#my city now (glues him to the floor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

taegularities · 1 year ago

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a/n: Colour Me In: Translucent cont.!!

Just when he finally enters the room, you quietly follow his gaze. The question as to what to wait for gets stuck in your throat when you realise what it is he needed you to see.

Your gape follows the sensation as he carries you to bed. Lips apart, you blink fast at the celestial surprise, disbelieving. And your eyes only dart back to Jungkook’s soft features when he sets you down on the mattress, half of his body laying on you as you still hold onto him.

Hovering above you, you adjust to the darkness only lit by the city lights through the window. And to his silhouette; the gentle curves of his nose and lips; the defined and shadowy jaw.

The plastic stars are twinkling — or as much as plastic allows after all. Part of the ceiling is adorned with them; makes your shared space even more of a quiet sanctuary.

You touch his shoulder cautiously, whispering a tender, “You did this?”

He nods. “To bring a piece of home here.”

Goddammit. He’s given you a million reasons to fall harder tonight alone — is there a limit to this? To the overwhelming affection coursing through your bloodstream; an appropriate replacement to the dark red liquid.

You could live off of him.

In a matter of seconds, you recall your failed attempt at transplanting these stars a few days ago. You’d brought them here from your house, trying your best to glue them up there, all in vain.

You were undeniably bummed out about it. But he still managed to salvage them somehow…

“It’s not all of them like you wanted. I found the ones that survived and added some new ones, but… part of you is here.” The fondness echoes in the dimly lit room. And you can’t express any of it back. Which might be why he so carefully asks, “Unless you don’t want to be reminded of that place anymore, so I could…”

But you reassure, “No. My room was my only safe place for so long. This is… so nice, Kook. Thank you so much.”

Nice is an understatement; you remind yourself again that there are no words invented for someone as otherworldly as Jungkook. But maybe the grateful tears glistening in your eyes are proof enough of your sentiments.

You wipe them away in an instant, clearing your throat and nodding. You don’t know what it is that you’re confirming with the movement; maybe your appreciation.

Jungkook moves back to allow you an unrestricted view, lifts his head to look at the dull glow, too. You don’t know how, but in the quietude, he manages to give your younger self’s joy infinitely more meaning.

Proves how his gestures never truly end. And how so many of them are part of the universe expanding out there. Of the stars hanging in the actual sky — how many times has he brought them close to you?

Which…

Reminds you.

“Ah,” you make, catching his attention and already hearing a hum; you explain, “I brought something from the house, too.”

“Oh?”

“Hold on.”

You roll to the other side of the mattress, rushing off the bed and out of the room. Leaving a riddled Jungkook behind, you excitedly cram the content of the Important Box. It’s still outside, next to the shoe cabinet, and you don’t bother bringing it inside tonight.

Only grab what you seek, immediately travelling the short distance back to your doe-eyed, very confused boyfriend.

And when you come in, his eyes light up.

For one, because you’re thrilled and elevated, and very smoothly using your socks to slide across the floor and toward the bed like a penguin. You’re so fucking cute, it hurts.

And on the other hand, because the object you’re carrying holds fond memories, not too old, but nostalgic nevertheless. It was when you graduated, wasn’t it? A little before the two of you got drunk in a bar with your friends, fighting a stranger, and finding an end to the night in each other.

It’s been so long. But it hasn’t. Time stopped and stretched simultaneously with you.

Right now, it’s frozen.

Genuinely cheerful, he watches you fondle with the Mikrokosmos lamp. You must have used it often enough, because looking at you, it becomes clear quite fast that you know how to operate it.

“You brought that with you today?” Jungkook rhetorically wonders, shifting on the bed and closer to the edge where you sit and nod.

You take the hint, closing the distance and place the lamp in the middle of the bed. There’s that button on the remote control, right…?

Ah. There.

Wide grin spreading, you hold it towards the ceiling instead of the lamp, and Jungkook laughs. It’s so easy to make you happy; he condemns the world for wiping that happiness for so long — because this is you. Not the sad girl from before.

“Look at this,” you tell him, as if he didn’t gift it to you. “It’s just as pretty.”

“Not prettier than the glued on stars?”

You shrug. “Eh. That’s a discussion for another day.”

But you can’t choose. There’s a piece of you up there; and a piece of him. Both mingling, forming one and the same sky. Two worlds in the same universe, clashing, much like him and you.

You revel in the feeling; of him close, dropping next to you when you let yourself fall on your pillow. How he removes your hand from your stomach, taking it into his; moving it to his lips. And how gorgeous the projection cast to the ceiling looks.

Truly heavenly.

He’s always shown you the stars, you think once more. And despite their beauty, you can’t help but let your eyes drift amidst the stargazing. Shifting from the ceiling and to him, appreciating the lines of his profile.

He looks so pure like that; even from the side, you see the light reflect in his pupils. Like a falling star… or like a sparkling, breaking palette of colours.

Bathed in the shine, you lay beside him like that, and it takes merely a few more breaths until he notices your stare. There’s a tease on his tongue, probably something about how taking a picture is easier.

But the moment he sees the silky soft emotions across your countenance, he decides to ask something else instead, “You really are happy, yeah?” He squeezes your hand, brings it to his lips. “You look like it.”

“Yeah. Right now, I am.”

“Good.” He brushes the back of your hand against his cheek, and then holds it to his chest. “I’m gonna do my best to keep it that way, okay?”

Oh…

A serene cocoon. Solace. The moment is as timeless as the constellation above.

Does he feel the same, too?

“Jungkook…”

“Yeah.”

“Are you happy, too?”

“I am,” he pledges, “I have been.”

“Okay… because. You’re worth it, too, okay? No matter what you think. And I’m saying this because,” you shift, moving to your side, “you’re always there for everyone. I want to be there for you, too, because your worries are just as real. Let me take care of you, too… yes?”

He knows. Of course he does.

To your knowledge, he has never opened up as much before as with you. But he soothes all your overthinking so often; patiently reminds you of your value over and over again. And if, apart from you, anyone else deserves the same, then it’s him.

“Yes. I know,” he confirms, and even in the darkness, you see his gaze falling.

“Hey, look at me.”

He does. You don’t say anything — only stare. Lean in and deliver a kiss; caressing the spot under his ear. And once he has nodded, as silently as you did before, you bring a little more life into your voice.

“Okay, tell me. What’s something one can do in the countryside that’s not possible around here?”

The question catches him off guard, but the fresh breath he draws feels light. Like he’s giving his heart a break. He shoves his left hand under his pillow, putting his head over it. As the other fingers hold yours, tapping, he voices a, “Mmmh…”

You wait patiently, focusing on the lines he draws over the back of your hands. And then, he asks, “Have you ever been on a farm?”

“Oh, a farm?” You think, hunting for faraway memories. “I remember going on a trip back in elementary school. But it was boring, because for some reason we weren’t allowed to get near the animals and the kids were being annoying.”

“Yeah? What did they do?”

“Scared the chickens.” Jungkook breathes a brief laugh, but when you shake your head, he stops. “I’m serious. I felt so bad, because they’d flinch and run away all the time. And the girls in my class found that so funny.”

“As someone who’s helped take care of farm animals… Uncool,” Jungkook admits. “They’re just vibing.”

“I know! They looked like it. But then—” You pause to snicker; the chicken scene is such a vivid part of your memories. “Then I saw that one of them hadn’t run away. It was looking at me and cocking its head. Like I was a good one.”

“Can confirm that you are. Chicky and I agree.” He sniffles, button nose scrunching for a millisecond. You’re nitpicky about sniffling, but when it comes to Jungkook, it might be one of his most endearing habits. “But yeah, my aunt has a farm. My cousin Ria and I can take you there if you wanna go. Sound good?”

“Yes!” you exclaim in excitement, urging to clap; instead, with your palm in his grip, you only softly slap his chest. “Please. I’m not kidding, I’ve always wanted to hold a chick in my hands.”

“Gonna fill your hands with them. We’ll have all the fun, I promise.”

“And I believe you.”

Your words are followed by a fleeting exchange of smiles. Your heart keeps itself at bay until it overflows again, bursting until you draw nearer. Hungry for his embrace. Thirsty for his lips.

Only, to be interrupted by the lamp falling to its side, illuminating your bodies and darkening the ceiling. It moves into the dip your body causes, the corner clashing against your back, and you hurry to fix the mistake.

