and she leaned closer, gripping my hand tightly.

“Rya?” My voice was a cracked whisper, my throat dry as sandpaper. It was after I heard her voice that I started feeling my body. It was aching all over and I felt paralyzed.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, wiping her cheeks quickly as if embarrassed by her tears. “You scared the hell out of us. Do you have any idea—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

A shadow moved behind her, and Hoseok stepped forward, his arms crossed but his expression soft with concern. “You had us really worried about you, Y/N.” His voice was steady, but I caught the slight quiver underneath.

“What… happened?” I managed to ask, my gaze darting between them.

“You collapsed,” Rya said, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “They said it was exhaustion and shock. But—” Her voice cracked. “But the accident—”

“Accident?” The fragmented memories returned in jagged flashes—headlights, screeching tires, a sharp jolt of pain before darkness swallowed me whole. “The car…”

“You were hit,” Hoseok said gently. “They brought you here immediately. You’re lucky to be alive. Doctor said you have bruises and your shoulder was dislocated when they brought you in. Thankfully, they managed to help you with it and no other physical traumas were discovered.”

I swallowed hard, trying to process his words. My hands instinctively moved toward my side, feeling for the small bag I’d had with me. My stomach twisted when I found nothing.

“The bag,” I croaked, panic rising in my chest. “Where’s my bag?”

Rya exchanged a worried look with Hoseok. “We… didn’t see one,” she admitted softly.

“No,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “It was important. The journal—”

“Journal, Tina's journal?” Hoseok asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Before I could answer, the memories from the elevator came crashing back with startling clarity—Jungkook’s intensity, Yoongi’s whispered words, the heat and chaos that had consumed me just before the world went dark and I woke up here. I was confused as of to why did I have this . . . was it even a dream? Or a hallucination? I was growing delusional.

“Y/N, you’re safe now,” Rya reassured, squeezing my hand. “Focus on getting better. We’ll figure everything else out later.”

But even as her words tried to anchor me, a chill ran down my spine. Someone wanted that journal badly enough to ensure I wouldn’t stop them. And they wouldn’t stop, not until they had it. "How long..." I whispered weakly, Rya scooted closer. "How long what?" "How long was I. . . out?" "It has been a week, Y/N."

I blinked, trying to make sense of what Rya had just said. A week? I’d been unconscious for an entire week? The realization sent a wave of dizziness through me, and I gripped the edge of the hospital blanket tightly.

“A week,” I murmured, my voice shaky. “I’ve been out for a whole week?”

Rya nodded, her expression softening. “The doctors said it was a combination of stress, exhaustion, and the trauma from the accident. You really pushed yourself too hard, Y/N.”

“You had us worried sick,” Hoseok added, his voice firm but kind. He stepped closer, his arms crossed but his eyes betraying a deep concern. “Do you have any idea how many times Rya and I begged the doctors for updates? We practically camped out here.”

“I… I’m sorry,” I whispered, guilt threading through my voice.

“Don’t apologize,” Rya interjected quickly, shaking her head. “We’re just relieved you’re okay. But there’s something you need to know.”

Her tone shifted, and I could sense the tension in the room thickening. My heart picked up speed, the steady beep of the monitor echoing my unease.

“What happened while I was out?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Rya hesitated, glancing at Hoseok as if seeking confirmation. He nodded subtly, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s about Jungkook.”

My stomach tightened. “What about him?”

“They’ve cleared him,” Hoseok said, his voice steady. “He’s no longer a suspect in the case.”

“What?” My mind reeled. “How? I thought the evidence—”

“Someone gave the police new evidence,” Rya explained. “A photograph, specifically. It proved Jungkook wasn’t the man who murdered Tina. It took them a few days to actually verify the originality and it’s real. Unfortunately, that’s all we know…"

My blood ran cold as the puzzle pieces began to fit together. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The photograph they’d mentioned… was it the same one I was about to ask Taehyung about before everything spiraled out of control? Who even took my bag in the first place? Who was the person who gave the picture to the police too? So many questions. I was awake for a few minutes already and I already had an headache.

My throat tightened, and I struggled to keep my voice calm. “Did they say what the photograph was of?”

Rya shook her head. “No, just that it was enough to clear him completely. The police didn’t share many details, but it’s all over the news now. Jungkook’s free. He went back to the office last week.”

“Of course, he’s still Jungkook,” Hoseok muttered, his tone laced with irony. “He walked back in like nothing happened.”