“Hold on, I’ll just turn it off and put it asi—”

But Jungkook is having none of it. You have barely uprighted the lamp again, bringing back the aurora lights, when he immediately pulls you in, whispering, “Wait. Just a minute. Stay.”

Stay.

He has given a hundred meanings to this word, and none of it ever fails to interrupt your heartbeat. His fingers wrap around your wrist, the arm under his pillow suddenly around your waist. And you cave in without hesitation.

Let the torrent of electricity submerge you. Follow his movements until you’ve found his lips, tracing their plush softness until he presses in just once, and then says, “Just like this.”

It’s so unfair. To leave you speechless all the time. To empty your mind and fill your heart. To make you feel like soulmates really exist, and like you’re whole now. Clicking like magnets.

“Okay…” you mumble, curling your leg in, lifting it over his. “Just like this then.” You look at the relaxed curve of his eyebrows; the soft glow of his lips. Add, “Tell me then… What did you all have to do, helping out at the farm?”

“Well…”

And so the night goes. With anecdotes and childhood stories, of mishaps and favourite lost animals. The day slips away and comes to a close gradually until your eyes droop; the moon keeps you company when you start floating. Like the clouds.

The lights above soon hypnotise you, and along with his voice, you let him lull you into sleep. Yawning one last time before you bury your head back in his chest, and he hears you mutter a final—

“Stay, too.”

“Are your Charmante people okay with you being at Novaura so much?”

“First of all,” you say, slipping into your jacket, “they’re not my people anymore. And secondly, Zara’s been handling it. I’ve also just been there two or three times.”

You shrug nonchalantly. Ever since accepting the job, the thought of spending your time at Novaura has been relievingly more delightful than the prospect of roaming around your mother.

“She said it’s okay if I’m there, as long as I finish the stuff I still need to before I leave. Besides, we’re a subsidiary. Improving our company will help Charmante anyway,” you explain.

“Makes sense. It’s a good sign for you, too… Seems like you’re liking it there so far.”

“Mhm,” confirm, observing the hands wrapping some cutlery in napkins before stuffing them in your bag. Your lunch for today. “Yesterday was comfortable, at least.”

Or as much as it could be. The meeting was friendly. Everyone was funny; the place is well kept and promising. Then again.

Jungkook, as if deciphering your mind, asks, “And the people? You were so nervous yesterday.”

Yeah…

You were shitting your pants in the café, and then drowning in thoughts when you finally got to work. The whole evening, your mood was lifted, and you knocked parts of your new reality out of your mind vehemently.

But now that he’s reminding you…

Closing the zipper of the bag for you, he doesn’t notice your silence; but when he does, he stares up at you in wonder, eyes big before you finally respond, “They’re… nice.”

His hands still. “Hm?”

“What?”

“What was that?” Your pupils flicker; you feign confusion. “What is it? Are they not nice?”

“They are! They definitely are…”

“Babe, are you sure?” He comes to a stand, one hand in his joggers; he’s not going to work until a bit later. Leaning in, he flicks your nose affectionately, a faint smile behind his worries. “Do I need to go to prison for you?”

Your laugh is quiet, a little anxious as you say, “Don’t be dramatic. No, the people are genuinely nice. It’s a group of just three or so managers, which is very different from the team at Charmante. So they haven’t been… an issue.”

“…Okay. What has been then?”

“Ah, it’s…” You scratch behind your ear, hand hidden in the sleeve. “Something I wanted to tell you after work yesterday, but then your mom was there and we were in such a good mood afterwards, so I… honestly forgot, and—”

“Angel, what is it.”

Shit.

It sounds more like a statement than a question. Slight impatience in his voice. And his expressions are more serious, too, like he’s expecting bad news.

So you start, “So… one of the people I’ll work with is Juri. She’s cool, a bit older than me, and has a ton of good ideas.”

“Okay… and?”

“And the other is,” you look to the ground, shuffling your feet, “you might remember him? His name is Kim Seokjin.”

“Huh?”

“…Kim Seokjin.”

“I…” The repetition of the name rings in Jungkook’s thoughts until it becomes clearer — and a second later, something clicks in his head. He’s heard it before, right? Uncertain, blinking, he asks, “Wait. Kim Seokjin?”

“Yeah.”

“The guy you were supposed to marry.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah…

Don’t worry, Kook, your internal monologue whispers, I was surprised, too.

Puzzled by the figure entering the elevator, too lazy to walk up one floor. Baffled by how open Seokjin seemed, not a trace of awkward distance between you. And bewildered that you were going to work with him — him, out of all people.

Your thoughts had drifted to Jungkook immediately; Seokjin is not even an ex. But you can’t help but feel odd about this. The overthinking knew no end yesterday.

And Jungkook’s chuckle doesn’t quite ease your mind, soft, but somewhat gloomy. Tilting his head a bit, he looks to the side, licking his lip before he asks, “How did he get there?”

You gulp. “He’s joined the team just now, too.” You pause; he doesn’t look at you yet. So you elaborate, “He’s actually Charmante’s partner and a big shot guy. And since Novaura needed two entirely new managers, they asked him to help out until they find someone else.”

“Oh. Okay.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek. None of this is your fault, but you feel bad. You can’t imagine he feels great about it; so you wonder, “Are you upset? I knew it might be uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, no…” Why does he sound like that? So drained all of a sudden. “It’s okay.”

A beat of silence. Only interrupted by the shuffling of your clothes as you sling your bag over your shoulders. You’re almost ready to leave, toying with the zipper of your jacket, and when he doesn’t budge to say goodbye, you mutter, “I’ll go then?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause, though a bit shorter this time. Because a few moments later, he inhales, clicking his tongue before he spits, “Wait, I— I just think it would’ve been cool to know beforehand.”

“I know. I swear I forgot.”

“Yeah just. I don’t know.” Fuck, he’s agitated; of course he is. You’ve struck a nerve. “I just thought, maybe you’d be upset, too, if you knew I was working with… Dunno. Someone like Nara again or something.”

The name splits your heart in half. Not because you have an issue with her, but because you didn’t think he’d come up with it in a moment like this.

In all honesty, that’s what you were afraid of. That he wouldn’t be happy with something that you know you’d feel odd about initially, too. But you trust him… maybe he needs a bit to get around it?

Nevertheless…

“That’s… unfair,” you tell him, unable to hide the twitching of your lips; or how much his statement affected you. “And not the same. Not a cool thing to say, Kook.”

He waits, clenching his jaw, blinking somewhat rapidly. You’re relieved when he notices his mistake right away, admitting, “Yeah. I know… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur, but the tense ambiance doesn’t fall. The brief pauses between you are suffocating. “So you are upset, huh…?”

“No. I know you wouldn’t do anything wrong. It’s fine.”

“But…”

“No. Honestly.”

You shut up. The words on your tongue die, and you’re unsure how to lift his spirits; perhaps you just need to leave. He probably needs to digest the information and then realise himself that there’s no real issue present.

But… you still can’t help the discomfort as you look at his disheartened expression. Meekly, you say, “But I can see it.”

“I mean.”

He blows out a breath, stuck between laughing his frustration away and staying nice. Jungkook despises ugly emotions like envy and the impudence that comes with it. You understand he doesn’t want you to feel bad.

So he tries to approach you with kindness, albeit revealing his chagrin with his words, “It does feel a little shitty that you’re working with someone that your parents thought was perfect for you? Objectively, he was a great match.”

Yeah. Once again, that’s what you thought. His reaction wasn’t born out of sheer jealousy, but insecurities.

“And you met him once, too, right? You said he was nice,” he adds.

“Yeah, but… all I could think about was still just you. And I’m here with you. Remember how I was crying on the phone?”

Because you were falling for him. Missing him.

“Yup. Yeah, sorry. I’m probably just overreacting.”

“No,” you immediately defend, wrapping your hand around his fingers. “I told you. You should talk to me anytime. No matter what it is. Okay?”

“Yep. It’s okay, angel. All good.”

You nod. He releases his fingers from your grip, moving them to your hair. Pulling you in, he plants a feathery kiss to your forehead; not to your lips.

And then, he says, “Have a good day. Eat something, and be careful when you get your stuff from the house, yes? Call if you need anything. I’ll wait and eat dinner with you.”

“…Okay.”

“Okay.”

One more brush along your hair. And then, he turns around and walks away.

This is weird. You shouldn’t feel as emotional as you do; while peculiar, it was just a tiny conversation. You might be hormonal — because should you be tearing up, blinking the tension away?

Either way… you don’t call after him again; neither does he.

So you leave.

The month will be coming to an end soon.

When it does, you’ll pack your things from Charmante and settle here in Novaura once and for all. The meetings you’ve been attending here and will continue to frequent are just a taste of what’s to come.

And if you’re honest, right now, even for just a bit, that taste turns bitter.

Despite Jungkook’s reassurances, your mind tortures you with the expression he sported. The disappointment and hesitancy. Albeit not the unhealthy jealous type, you know how he might be feeling.

Because knowing he’d be surrounded by someone who his close ones deemed perfect while simultaneously damning you… must not feel too nice. Of course he knows what you feel for him; knows what you do not feel for Seokjin — he told you.

But as someone who already harbours such deep self-doubt about people he keeps close to his heart, you can imagine the spiralling thoughts. And you feel bad. You don’t have a reason to — but you hate the guilt eating at you.

Seokjin, the man of the day, sitting back in his chair, though anything but calm. Gesturing with his fingers, he seems to be complaining about an occurrence last weekend. You’re only half listening.

When you tune in again, he’s saying, “They brought everything in at once!”

You have no clue what he’s talking about. But his eyes are ripped open, full lips pouting, and the expression alone is comedic enough for you to chuckle. Seokjin isn’t as serious as you thought.

In fact, he’s as humorous as can be, constantly joking. Different from the personality that they capture in the news and on social media. As if he’s keeping his true identity to himself, cherishing it and veiling it from the public eye.

Then again, haven’t you always done that, too?

You sigh.

Maybe that’s why Jungkook feels those creeping worries. Does he see Seokjin’s and your life as intertwined, too similar? Does he think your co-manager’s thoughts and habits match yours too much, fearing he might be able to make you happier?

You wish you could leave right away. Tell him the truth. But maybe… maybe he isn’t even thinking about it anymore.

Which you should assume. At least judging the message you received during lunch break barely half an hour ago.

Jungkook [12:26PM]: don’t worry about before. needed a sec, but i trust you, and we’re okay… and i’m sorry. take care of yourself until dinner, okay? ☺️

He’s always an enthusiastic texter; provides hourly updates because he finds joy or interest in everything. Or because he misses you. While dropping in a little less today, you don’t doubt he’s being honest. He always is.

God. These arguments are worse when they’re not actual fights; you can take yelling, but not the quiet worry about overthinking. And it makes you sick.

Actually… Weird.

It makes you a little too sick.

Was that here before? That rumble, the slight ache in your stomach, building up gradually. You don’t think so — and you ate not too long ago.

You place a palm over your belly button, trying to calm the pain. But when it returns after a moment, you nearly fold in half on your chair, letting out a choked breath.

Was it not… just the hunger for a good meal? Are you overworked? Burning out? You should call Jungkook.

Fuck.

“Are you okay?” Seokjin asks, shifting his attention toward you. You didn’t even notice that he stopped talking. “Hey… You want something to drink? You don’t look good—”

“I… bathroom.”

Shooting up from your seat, you round the table, managing a last, breathy, “How much longer is the break?”

“Like ten-ish minutes… Hey, wait,” your coworker Juri leans forward; you catch her standing up from the corner of your eye, talking to the others. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

She might be following you. You don’t know.

The feeling is overpowering for a minute, and you rack your brain for possible explanations. It might be the heavy food you had; but you always cooked fresh in the past few days otherwise. Maybe you’re still bloated from the ramen two days ago, not a big deal…

Right?

You crumple up your shirt above your shirt, grimacing as you approach the bathroom. Shit, the last time you felt like this was years and years ago. Back when you didn’t rely on birth control; back when your period cramps weren’t dampened by the pill.

The pain was excruciating, keeping you in bed for a day at times; and while the feeling right now is less an ache and more a burn, the urge to throw up, it’s not a lot better…

Wait.

Reminiscing distracts you for a second. For the tiniest moment. Until you feel the nausea coming up to your throat; you’re swaying before your shoulder hits the wall and you slump against it weakly.

You hold your heated head in a palm, pushing your hair back. Next to you, you hear Juri’s worried voice call for you.

But you’re lost in your own mind, rethinking the recent comparison from years ago. Your thoughts jumble up, going back in time, scanning through every single day in the last couple of weeks.

And while a hand settles on your shoulder, asking what’s going on, all you can think of is the dread spreading in you; of the odd, ill feeling in your stomach. Remembering the beginning of September.

You hope you’re wrong.

But you can’t call Jungkook yet.

The clock keeps ticking and he’s the only one hearing it.

Jungkook’s foot taps the carpeted floor, body barely on the couch. The entwined hands fold harder, knuckles paling. His gaze keeps lifting, throwing a fleeting glance to the time, and then drops back between his legs.

He puffs out a deep breath, slowly frustrated. A hand dashes to the nape of his neck, rubbing, still slightly damp hair drying from the shower grazing his fingers.

Jaw clenched, he stands.

You should at least call by now — he told you to do it once you arrived at your parents’ place. By now, you shouldn’t just have dropped by, but already left, too.

Did you run late at work?

Maybe. But goddammit — the creeping idea to accompany you this afternoon wasn’t idiotic after all. He should’ve stayed persistent; being at your house once won’t kill him.

His mind whirls; he draws a deep breath.

It’s okay. It’s probably nothing.

The mantra repeats, mixing with and dodging another dozen thoughts; but the dreary distress takes over once another minute passes. Emerges like a thunder in his head when thirty minutes fly past and you don’t pick up his call, agonising.

And slowly, but surely, he starts to panic.

The texts he sent and the unanswered calls float somewhere between the two of you, halting somewhere inches from you. Not reaching you, though. He pushes his phone to his ear, trying again.

Is this because of this morning? Are you avoiding him? Ignoring him?

You’re sensitive. Vulnerable — but no. You wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t walk away because of a trifling argument.

But… the mailbox—

He forces optimism to the forefront of his mind, but the intruding, colourless scenarios push forward, right through the barrier. You should’ve been home over forty minutes ago. What if something hap—

One more call. Nothing.

Fuck.

Jungkook allows exactly three more minutes to die, and then wanders to the window in impatient steps. Cars drive past, but none of them is yours. One too many proves to be operated by strangers, never you — and when he recalls that you didn’t even take your own car today, his patience breaks.

The room spins when he faces it again, wandering back and forth. His eyes scurry over objects until he detects the car keys on the wall unit, under the TV.

Right. In fact, you took the cab because you still haven’t brought up the heavy boxes of clothes resting in the backseat of your car. He remembers you calling Zara this morning, right before your situation escalated.

She’d pick you up, bring you to the house, drive you back here.

But you’re not back.

So he snatches the keys, the living room window left open as he flashes out the door, hastily locking it and flying down the sets of stairs. The journey to the car seems endless; relief only offered when he finds it at its usual parking spot.

Finding the goddamn vehicle would’ve pushed him over the edge once and for all — not that the mumbled curses and accelerating heartbeat slow down even now.

And the ride to your house itself does not do much to decrease the growing panic behind his chest. The traffic lights drag out their transition to green, and then, seemingly a thousand pedestrians walk over the crosswalks.

God. God.

What are you doing? And why?

Why go this far?

Under muttered curses, Jungkook’s mounting worries remain unabated; time conspires against him. And when he finally finds himself at the house’s doorstep eons later, rapidly knocking, mumbling prayers repeatedly.

“Come on. Come on. Come on.”

Moments pass. Then—

“Be there. Fuck, just be there.”

The door opens a slit, a friendly face peeking. It’s one of the staff; Jungkook recognises him. Name slipped out of his mind, Jungkook only nods as a little greeting, breathing your name and asking, “Did she… Did you happen to see her today? She was supposed to come over.”

But the attempt to find you here proves futile. Because the moment the staff’s eyebrows raise a little, mouth puffing out an apologetic breath, Jungkook’s heart drops to his stomach, face paling.

“I’ve been here all afternoon and you’re the first to turn into the driveway.”

Wait — you were never here. What…

Which means.

The house has been empty today. Your parents aren’t home, and you didn’t show up either. There’s no other car outside, no sign of your presence. But then…

Where are you?

“Is everything okay? Do you need some water?”

The man’s kind voice fades into the background. Jungkook’s skin flushes with heat, his face betraying the tumult within. There’s a weakness in his knees and sickness in his stomach that try to force him to cave; and he knows that if he ate or drank anything now, he’d throw up.