But I wasn’t focused on Jungkook’s return to work. My mind was spinning, replaying the moment I’d almost shown Taehyung the photograph, the way it had burned a hole in my thoughts since then.

“What about Taehyung?” I asked suddenly, my voice sharper than I intended. “Did he… did he come by?”

Rya and Hoseok exchanged another glance, their expressions softening.

“He did,” Hoseok said after a moment. “A lot, actually. He sat by your side for hours, especially in the first few days. The nurses said he barely left.”

Rya nodded. “He was here when we weren’t. Every time we came by, he was either reading something to you or just… sitting there, holding your hand.”

My chest tightened, a confusing mixture of relief and guilt washing over me. I’d left Taehyung in the middle of all this chaos without any explanation, and yet, he’d been here. He hadn’t abandoned me.

“He’s been busy the past couple of days, though,” Rya added. “Something about work. But he made us promise to call him the second you woke up.”

“I need to talk to him,” I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else.

“We’ll let him know you’re awake,” Rya said, squeezing my hand. “But for now, you need to rest. You’ve been through enough.”

Rest. It sounded impossible when my thoughts were a storm of suspicions and half-formed connections. But I forced myself to nod, closing my eyes briefly as the weight of everything began to settle.

Somehow, I knew that when I saw Taehyung again, I’d find answers. I just wasn’t sure if I was ready for them.

The silence between us stretched, heavy and charged. Taehyung sat by my bedside, his posture relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that made my skin prickle. It was as if he were studying me, waiting for me to say something—anything.

“I was worried about you, Y/N,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was low and steady, soothing in a way that felt too careful, too deliberate.

I nodded weakly, trying to muster the gratitude I knew I should feel. “Thanks for being here, Tae. Rya and Hoseok told me you stayed… a lot.”

He offered a small smile. “Of course I did. You’d do the same for me.”

Would I?

The thought barely had time to take root before my eyes drifted to his hands resting on his lap. My pulse quickened, a memory flashing vividly in my mind—the scar.

The man I’d seen before the accident, the one who had loomed in the shadows and made my stomach twist with unease, had a distinct scar on his wrist. It was jagged and angry, a mark impossible to miss.

Taehyung’s wrist was bare.

I couldn’t stop myself from staring, my breath catching in my throat. His skin was smooth and unblemished, completely devoid of the scar I was so certain I’d seen.

The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity, sharp and disorienting. I’d been so sure…

“Y/N?” Taehyung’s voice pulled me back, his brows furrowing as he followed my gaze to his wrist. “What’s wrong?”

I swallowed hard, shaking my head quickly. “Nothing,” I said, my voice a little too high-pitched. “I just… zoned out for a second.”

His eyes lingered on me, sharp and calculating, before he relaxed again. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s normal to feel a little out of it.”

I forced a tight smile, my mind racing. If Taehyung wasn’t the man with the scar, then who was? And why had I been so convinced it was him?

“Did you… hear anything about the guy who hit me?” I asked cautiously, watching his reaction.

Taehyung shook his head. “No. The police didn’t tell me much, just that it seemed deliberate. They’re still looking for leads.”

Deliberate. The word sent a shiver down my spine. My gaze flickered back to his wrist again, my thoughts spiraling.

If Taehyung wasn’t the man with the scar, then I’d accused him in my mind without reason. But the questions surrounding him still lingered. Why had he been so involved? Why had he seemed so calm, even now, when everything felt like it was falling apart?

“You’re staring again,” he said, his tone lighter but edged with curiosity.

I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I guess I’m still processing everything.”

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Take your time. I’m here.”

But his reassurance didn’t settle me. If anything, it only deepened the unease clawing at my chest. "Fuck, where is my phone, " I croaked out weakly. I tried to sit up properly and Taehyung was by my side immediately, his puppy like eyes were staring at me and I felt a deep pang of guilt in my chest. How could I suspect him at all? I've known him since childhood, he was so caring and always there for people. "If it's about your parents, I already spoke to them. I told them you broke your phone and you will be able to contact them as soon as it gets fixed." I frowned, "And they believed that?" soft snort escaped my lips. I was grateful that he lied, I didn't want to have them worry and fly here. "I mean, they trust me, they think I am a good match for you..." I glanced at him, giving him a weak smile. "Yeah...they do. They like you a lot. And thank you...for doing that, it means a lot." "Don't mention it, next time, treat me a good Subway sandwich and we clear." his comment brightened the mood and made me giggle weakly.