“I just…”

The words won’t come out because there are none to utter. At least not to anyone else. Just to you.

Angel, whatever’s going on…

Desperation flickers in his eyes, urgency to find you overwhelming. He doesn’t finish his sentence, slowly walking away with the slightest waving motion. Not registering whatever more the guy says, he drops into the driver’s seat of the car weakly.

Please come back to me.

His body feels weightless, but his fingers still drag over his keyboard in panic. The display is a little blurred, but he’s still able to make out the username he’s typing into his social media’s search bar. He remembers Zara’s account; you’ve tagged her in stories a dozen times.

Trembling fingers secure his phone in the phone bracket attached to the windshield before brushing the call button. But barely two rings sound before the call is cut again; Jungkook’s eyes widen.

“No. Wait, why?”

Leaning in, he wraps his hands around the phone holder, thumbs immediately typing a message. Zara is already in the private chat, crafting a response, but Jungkook is faster, albeit panicked and struggling with accuracy.

abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz: where are yoh? is ____ witg you?

She pauses. Takes a second to read, to inhale the message, the spelling mistakes in their first ever conversation. Jungkook doesn’t give it much of a thought, too occupied by the response and the heavy drop of heart it causes.

zarawithaz: Hi! I’m sorry, I’m in a meeting. No, she cancelled for today… was on her way home. Why? zarawithaz: Is everything okay?

Dead so far, the engine roars when Jungkook starts the car with clenched teeth. Misery mingles with swelling anger; grappling with the uncertainty of your whereabouts was not on his agenda today.

Or ever.

Fuck. Fuck.

Fucking hell.

He’ll tell you a few things when he finds you. He will. It’s today’s firm goal, though less because he needs to unleash his wrath, but more because the scenario would mean he did find you.

With a backdrop of heightened tension, he operates the vehicle without a clear destination in mind. The first thought is Jimin. Despite the fear casting a shadow over his every thought, he repeats the procedure from before with your friend’s account, hasting as long as the traffic light glows red.

But the narrative doesn’t repeat: Jimin doesn’t tell him where you are or whether he’s seen you at all today. He might be on an evening shift, or preparing for a night shift, not able to answer right now.

Jungkook races the car along the highway, eyes damp. An odd, involuntarily sound drops out of him, frustrated and agonised, but as everything starts to blur, he sniffles. Clears his thought just a little, freeing his sight off the untamed hair; sits up straight.

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, voice starting to quiver, “where are you? Whereareyou?”

He doesn’t quite realise where he’s heading until he gets off the highway and recognises the alleys he drove through just once. For some strange reason, he doesn’t quite recall Jimin’s address, but he still remembers the route he took to bring Eun home — back on the blue night a while ago.

And once the subconscious thought gains on meaning and presents itself with a clear idea in his mind, Jungkook finally dials the number he should’ve considered from the very beginning.

As the call gets through, a message chimes in, appearing at the top of the screen; the letters are soft, regular as letters always are. But words usually mean a lot more, and these carry a heavy weight that drags Jungkook down, too.

j.m13: No she didn’t come by. What’s wrong? Can I help?

A flat hand hits the steering wheel; Jungkook’s skin tingles, the impact worse than expected. And right as another curse threatens to break the silence, Eun finally picks up.

What took her so long?

“Eun.” The first syllable grants him stability, but the rest of the sentence doesn’t come out as solid. “I’m on my way to your place.”

Jungkook’s head spins when another of Jimin’s messages interrupts his thoughts, just a simple, singular, “Jungkook?”

“My place?” Eun wonders. Her voice sounds strained. As though she’s not quite delighted by the idea; worried, even. “Why?”

There’s no energy in him left to downplay the situation. Out of his mind, he dodged every question thrown at him in the last twenty minutes. This time, he needs to pull through.

Needs to, for your sake, because his guts tell him he’s on the right track.

Heartbeat in his throat, Jungkook holds onto the elusive hope that you might be lingering somewhere in his proximity — Eun’s apartment isn’t too far anymore. He stifles the insanity; turns into her street.

Yet, fear-laden, tears gather in his waterline. He clings onto the trust put in Eun, his neck and chest hot as he blurts, “I can’t find her anywhere, Eun. She’s…”

Delirious, he uses up the last of his focus to turn into the parking spot before killing the roar in the car. Deep breath in, he moves toward the steering wheel, forehead dropping against it, controlling his breathing.

“Jungkook, I don’t thi—” she starts, but he shakes his head against the wheel, adamant on ending this nightmare.

“No. If you tell me she’s not with you, I will fucking kill someone, Eun.” The leather is turning damp; his voice breaks, hoarse. “Please, you gotta tell me where she is.” Pause. “Because I can’t find her.”

He inhales. Steels himself for her response.

Consumed by the dizziness, he navigates through his labyrinthine thoughts, each of it a desperate prayer. Eun’s sombre voice remains absent for a while; the hesitancy lights a sliver of hope in Jungkook’s mind.

He lifts his head, fingers tightly gripping the wheel, and places his lips on his knuckles. Anticipating an answer.

Then, it finally comes.

“I’m sorry, babe.”

What?

The weight of her words hit Jungkook — until he realises they weren’t meant for him. A moment passes before she reshifts her attention, and admits, “Yeah… she’s here. She’s okay.”

A cascade of relief floods Jungkook’s trembling form.

Holy fucking hell.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit…

“God, fuck, I—” A million-pound stone lifts off his chest. The sniffle turns into breathlessness, and the tender crying into harder sobs. Jungkook leans back, dropping hard against the seat, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. “Thank god, Eun, thank you— shit.”

“It’s okay, Jungkook.” Eun’s reassurance punctuates his statements of reprieve; soft-spoken and careful. “Please calm down and focus on the road, okay? She’s okay.”

“I’m here,” he answers, his voice a mess. Chin trembling. “What happened, Eun? What did I do?”

“Nothing, Jungkook. I promise.”

There’s another sound in the background. Faint, but similar to his sniffling — doesn’t belong to Eun’s empathetic yet balmy voice. It must be you.

You, you, you.

Okay and well.

God, he… what is he going to say to you?

Part of him wants to squish and squeeze you; the other wants to reprimand you, furrow his eyebrows at you, declare you insane for doing this to him.

Yet, instead of thinking about his next step, he takes out the key. Grabs his phone and wipes his probably already swollen eyes. Eun on the other side of the call waits, so he provides an explanation, “I’m coming in, okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, do that.”

Jungkook cuts the call without a farewell, stuffing the device in his jeans before his knuckles pale again. He wipes the last remnants of dampness off his cheeks and chin, clearing his throat.

His legs are restless; the walk to the entrance door feels like a trek. The infinite ascent up the stairs turns into a climb, despite the breathless sprinting. He takes two at once, heart pounding behind his eardrums.

He didn’t want to eat without you, so the combination of this event’s starvation and the stress don’t get along too well. His stomach hurts, yet simultaneously filled to the brim with perturbed emotions.

And when he reaches Eun’s door, knocking loud and clear, he uses up all residue energy to not collapse. Stabilising his weight and focusing on his legs, he keeps himself upright, though the self-control falters just a little when he hears a door inside the apartment shut.

Right before his eyes go wide, confused. Right before the entrance door in front of him finally opens.

Your eyes aren’t the first he sees. In fact, you’re not anywhere in his periphery.

Instead, guilty and sorry pupils gaze into his flushed face, lips pressing into the tiniest smile before Eun greets, “Hey.”

He’s only ever let Eun out here, outside on the street; never went inside, never even frequented these alleys. And despite the new environment, his brain doesn’t muster the attention and energy to drink in everything he sees.

Not the white walls, not the soft, fluffy blankets on Eun’s couch — used. He walks past her when she turns to the side, welcoming him in; but he doesn’t register the open window. Enabling you proper breathing before, fighting fears.

None of it quite reaches him when he trudges around, big eyes red. For just a moment, his forehead wrinkles, and he looks at Eun with sheer anguish as he asks, “Where is she?”

But he still doesn’t wait for an answer; barely looks at your friend when she points in your direction. Jungkook frisks the place, eyes careful as they gaze into the bedroom. Decency is only partially at the forefront of his mind.

The rest is overwhelmingly filled with you.

“Baby?” Pause. ”Angel.”

The word is a mumble, shaky. Repeated and only stopped once he reaches the bathroom and realises it’s locked. You’re here. Right there. Hidden, but why?

“When did she…?” he asks, turning to Eun.

“Just now.”

He nods, eyes back on the off white door, resolutely shut.

Mild anger and utmost confusion still bubble in his guts, but he tries to tame them. If you’re truly distressed, then it won’t do to admonish you now. You’re an overthinker — and you need warmth.

Standing still, he moves a palm to the cold wood, voice contained and nearly a whisper, “Hi. It’s me, sweetheart.” He waits a moment — when nothing comes from within, he adds, “You didn’t come home… And I got worried.”

The answer isn’t what he anticipated — but it isn’t absent either. There’s a subtle shift in the silence that lingers; until it turns into an audible one, shuffling from inside, and somewhere mixed into all this—

A soft sob.

Jungkook’s heart drops to his guts and beyond, plagued by a repeated sting; he expels a breath. Why are you crying?

“Can I come in?”

The gentle sound of your grief morphs into something harsher. A slight noise of a gasp. Then—

“You’ll leave.”

His answer is immediate, “Why, baby?”

“Because you’ll be mad.”

He knew.

He knew you’d be worrying, no matter what this is about, tormenting your mind like this. You’re the strongest person he’s ever met; but on vulnerable days, your fragile side eats you alive. Needs a band-aid. Needs him.

“I won’t be, I promise,” he vows, forehead back to another surface. “Please let me in?”

Another sob. No answer; you can’t muster one. So he sighs. Waits a couple seconds, hopes for your muscles to come alive. But you won’t move just yet, and he understands.

He’s seen you like this before.

Weeks ago, when he revealed the occurrences transpiring in his hometown, the agony took over every fibre of your being. Visible in your expressions, tangible in your weak touches.

Tears prevalent. You were a mess — and whatever you’re combatting right now, is fucking you up just as much.

What did he do?

Reluctantly, he takes a step back. The touch of the closed door fades as his fingers retract.

Eun is quiet when he raises his head. His eyes hide behind the messy strands, but the colour on his cheeks, matching the hues in his waterline, are telling.

His arms dangle to his sides, and he looks away, over to a random spot to his right. He curls his lower lip in, teeth worrying it a moment later.

Eun’s hand, previously resting on her left arm, falls to tummy height, and she inches closer to him. Placing the palm on his bicep, providing a flicker of solace.

And then, he delivers a nod. Barely there, but revealing.

Gut-wrenching when he murmurs nothing but, “Yeah.”

The situation is a puzzle; suffocating. And the bewilderment doesn’t dwindle until a creak breaks the quietude. It’s soft, casting a thin sliver of light; hope surges within him.

Jungkook’s body turns on reflex, breath caught in his throat when your figure materialises in the gap of the door. And his heart does this thing again — every goddamn time when he sees you again.

Skipping a thousand beats.

Flooding him with realisations.

The moment you felt the sickness settle in your stomach, you realised you weren’t just nervous. Seokjin’s presence wasn’t the sole factor causing the whirling storm in your mind. Maybe, overworking yourself wasn’t either.

Jungkook’s expression this morning affected you, but a literal gut feeling told you that it might not have been all there was.

Because in hindsight…

You’d been feeling that way for days, hadn’t you? The grumbling stomach in the café. The odd moment when you saw Seokjin for the first time.

It didn’t take you a second to bolt out of work as your hours ended; you’d somehow convinced your co-workers to stay until the end, determined to not raise suspicions.

The next drug store wasn’t too far, and you walked through the aisles with a certain panic, slowly settling in. You can’t remember how your feet carried you, because you felt like fainting.

And you kept wondering.

As you snatched your desired purchase, you wondered whether you should go home — right where he waited. Whether he’d be as frightened as you if you showed up there like this.

But, you thought, he was going to go out of his mind, right? Maybe going home wasn’t the best idea.

The cashier, though tired, stared at you with unmatched empathy. Scanned the article, uttered the sum, and said, “Whatever you’re expecting — you’ll be okay.”

You only nodded thankfully. Nothing to ask, nothing to add.

Dialling Zara’s number quickly, you cancelled your ride; your voice as controlled as you could muster. And it seemed she bought it — or she was just too busy to listen, because you remember her saying, “Oh! No worries. I would’ve been late anyway, because the paperwork just…”

There was more, you guess, but it has already slipped your memory.

Because the next picture saved in your brain is of you sitting on a bench at a bus station, already a destination in mind. Clutching the bag containing your nightmare with one hand, gripping your phone with the other.

Eun was confused and worried to bits as you cried into the call, words incomprehensible. They didn’t quite clear when you finally stepped onto the bus, watching the world fly by in a blur, lost in thoughts.

Not understanding what was right and what not. What you wandering around would lead to.

And when you finally walked into her apartment, you dropped into her arms, cheeks immediately drenched. She held you, rubbing your back, uttering reassurances over and over again. Asking whether you wanted to tackle the issue right away.

But you were shaking, barely moving, cuddled in a blanket and holding a cup of tea a couple minutes later. She wiped off most of the make up your tears had smudged; left your face swollen.

Once they more or less subsided, she finally got to the point, asking, “You haven’t had your period in a while?”

“I… I should have. Like… it should be that withdrawal bleeding that birth control causes, but nothing came. And I’ve been feeling sick, and…”

“But you are on birth control.”

“Yeah, but…”

There was an explanation for this. You just didn’t know how to utter it — because saying it would make it real. So you only shrugged for now, and she spoke up instead.

“You need to tell him, though,” she argued. You curled into yourself. “He’s your boyfriend. Head over heels, too. He’ll help.”

“And… and if he doesn’t? What if I just lose him because of something so stupid?”

“Well, first off, you don’t know yet.” She put a soft hand to your knee. “And secondly, he won’t. I wouldn’t promise uncertain things to you, but I’ve never been more sure about anything else before.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you made a mistake.

Thinking back, you were opting to improve this relationship, right? You wanted to communicate. It’s what you’ve been preaching all the time.

And now that he had found the courage to open up, you were hiding. Breaking his trust. Causing the pain others have before. If he got worried dead about you, wouldn’t he hate you?

So maybe you shouldn’t just have gone back to him — maybe you should’ve run to him. But… then there was this whisper in your mind.

Barely audible, but so torturous. Convincing you that he didn’t need another shock — that it’d be better to say nothing, to dodge his presence, to keep him away from sorrow just yet. He’s young like you, not ready, much like you.

So after all the shit he endured because of you the last weeks and months, wouldn’t you hurt him either way?

You were scared. Scared to insanity.

Maybe Eun was right. Maybe she wasn’t.

And as if he heard your words from somewhere, felt your presence from far away, Eun’s phone rang. Yours was still lighting up with notifications and missed calls, but Eun didn’t seem like she wanted things to escalate.

She lifted her phone, flashing a glance toward you, and when you didn’t utter a single word, she picked up.

You were so defeated. Pained eyes constantly drooping, barely able to look into the ceiling light because it burned. And then your eardrums bled — there was no loud noise for them to react that way.

But the aching frustration sounding through Eun’s device was reason enough.

The tremble in his pure, dulcet tenor. The anger and madness. Broken words, voice’s pitch different. Asking for you, asking for you, asking for you.

“I can’t find her anywhere, Eun.”

”I will fucking kill someone. You gotta tell me where she is, because I can’t find her.”

Begging and begging and begging.

He fell for you as hard as you fell for him, didn’t he? At least you knew where your tears derived from, guts twisting, sick in love, sick in fear. And you didn’t want to lose him. Couldn’t lose him.

Fuck, you were just moving in together. You couldn’t just—

As your breathing stagnated, the voices faded, replaced by a high-pitched beeping tone in your head, until Eun placed a gentle hand on your lower arm and said, “I’m sorry, babe.”

”What?”

“She’s here. She’s okay.”

Your heart threatened to break your ribs. Hammering against them at the speed of a hundred miles a minute. Dizzy…

Once she hung up, you whispered, “Is he coming?”

“Yeah. And you need to talk to him.”

Only, you felt too sick to do so yet. If he bursted through the door now, you’d throw up again. Which your stomach nearly terrorised you to do, grumbling when you heard steps in the hallway, even from the couch.

You threw the blanket to the size, a hand on your tummy, fearing more than ever that this wasn’t just fear but something that wasn’t allowed to be true yet. Not today, not at this stage of your relationship.

So you fled. Locked the bathroom door right when he knocked.