As the night stretched on and Taehyung stayed by my side, I couldn’t shake the thought circling in my mind: If he wasn’t the man with the scar, then who was?

The hospital room was dimly lit, save for the soft glow of the television screen. Taehyung had found the remote, flipping through channels until he stumbled upon Fast and Furious.

“Classic,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips as he settled into the chair beside my bed.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. “Of course, you’d pick this.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. It’s cinema gold,” he defended, tossing a piece of the wrapped candy he’d snuck in onto the tray table.

As the opening scene blazed across the screen, we both fell into an easy rhythm of watching and cracking jokes.

“Do you think anyone actually needs this much nitrous?” I asked, arching a brow as one of the cars practically launched itself down a street.

“Absolutely,” Taehyung deadpanned. “How else are they supposed to dramatically explode at the finish line?”

We burst into laughter, the sound light and freeing. It felt good to let go, even if just for a moment.

A particularly over-the-top scene of Dom driving through a collapsing building made me shake my head. “Okay, there’s no way that car is still running after that. It’s basically a glorified tin can at this point.”

“Blasphemy,” Taehyung said, feigning offense. “These cars are indestructible. Haven’t you learned anything?”

I laughed again, the tension I’d felt earlier slowly easing. Taehyung’s easy humor was infectious, and for a while, the world outside the hospital room seemed to fade away.

But then, the door creaked open.

The air shifted immediately, a charged tension filling the room as I turned to see who it was. Jungkook and Yoongi stood in the doorway, their expressions unreadable. Jungkook’s dark eyes flicked between Taehyung and me, lingering just a moment too long on the smile that hadn’t yet faded from my face.

Yoongi, as usual, looked amused, his lips curving into a faint smirk as he leaned against the doorframe. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” he drawled, his tone light but with an edge I couldn’t quite place.

Taehyung sat up straighter, his easy demeanor shifting subtly. “We were watching cinematic history.” He gestured toward the screen, where another improbable car stunt was unfolding.

Yoongi quirked a brow. “Fast and Furious? Classy.”

Jungkook, however, didn’t seem interested in the television. His gaze locked onto mine, his jaw tightening slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I replied, my voice quieter now. The warmth I’d felt earlier was quickly replaced by a nervous energy.

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “She’s doing fine. You didn’t have to come all this way to check up on her.”

“We wanted to see for ourselves,” Jungkook said, his tone clipped.

Yoongi stepped further into the room, his sharp eyes darting between us. “Relax, Taehyung. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Friends?” Taehyung echoed, his tone just as sharp. “I don’t recall you visiting much while she was unconscious.”

Yoongi’s smirk deepened, but there was something dangerous in it. “You wouldn’t know because you weren’t here the last few days.”

The tension in the room was palpable now, the playful atmosphere from moments ago completely gone. I shifted uncomfortably, my gaze darting between the three men.

“Guys,” I said, my voice breaking the standoff. “This isn’t a competition.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened slightly as it landed back on me. “You should be resting,” he said, ignoring Taehyung completely.

“I was resting,” I said, gesturing to the TV. “And then Taehyung decided to educate me on the importance of nitrous oxide in car stunts.”

Yoongi chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Sounds about right.”

Jungkook didn’t smile. His jaw tightened again, and he took a step closer to the bed. “If you need anything—”

“She has me,” Taehyung interrupted, his tone firm.

“Funny,” Jungkook replied, his gaze never leaving mine. “Because last I checked, she wasn’t just your concern.”

The room felt like it was on the verge of imploding, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on all of us. Even the TV, still blaring action sequences, felt muted against the charged silence.

“Maybe we should all take a breather,” I suggested weakly, my heart pounding in my chest. “This doesn’t have to turn into… whatever this is.”

Yoongi finally moved, breaking the tension as he grabbed a candy from the tray table and unwrapped it leisurely. “She’s right,” he said, popping it into his mouth. “No need to fight over her. Yet.”

The word hung in the air, laced with something unspoken.

Jungkook’s glare shifted to Yoongi, but he didn’t say anything. Taehyung, however, didn’t back down, his shoulders squaring as he leaned slightly forward.

I sank deeper into the bed, my pulse thrumming in my ears. What had started as a lighthearted evening had turned into something far more complicated—and I wasn’t sure how to untangle it.