You heard them from inside, curled against the bathtub, heart split into million little splinters. And then he stood right in front of you, on the other side of the wall.

“Can I come in?” you heard, his voice muffled through the door.

You pulled your legs closer to your body, the bathroom carpet barely comfortable anymore. Wiping your tears with the back of your hand, you looked to the terrifying object next to you, limbs quivering.

He sounded like he was ready to catch you anytime; which is probably why you couldn’t bear the thought of what he’d say, or do, once you told him what was going on.

You needed to trust him more. No — you did. You just didn’t trust yourself enough. Because… What was it? You thinking that you weren’t worth keeping? Used to dismissal and carelessness?

Maybe.

But then his voice vanished. Bringing you to this very moment as you get to your weak feet, legs carrying you god knows how. You quietly sneak to the mirror — you look a proper mess.

Hair strands loose in your low ponytail, eyes red, cheeks dehydrated from the salty tears. You gathered the energy to tuck merely a wisp of hair behind your ear, and then reach to the handle as if in slow motion.

And when he opens, you see his back turned towards you.

Even like that, he looks out of his mind. But the proper realisation of what chaos you left in him only truly dawns on you when he hears your movement, turns around. And the view is breathtaking for a moment.

Big, tender, dark eyes. Though swollen, with an ocean swimming in them, they’re so expressive, so telling. And the tip of his nose is red. His chest unmoving, like he’s holding his breath. Much like you.

There’s no other spare moment to take him in, head to toe, because a second later, he has diminished the distance between you and rushed to you. Hands immediately cradle your face, and you stumble back just a little; your fingers flash up to his.

Eyes damp anew.

His words are indistinct, interrupted by your sudden sobs. Ache floods every tiny piece of you, a tender heart trying to convince you that things might be okay, that the two of you will be okay.

Maybe… maybe he’ll stick with you—

You know. No, you don’t know. You…

Fuck. Fuck.

Jungkook doesn’t beat around the bush, straightforward with a fluttering voice, “Why didn’t you come home?”

“Ju-Jungkook—”

“I was losing my mind, baby, I—” A tiny step shifts him closer to you, and he sniffles as he always does; darting out a tongue, flashing his one smileless dimple for a moment, “What did I do? Are you angry at me?”

You shake your head, crying harder, but he’s not convinced; insists, “I’m sorry. No matter what happened, I’m sorry, just… please don’t ever…”

He always thinks it’s him. Fuck, Jungkook never suspects the world, does he? Always seeking faults and flaws in him.

If he knew that there are far worse souls roaming this world…

Has it ever occurred to him?

“I’m scared,” you interject, and his overlapping words halt immediately.

“…Of what? I’m here.”

“I…”

The drug store object still rests in its package, untouched on the floor next to the bathtub. Right where you left it, too dizzy to open it. Maybe it’s time to stop dodging it; to not procrastinate the inevitable.

So you breathe in, stare into his anticipating, curious eyes, and spit, “I bought a pregnancy test.”

There it is.

The looming silence, hanging in the air and enveloping you. Eun is still in the back of the room, arms folded, leaning against the window with a dropped head and unblinking eyes.

The uncomfortable weight of your revelation settles between him and you. You knew the mere mention of a pregnancy test would send ripples of apprehension through the room. Because his touch retreats by the barest inch, not as pressing anymore.

But he remains like that. Watches the gravity of the situation etch deeper in the lines of your face.

Concern spreads across his countenance until he’s gulped once, and says, “…What?”

Your explanations unravel in a timid sequence of events; your digits keep his hands there as you narrate, “I haven’t had my period in a while, and I was feeling nauseous all day and… remember when you picked me up from the blue club a couple weeks ago and spent the weekend with me?

“Of course, yeah… I do.”

“I just remembered that I didn’t take my pill those two or something days, and… we had sex… and…”

And your body signalling a profound change. The cause still unsure, but the possibility scary.

You prepare for fury. For him to explode, to demand an explanation as to why you didn’t tell him sooner, or why you weren’t more careful about it. That’s what you’ve always gotten so far.

Lectures on how to be better.

But he does none of it. Thinking about it… of course he doesn’t.

All he does is drop his touch to the sides of your neck, holding you tenderly. His voice matches the soft rub of his thumb along your jaw as he asks, “Have you done the test? Was… was it positive?”

Edged with worry, his voice pierces through the heavy atmosphere. This could reshape your lives — of course he’d look at you like that. Which is why you feel an immediate surge of guilt, nibbling on your lower lip with a stagnating breath.

“I haven’t yet… no.”

“Then… let’s do that first, okay?”

Your relationship needs a serene, logical person, you guess. If today, it was you, you wouldn’t have waited so long, drowning in fright. But… that’s the issue.

“I’m scared,” you repeat.

“I know, baby,” he says, wiping another tear. He’s holding back his own like a champ. But you see the flickering pupils, the way they jump behind you, searching for the test. “I’m here. Okay?” He lifts your head, and you nod faintly. “Come on… I’ll be here.”

Eun is a quiet silhouette in the background, moving as Jungkook opts to close the bathroom door again. You don’t recognise much of her behind his body, but you see him nod just a little; gratitude in the subtle gesture.

The room is too small for two people; on other occasions, you’d plead for space to cry out your frustration, to be able to breathe. But it seems that feeling him close, with that featherlight touch on your arm, serves as bonus oxygen instead.

“Come,” he says again, picking up the test from the ground. It looks menacing in his hands as he takes it out; it doesn’t belong there at such an early stage of your relationship. “Here. Do it at your own pace.”

Only, your pace is unhealthy for the both of you. If it was up to you, you’d keep it sealed, drive back home, fall asleep in his embrace and wake up in an alternate reality. Somewhere where this scare never existed.

Then again, you don’t know anything with certainty yet. Maybe you should only panic in case the second line appears.

“You’ll be here?” your small voice asks, fingers grasping the test, careful not to let it fall.

“I can leave if you want me t—”

“No. No, please don’t.”

A soft, relieved sigh. A gentle smile, a slight nod.

His eyes aren’t twinkling as they usually do; they’re still recovering and tired, eyelids covering a third of his dark gems. Only Jeon Jungkook would power through for you like this.

Guilt-ridden, you imitate his nod, staring down to your feet. You watch as his fingers stir, closing inch by inch until they’re holding yours. Wrapping around one of yours, lifting the hand to his lips for the lightest peck.

You keep your head lowered and your other hand on the button of your jeans, unmoving. Only glancing back into his stare when he lets your fingers go and uses his to raise your gaze.

He vehemently dodges looking at the test; keeps his eyes fixated on you instead. Reads every movement of your muscles. And then wonders, “Do you want me to look away?”

Right. You still haven’t started.

“If… if you want,” you answer. This is the least of your worries now; you’re here because you’ve seen each other naked before. You bear your lower body, sit down. “I don’t mind.”

Jungkook, ever-so-chivalrous, keeps your nerves calm and his head up. Doesn’t stare down despite the sins you’ve committed so many times. He drops to his knees slowly, palm back in yours.

Nods once again as he encourages you to get it over with.

You take a deep breath. Close your eyes, open again, dehydrated but probably nervous peeing. And say, “Okay.”

It’s a weird affair; you might have melted into him before, skin on skin, but the sound, the way you hold the test, the whole thing in general… just weird. New.

Not to him, you guess. Or maybe, he doesn’t let it show.

Because his eyes don’t leave yours for once, and in the middle of it, he even smiles. Wiggles his eyebrows as if to amuse you. Playfully, his hand squeezes yours; the moment contradicts the redness of his waterline, but Jungkook is trying his best.

His fucking best.

For you.

As comical as it sounds, you might cry again right here, right now, peeing at your friend’s house with your boyfriend reassuring you with jokes.

Such as, “I think now we’ve truly officiated our relationship.”

And instead of tearing up, you let out a laugh.

“Now you know what I look like peeing.”

“Just as cute.” The back of his digits raise to your cheek, grazing, and then pinch it. You’re already done, but you wait for a second. “Honestly, look at you. My girlfriend sitting there like this. You’re so sweet, you know?”

And he keeps going for a solid half a minute. Scrunching his nose, brushing back your hair, taking the test from you as you get dressed again.

“Good job,” he says, placing the test back on the box laying on the ground.

“Shut up…”

Another weak but affectionate smile flashes before he wraps an arm around your waist, giving you a praising, sweet kiss on your temple. And then, he’s pulling you back against the bathtub.

“Let’s just wait here. Okay?”

He sounds so delicate. Voice drenched in honey and syrup. As if he fears you might explode at the slightest raise in volume.

Maybe you would. You don’t know.

But the soothing tone of his voice keeps you at bay. Keeps your heartbeat from running yet another marathon. Your legs are wobbly, but more stable than before; and you don’t fall to the ground like before, losing your balance. You actually sit down.

Then, there’s silence.

For at least a couple seconds.

He slings an arm around your shoulder, nestles you in his warmth, one or two more kisses to your scalp as he rubs your bicep. Your hand, curled into a fist, raises to his chest until the palm falls flat against his shirt.

You listen to his heartbeat quietly, distracted by the thumping. He merely inhales and exhales, regulating his breathing. Just as hushed as you; you wonder what he’s thinking about.

But before you can ask, you hear his voice rumble against your ear, “It’ll be okay. We’ll handle it, yes?”

You blink; the tiles of the wall become hazier by the second. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions, very confused. And you barely realise your choice of words when you ask—

“You won’t leave me again… right?”

Oh…

If you could see him now, you’d see pure pain in big, brown eyes. If you could look at him, you’d watch the corners of his lips drop. The barely-there crease between his eyebrows.

And the way he gulps; swallowing the pain that your again causes.

Ignoring the piercing sensation in his heart, his cheek settles against your head. He whispers, “Is that what you were worried about? That I’d leave if it was positive?”

“…Yeah.”

“It’s why you didn’t come home.”

“I was… I am scared.”

“Baby… you were this terrified of telling me?” Jungkook leans back, and you upright your body, too, looking at him intently. His head is tilted; and he’s smiling again. “Like… Don’t you know I barely survive half a day without you?”

He taps your nose lightly, and your lips twitch upward for a moment; but seeking absolute certain confirmation, you still ask, “You won’t leave? Because… I can’t do this. I don’t want you to.”

“You don’t want me to? Mmhh. Then I won’t.”

He’s a clown… you’re so down bad for a jokester.

You shake your head, pressing against his chest, whining a tiny, “Jungkook…”

You stretch the last syllable, but he grabs your wrist, holding your hand there. You dig your fingers into his shirt, looking at him with such anticipation and timidity that it cracks his heart into two.

Struck by a profuse breathlessness, he glues the organ together. There’s so much pining in your eyes. So many worries. The intense plea to keep you close to him. Yearning, even though he’s right next to you.

He falters. Falters bad.

And you see it, right there in the way his shoulders fall and he sighs, and in the way his head falls slightly to the side. Sheer sympathy and empathy expand in his expression.

Your lower lip barely touches your upper lip, agape and awaiting. And when he lifts his thumb to touch your mouth just a bit, attempting to stop the minimal tremor, he finally terminates your doubts.

“I wouldn’t have left. No matter what, I’ll figure it out with you.” The tension in your forehead releases a little. You bask in the touch hovering above your lips, listening, breathing. “Whatever the goddamn test says, and whatever happens afterwards, I’m here. Okay?”

You swallow thickly. “And… if it turns out positive, and I decide to…”

One slow blink, one nod, “I’ll support you. It’s not only my decision.”

“…And… you’re not scared?”

He hesitates again. No. Wait. That’s not what it is.

He’s just pausing. Looking at you, reading your thoughts. Or perhaps forming his own? You can’t say — but judging from the sentiments filling his gape, weightless but as gorgeous as clouds, you know some of his tension is dissolving.

As if you pulled it out somehow.

So you understand the answer in advance, already brimming with endearment when he says, “How could I be?”

“I… I wish I could be stronger for us, too. But— I’m terrified. Because,” you shift on the carpet, pressing your thigh into his. “Worst case, and the world and… god, my parents will— they’ll shit on us so bad.”

“They will, and they shall. I don’t care. I really don’t.”

“How do you not?” Affliction seeps through your voice; you can’t quite fathom someone caring about you so much. “Why?”

“Because I have feelings for you.”

Pause; he effectively stops your heart. Not that you didn’t know — but hearing it from him rustles something in you. Maybe also, because he doesn’t stop there.

“You mean a lot more to me than the world. Or its opinions… and I’m not losing you again.”

More than the world.

You don’t mean the world to him — because the world has betrayed him one too many times. You transcend that phrase; and that very truth is so visible in his eyes.

How much time has passed? You can’t say.

For all you know, it has stopped. The water drop quietly falling from the tap must have frozen mid-air. Eun outside, probably not blinking anymore. The hands of the clock unmoving.

All that still budges is Jungkook. His face, close to yours, and in the next moment, his kiss on your forehead.

And time doesn’t pass after that. Hope inundates your chest, and you remain in that bubble, cheeks heating up. The universe spins around you and so does your head; the huff you let out is the only sign of reality when he jests, “Imagining us as parents is highkey crazy.”

You would crack a joke, too; roll your eyes and shake your head. But the situation is severe, so you let your head fall instead.

How much time has passed?

You don’t dare look to the side. Instead, you digress for just another minute.

“I was going to come home…” you murmur, pulling your legs in. He tugs you in closer. “But I thought about how cosy we were last night. Talking about staying and… farms. The wedding. And—” You shake your head. “And then I thought of how the conversation might go and feared you might not want to stay after all… And I almost threw up, and I… I’m so sorry.”

He hums, and you look at him, assuring, “You can be mad at me.”

“Hmmm,” he repeats, waiting, taking your words in before he shrugs a shoulder. “I’m a little mad. But mostly glad you’re okay. Just… don’t do it again, yeah? Call me. Talk to me. Always.”

He was a little mad until he looked into your eyes, and he thinks you know as well as him.

But he won’t mention how you drove him into insanity; how he spiralled and wept, letting out his horror on a goddamn steering wheel. And how relief overshadowed every other emotion.

You’re a mess as is. And so is he. But no other moment has ever been as much about pulling through as this one.

Breathe. Let the seconds tick. Hold your hand.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

“I always preach opening up, and then I hurt you like this,” you complain, hiding your face back in his chest. He strokes your hair. “I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.”

Your apologies are muffled, and he hushes you. Exhausted from the day, your feeble voice adds, “Of all things couples do— didn’t think a pregnancy scare would be one of the first. It’s so… random, isn’t it?”

Because thinking about it, you haven’t even said what couples usually do. God.

For just a few moments, he doesn’t answer, so you opt for another question, “What are you thinking about?”

“Hm?” Maybe you woke him from a dream, because he stalls for a bit, collecting his thoughts. “Well, I’m thinking about how this is practice for the future. We’re learning a lot here.”

“Like what…?”

“Like. I guess we need to stop having sex.”

You click your tongue; so, so fatigued. Your response and the push against his body are ridiculously weak as you mutter, “I hate you…”

And it’s only then that you realise that you’re sitting here for a greater purpose. Not just for what-ifs and bickering and stupid jokes, but…

“Hey,” he says. Calls your name, his grip around you faltering.

He moves past you a little, leaning over you, and reaches for the test that should long be clear by now. Your tremble comes back within a split second, the pounding of your heart increasing in pace.

The anticipation is unbearable; makes you sick, hurts your tummy. And suddenly, you’re light-headed again, sinking into you until—

“One line.”

Two words. Echoing through your mind. At first, you can’t make sense of them because your head is rotating. You keep yourself from passing out, and let his statement reverberate in your mind.

One line.

Negative.

That’s it. The riddle of the day, solved with two syllables. That’s it.

The realisation overwhelms you with such ridiculous intensity that your heavy sigh mixes with the sudden sob tumbling out of you. The weight of uncertainty lifts, tears immediately wetting your cheek, and you hide your face behind hands that quiver as much as your voice.

“Come here,” Jungkook says, seemingly unaffected, though you can hear the force of his respite. “Promised you. It’s okay. Angel, we’re okay.”

And he keeps saying it. Envelops you in his solace, offering shelter. Tear-streaked cheeks bear witness to your emotional turmoil for minutes on end, and he holds you tighter — a silent vow that you’re never going to be alone.

You’re still clutching the test when your cries decrease; you can’t even remember when you snatched it from him. Patiently, he caresses your back, cooling down your body from the heat.

And once your sobs turn into sniffles, and your incoherent words into his name, his question finally cuts through the air, “Baby… Wanna go home?”

A simple inquiry, but a lifeline extended. You exhale as deeply as you can, removing your head off his damp, green shirt, and the hair off your face, sticking to your wet skin.