The tension in the room was unbearable, a pressure cooker of barely restrained tempers. Jungkook’s eyes narrowed as he took another step toward the bed, his posture rigid. Yoongi, meanwhile, lounged against the wall, but his smirk betrayed an underlying sharpness that felt just as dangerous.

Taehyung, on the other hand, seemed entirely unfazed. In fact, he looked downright smug as he leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed casually over the other.

“Relax, guys,” Taehyung said, his voice dripping with cocky amusement. “Y/N and I were just having a little fun. No need to get all territorial.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes flashing. “This isn’t about territory.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Taehyung shot back, a grin tugging at his lips.

Yoongi chuckled, though the sound was anything but friendly. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s just playing nursemaid.”

Taehyung’s grin widened, and he tilted his head, his gaze flickering toward me. “I don’t mind taking care of her. Someone has to, right?”

“Guys,” I said sharply, my patience wearing thin. “stop it.”

They all glanced at me,their expressions softening slightly, but the defiance in their eyes remained.

“I’m tired,” I said, louder this time, my voice firm as I sat up straighter in bed. “I don’t have the energy for your childish behavior. If you can’t all be civil, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Jungkook’s gaze snapped to mine, his expression softening. “Y/N—”

“Let her rest,” Yoongi cut in, though his tone held an uncharacteristic seriousness. He turned to me, his smirk fading slightly. “We won’t take much of your time, before we go we have to talk. Privately.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed, his cocky demeanor slipping. “Anything you have to say to her, you can say in front of me.”

Yoongi raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “This isn’t up for debate, little lawyer.”

“It’s fine,” I interjected quickly, raising a hand to stop the brewing argument. “Tae, I’ll be okay. We’ll talk later.”

Taehyung hesitated, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked between Yoongi and Jungkook. “You sure?”

I nodded, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I’m sure. Thank you for being here, really.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, though his expression remained tense. Standing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a step toward the door.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, his voice quieter now. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, and there was something unspoken in his gaze—a mixture of worry and frustration.

“Goodnight, Tae,” I said softly.

“Goodnight.” With a final glance toward Jungkook and Yoongi he left the room as the door slammed shut. I reached to rub my forehead, clearly tired and exhausted by this entire behavior of theirs. I didn’t get neither of them, it was they were on a damn competition and it was getting on my nerves.

I let out a slow breath, turning my attention back to the two men still in the room. Jungkook stood near the bed, his posture tense, while Yoongi leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed. Both of them wore black suits, they were probably visiting after work. If I didn’t knew them, I’d simply think how attractive they were and pass them on the street without even thinking of talking to them, or them talking to me. I was /that/ insecure in my looks. But now? I had both of these men’s attention on me. And I felt exposed and awkward as hell.

“Okay,” I said, my voice weary. “You have me alone. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”

Yoongi pushed off the wall, his expression serious now. “We need to talk about what’s really going on.”

Jungkook nodded, his eyes dark and unreadable. “The accident. The photograph. Everything.”

I swallowed hard, my heart racing. “What about it?”

Yoongi exchanged a glance with Jungkook before stepping closer, his voice low. “We think whoever’s behind this isn’t done. And you’re still in danger.”

My stomach dropped. “Danger? What are you talking about?”

Jungkook’s voice was firm, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone wanted to hurt you, Y/N. And we’re going to figure out who. But you have to cooperate with us..”

The weight of their words settled over me like a suffocating blanket. I’d spent so much time trying to piece everything together on my own, but now, with them standing here, it was clear this wasn’t something I could face alone.

I took a shaky breath, meeting their gazes. “I will hear what you have to say first, if I think it’s worthy enough of me to cooperate, then I shall.”

Jungkook let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head as he ran fingers through his black locks of hair. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

I crossed my arms. “Flattery isn’t going to make me any more agreeable. What exactly do you want from me?”

Jungkook stepped closer, and I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on me. “We already moved your stuff.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

Yoongi looked entirely too pleased with himself. “To a small apartment near the company, it’s security covered so…” he added, voice calm but teasing.

I stared between the two of them, incredulous. “You—what? You can’t just—”

Jungkook shrugged. “We can. And we did.”

I clenched my fists. “That is an invasion of my privacy! What the hell makes you think you can just decide where I live?”

Yoongi sighed dramatically. “Maybe the fact that someone is trying to kill you? Call us crazy.”

I shot him a glare, but my mind was already reeling with a million other thoughts. My things—Hades. Oh god. “Where’s Hades?”

Yoongi hummed, grasping the edge of my bed and leaned closer, “Your little spawn of death and barks is also there in the apartment.”

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh, but I was too busy staring at them, seething. “And what about Rya? You think she’s just going to be okay with this?”

Jungkook’s gaze softened slightly. “She was worried about you. After what happened, she agreed that you should be somewhere safer. For her own safety, too.”

My stomach twisted. Rya agreed? That meant she really thought it was bad. “Yoongi and I will occassionally come and check up on you, as well as you will have bodyguards escort you to work.” “You are both insane.” “I mean, we are, but you have no choice, really.” Yoongi added, wiggling his eyebrows.

I swallowed, shifting uncomfortably under their watchful eyes. The heat in the room felt suffocating, and I realized too late that we were standing far too close. The memory of my dream hit me like a truck—the way Jungkook and Yoongi had been pressed against me in that tiny elevator, their warmth surrounding me, their breaths teasing my skin—

I felt the heat rise to my face instantly.

Jungkook’s sharp gaze flickered to my expression, as if he could read my thoughts. His lips curled into the slightest smirk, and Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Yoongi asked, his voice slow, knowing.

I quickly shook my head, stepping back. “Nope. Nothing. Just… furious. Absolutely livid.”

Jungkook leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something almost dangerous. “You can be as mad as you want. But you’re staying in that apartment.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse racing. Their presence was suffocating in the worst and best way, and god help me, part of me wanted to keep pushing just to see how far I could take it. Other part of me just wanted to say “Yes”, roll over and cover myself as if to hide away. -

The past week had been… eventful, to say the least. Between physical therapy, endless check-ins from Jungkook and Yoongi, and the suffocating presence of security, I hadn’t had a single moment of true solitude. But I was feeling better now—stronger. The lingering pain was manageable, and more importantly, I could walk on my own again.

Which led me here.

Two bodyguards flanked me as I stepped into the apartment Jungkook and Yoongi had forced me into, their presence a constant reminder that I wasn’t exactly free.

The moment I stepped inside, I was met with the excited barks of my little monster. “Hades!” I grinned, crouching just as my dog launched himself at me, his little tail wagging so hard I thought he might levitate. “Did you miss me, you little terror?”

Hades whined and licked my face, and I buried my hands in his fur, grateful for at least one familiar presence in all this insanity.

Only after I’d gotten my fill of Hades’ affection did I take in my surroundings. And wow.

This place was insane.

It was all sleek black and white, modern and sharp, like something out of a high-end magazine. The floors gleamed under the dim lighting, the glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the city. A massive, plush-looking black sofa sat in the center of the living space, and I already knew I’d be spending my nights there—it looked way more inviting than the small bedroom tucked into the corner. The kitchenette was minimal but polished, the kind of thing that suggested whoever owned this place either rarely cooked or had an expensive personal chef.

I frowned. This was definitely a bachelor’s pad.

Yoongi’s bachelor pad?

The thought made me pause. It had to be his, right? Jungkook had plenty of money, but this felt too… refined for him. No offense.

I looked around again, taking in the details. Close to the office. Expensive but understated. Perfectly located for convenience. It screamed Min Yoongi.

I glanced at one of the bodyguards. “Who owns this place?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Mr. Jeon.”

I blinked. Jungkook?

My lips parted in surprise. I’d expected this to be Yoongi’s, but now that I thought about it… the place was sleek, but not entirely cold. There was warmth in the details—things I’d overlooked at first. The slight messiness near the entertainment system, the faint scent of something clean yet musky. Jungkook’s cologne.

My stomach did a weird little flip.

Jungkook owned this place.

I knew he was rich—his suits alone could probably pay my rent for months—but this apartment was stupidly luxurious. And the fact that it was just minutes from our office? That meant he stayed here often.

So why the hell was he giving it to me?

I plopped down onto the massive couch, Hades jumping up beside me. “So, this is my life now, huh?” I muttered, scratching behind his ears.

The bodyguards didn’t answer. They just stationed themselves near the door, watching me like hawks.

I sighed. “Great.”

I was safe. Comfortable. But I wasn’t free.

And something about sleeping in Jungkook’s space—surrounded by his presence, his scent—felt more dangerous than anything else.

As I sank deeper into Jungkook’s ridiculously comfortable couch, Hades curled up beside me, I let my mind wander back over the past week. So much had happened, and yet it felt like time had moved in slow motion.

Rya had visited almost every day, her face twisted with worry no matter how many times I reassured her that I was fine. She had been surprisingly okay with me moving here—though I suspected it was more out of fear for my safety than anything else. Hoseok had also stopped by whenever he could, bringing his usual warmth and easy humor, trying to keep things light even when everything around us felt unbearably heavy.

But Taehyung?

Taehyung had not been happy.

The first time he visited me after finding out I was moving into Jungkook’s apartment, he had been fuming. I could still hear his sharp words from that day.

"Are you serious? Out of all the places you could stay, you’re staying at their apartment?”

I had tried to calm him down, explaining that I didn’t really have a choice, but Taehyung was stubborn—almost as stubborn as me. He hated the idea, hated that Jungkook and Yoongi were the ones “playing hero,” as he so bitterly put it. Eventually, though, he’d had no choice but to accept it.

Even so, I knew him well enough to recognize that he was still uneasy about the whole situation.

And honestly? So was I.

Because ever since that night—the accident, the photograph—I couldn’t shake this awful feeling.

Like I was being watched.

It didn’t make sense. Jungkook and Yoongi had doubled security. I was constantly surrounded by bodyguards, and I never went anywhere alone. There was no way someone could be keeping tabs on me.

And yet, I felt it.

The sensation of eyes on me, lingering just out of sight. The subtle shift in the air that made my skin crawl. I’d glance over my shoulder, expecting to see someone, but there was never anyone there.

At first, I’d brushed it off as paranoia. After everything that had happened, it wasn’t exactly surprising that my nerves were shot. But the feeling didn’t go away. If anything, it had gotten worse.

I pulled my knees to my chest, pressing my lips together. Maybe I was losing it. Maybe I was letting fear get the best of me.

Or maybe… someone really was watching.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my thoughts away from the unsettling idea. Instead, I focused on something more manageable—like the fact that Yoongi had given me a new phone.

My old one had been destroyed beyond repair, and I hadn’t even realized how disconnected I felt without it until Jungkook placed a brand-new one in my hand, his voice nonchalant as ever.

"You need a way to contact us. Don’t lose this one.”

It had taken me a moment to adjust to the new device, but once I did, the first thing I did was call Rya. She had sounded relieved to hear from me, even if our conversations had been short.

I had also called my parents, keeping up the lie Taehyung had fed them.

"Sorry, my phone broke. I just got a new one, but everything’s fine now."

They had believed me without question, which was both a relief and a small pang of guilt. Lying to them had never been easy, but it was necessary. The last thing I needed was my parents panicking over something they couldn’t fix.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Everything was so… unreal. My life had been turned upside down in a matter of days, and now I was here, in Jungkook’s apartment, trying to pretend like things were normal when they were anything but.

Hades nudged my hand, as if sensing my unease, and I let out a small, tired laugh.

"At least I have you," I murmured, scratching behind his ear.

But as I stared out of the massive glass windows, the city lights stretching endlessly beyond the horizon, that feeling returned.

That prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

Like someone was watching me.

The next morning, I was up earlier than I wanted to be. Hades had decided that I needed to be awake at the crack of dawn, his tiny paws pressing against my stomach as he barked insistently.

"Alright, alright," I groaned, rubbing my face as I sat up. "I’m up, you little gremlin."

Hades wagged his tail, completely unbothered by my suffering.

Dragging myself toward the kitchenette, I squinted at the sleek, ultra-modern touchscreen coffee machine that had been mocking me since I moved in.

"Alright," I muttered to myself. "You and me, we’re gonna get along today."

Attempt #1: Pressed the wrong button. Machine beeped angrily. No coffee.

Attempt #2: Accidentally selected espresso shot instead of a full cup.

Attempt #3: Pressed too many buttons at once. Machine froze like it needed a damn reboot.

Hades barked at me, his tiny tail flicking with judgment.

"Oh, shut up," I grumbled, resetting the machine.

Attempt #4: No water in the tank. Had to refill it.

Attempt #5: Finally got a full cup of coffee.

I let out a triumphant sigh, holding my mug like it was a trophy. "I am the master of technology."

Hades sneezed.

I took a long sip, letting the caffeine work its magic before heading to the bedroom to get ready.

By the time I arrived at the company, escorted by two bodyguards like some sort of celebrity, I was fully awake and determined to have a normal workday.

The moment I stepped inside, the whispers started. My colleagues turned to look at me, some with wide eyes, others with relief.

Then, chaos.

"Y/N! Oh my god, you’re back!"

"Are you okay? What happened?"

"We were so worried!"

"I heard you were in an accident—was it really an accident?"

I barely had time to process the flood of voices before my desk was surrounded. People bombarded me with questions, their faces filled with concern and curiosity.

I forced a smile, trying to keep up with their energy, but before I could even begin to answer, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Alright, that’s enough," Rya’s firm tone rang out.

Hoseok appeared beside her, his usual bright smile present, but his eyes held a warning. "Give her some space, guys. Let the woman breathe before you interrogate her."

The crowd dispersed, grumbling but ultimately listening.

I shot Rya and Hoseok a grateful look. "Thanks. I think I forgot how loud this place could be."

Rya rolled her eyes. "Please. You should’ve seen them before you even got here. They’ve been talking about you all morning."

"Do you need anything?" Hoseok asked, his voice softer now.

I shook my head, smiling. "No, I’m fine. Really."

They exchanged a look, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push it further.

And just as I settled into my chair, ready to start the day, a familiar presence loomed nearby.

Jungkook stood near my desk, arms crossed, an unimpressed expression on his ridiculously perfect face.

I blinked up at him. "Uh… good morning?"

"You’re not supposed to be here," he said flatly.

I tilted my head. "Last time I checked, this was my job."

Jungkook exhaled sharply. "You were supposed to take two more days off."

"I’m fine," I repeated. "I’d rather be here than sitting in that apartment doing nothing."

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he sighed. "Fine. Since you’re already here, come to my office."

A few of our colleagues exchanged looks.

I ignored them and followed Jungkook to his office.

Once inside, he immediately launched into the latest project details, his voice professional and controlled. But every now and then, he’d slip in something else.

"So, the marketing team needs a revised pitch deck," he said, tapping on his desk. "Also, you look great today, but that’s nothing new."

I blinked at him.

He didn’t even acknowledge what he just said, continuing on. "I need you to go over the latest client proposals—"

"Wait." I cut him off. "Did you just—"

"What?" He looked so innocent.

I narrowed my eyes. "Never mind. Continue."

"Right. As I was saying, the finance team needs our projections by Friday…”

I deadpanned. "Jungkook."

"What?"

I stared at him for a solid three seconds before laughing in his face.

I couldn’t help it.

He was flirting with me. Horribly.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because you’re terrible at this," I grinned, shaking my head.

"I—" He paused, offended. "Excuse me?"

"You’re not serious," I said, still giggling. "Are you?"

Jungkook opened his mouth, then closed it.

His ears turned pink.

I smirked. "Yeah, that’s what I thought."

Before he could respond, I turned on my heel and walked out of his office, still grinning.

And as I sat back down at my desk, I swore I could feel his flustered stare from across the room.

The meeting room was filled with quiet murmurs as everyone settled into their seats. The air buzzed with anticipation as Jungkook stood at the front, his presence commanding the room effortlessly. His dark eyes swept over the team, his usual sharp focus in place as he began the presentation.

Behind him, the large screen displayed the details of their latest client—a high-profile luxury brand looking for a full-scale identity revamp. Jungkook spoke with his usual confidence, outlining their expectations, the marketing direction, and the design elements they needed to refine.

I tried to focus. Really, I did.

But across the room, I could feel Yoongi’s eyes on me.

Every time I dared to glance in his direction, his gaze was already there, heavy and unreadable. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this—watching me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression. But today, it felt more intense. Like he was waiting for something.

I straightened in my chair, pretending not to notice.

Jungkook continued, his voice smooth and authoritative. "With the expansion of our design team and the increased workload, I realized we needed an extra set of hands. So, I’ve gone ahead and hired someone new."

A few people exchanged glances, curiosity sparking around the room.

Jungkook gestured toward the door. "He should be arriving right about—"

As if on cue, the doors swung open.

A tall figure stepped inside, his presence instantly drawing attention. He moved with quiet confidence, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling—

On me.

My breath hitched. My heart stopped, then started again in an erratic rhythm.

No.

It couldn’t be.

My lips parted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Jason."

Silence stretched across the room as the man’s lips curled into a familiar smirk.

But before I could even begin to process it—before the weight of his presence could fully sink in—Jungkook’s voice cut through the air with a shocking revelation.

"Everyone, meet our newest hire."

My brother.

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