Then, you offer a small, affirmative nod.

The word has such a clear and transparent definition; you crafted it yourself, subjective as you pondered what it meant to you.

Home.

A sanctuary; where the comfort of familiarity eases your burdens. Finally.

You’re both weary on your drive back home.

Out of words and drained inside out, you keep the journey quiet. Throwing in a word or two to break the silence, but otherwise indulging in the wordlessness that you so desperately need.

And whenever you look at him, he’s deep in thought anyway. In contrast to you, the gears in his brain are still doing the most — because aside from focusing on the road, he’s zoning out.

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t conjure a wrinkle between his eyebrows when he thinks. He looks far away, barely blinking. Perhaps he’s used up his energy to reassure you, too. The softness and promises before — and now he’s recovering from his own stress falling off his shoulders.

“Eun is the sweetest,” you say, toying with the bag in your lap, “didn’t think she’d send us away with so much food.”

More than half of what she’d cooked.

“You’ll know how starved you are once the adrenaline wears down.”

God, she was right. You place a hand to your rumbling tummy, smiling at it; it scared the fuck out of you today. Couldn’t separate true stress from pseudo-pregnancy symptoms.

Despite your forgetfulness, your body dodged the bullet this time; you reckon the fight in the morning as well as the work and moving rush made your guts act up. You’ll go to the doc on Monday.

“It’s really kind of her,” Jungkook only answers. Barely looks at you.

Is anger catching up again? Previously veiled, you guess he might have given the situation another thoughts; maybe he’s just now allowing himself to feel all of it.

You don’t know.

You can’t muster the energy to start another topic; only smile back as faintly as him.

Fuck. Despite how sweet he was just a while ago, it’s totally possible that he might be mad.

You wish you could hit your own forehead. And you wish you would’ve handled today better; called him right away. You’re scared he might be thinking the worst of you: like, that you’re a bad girlfriend, or that you’re a pain in the ass.

Damn it…

“What’s wrong?” you finally muster the courage to ask once you’re home.

His steps are idle and the drop onto the couch even moreso. He’s not talking, distracted. Pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, staring at a random spot.

You think he hasn’t registered your question, but then he shakes his head without breaking his random focus, and says, “Nothing.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He rubs his face, smacking his lips. “Tired, is all. Worn out from the stress.”

“I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s okay.”

This morning is repeating itself. You asking for clarification, him denying it. Today brought you closer; but it was also filled with hesitation to say things outright.

You can’t take it this time, and you won’t just let him walk away this time. So you swallow the thick knot in your throat, and dare, “I don’t think it is. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

He’s persistent. “Nothing, baby. Please go to sleep.”

No. It’s not even anyhow near bedtime. You shake your head, more awake than ever; the hints of fatigue have long dematerialised. You dig, “Is it because of the pregnancy scare? Or because I didn’t call you.” He shakes his head. “I scared you.”

“No. It’s nothing like that.”

Waiting for your response, he halts, but you draw a blank. A heartbeat later, he repeats, “Just go change into something comfortable, angel. Or do you want to eat first? I can get you some food to the bedroom, too.”

“I want— you to tell me what’s wrong.”

He lets out a quiet groan, head falling between his shoulders and fingers grazing his wrinkled forehead. “What do I tell you?”

“Just. Was it… is it Seokjin? I won’t talk to him if you don’t want me to.”

Tears swim in your eyes, sheltered there for a second before he says, “It’s okay… That’s not it.”

“It’s not…?”

“Babe,” he says it like a warning rather than an endearment, and you hold yourself back from flinching. “I don’t care about him. I stopped caring ten minutes later.”

A shrug, and then the continuation, “Yeah, I was upset this morning, but my god.” He lifts his head to look at you. “This evening stressed me out enough to not give a shit about him. There are more urgent issues, and I care more about you than him.”

The message is tender, but his voice is a little pressed. You’re getting restless; he sees your usual sensitivity written in your face, only worse this time. He comes to a stand, stepping closer.

The worry in his voice transports your heart from your chest to your throat, trepidation spreading throughout when he runs his fingers through his hair nervously. An uncertain sigh leaves his lips the moment your eyes overflow again.

“What is it then?… Fuck, just. Just say it, please.”

The tears finally fall, and you feel yourself panic, back in the spiral that’s whispering to you that people leave. You’re not better than Jungkook; you share the same problems, always worrying a tiny mistake might leave you abandoned.

Why is this fear such a permanent part of you? Why did they make it?

Jungkook closes the distance more, both hands rising to his hair once more, brushing it back. The breath in is deep, and he struggles with his movements.

Until he grabs your wrist. Pulling you into him in a trice, a warm palm on your back… the other sliding to your head. Holding you close. Letting you cry into his shirt.

You don’t want today to have been too much. You don’t want him to leave. You can’t. You can’t.

Your head spins in his firm embrace, digits shaking as he says, “I’m not good with words, baby. And I don’t know how to ever properly verbalise something like this.”

“What? Verbalise wh—”

“I love you.”

…What.

He…

What did he say? What did you hear?

Words leave you. Your sobs stop immediately, stuck in your throat. Your breathing is still stagnant, but the tremble seems to stop. Amidst the chaos in your head, you see a glow seep through the clouds.

And your heart…

Your heart is doing something incredibly fucking weird. Playing with its beat like it’s nothing. Changing paces, leaving you dizzy; stars float in your view before your eyelids flutter open.

Lips against the wet spot of his shirt, you mumble, your voice as feeble as never before in your life.

“What?”

“I love you, angel. Saying this isn’t enough, and I can’t word it anyhow else, but. I love you… I love you, fuck.”

You hear your heart… everywhere.

Oh god… oh god, you’re. You’re crying again. Soft, quiet; so your words don’t come out swiftly.

“Jungkook—”

“You know, baby,” he starts, his own voice shaking; even his chest quivers against you. “When we sat on the floor at Eun’s, waiting… Not once did I actively hope for a specific result. All I kept thinking about was that you were crying. And that you were hurting. And I wanted it to fucking stop.”

You hear the gulp, and you hear the overwhelming, quick heartbeat. Feel the vibrations of his candied voice.

“Like, I… it’s all I’ve wanted all day. You can’t imagine,” he says, sniffling, “how scared I was. Okay?” The last word breaks halfway through; water floods your eyes. “I was scared to death, shit, I– and then you looked so broken and so terrified that I’d… what, leave? Holy fuck, I– I don’t know how to.”

Some syllables are higher pitched than others, implying a crack in thoughts; a fissure in his heart. But he doesn’t stop. You don’t want him to; frozen against his chest, you listen. Mouth agape, probably dreaming.

“And. I admit that it’d be wrong of me to say I would’ve been a hundred percent ready for such a change, so… part of me was as nervous as you. But most of all, I just want to be with you. No matter what, to me… It’s just you and me.”

Ever-so-softly, you start sobbing again. Shuddering and quivering, nearly ripping his shirt, hurting your fingers. Somewhere in between, your tears drown out your miniscule, “Kook…”, fractured words on your tongue, but Jungkook beats you to it.

Moves his balmy touch away from your back, up to your face. Softly tapping your cheek, fingertips seeking the liquid trail. He wipes his thumb across your skin, catching the stream, and uses the hold around your face to make you look at him.

His eyes are a culmination of everything good. Of everything kind and forgiving. He isn’t crying, but his voice is weeping, confessions dipped in silky warmth. Waterline red.

“I’ll tide through whatever, as long as you stay. And I’m sure, alright? Because…”

His palms are firm under your ears, noses touching like feathers. He swallows. In the silence, you feel your heartbeat almost break your ribs. His breath is shuddery, and then his words…

“Even if there’d been two lines on the test, and things had turned out another way… and… even if you stay broken for the rest of your life and never heal and fight with me every day—”

Unregulated breath; unbridled craze.

“I fucking love you… and I don’t want to stop falling in love with you.”

You’re breathless. Does the world always spin so fast?

Shit, shit, shit.

You bend your fingers and twirl the fabric, holding onto his arms like you might faint. And he keeps staring at you. Never twitching, not yet demanding a response back; just staring.

Deep into you, as if fathoming his own words; spoken as though they were locked in his mind for so long now. Maybe they were.

Because in hindsight, these admissions have always been there, haven’t they? Lingering somewhere in the corner of your conversation, always hinted at and always unspoken. Maybe you’ve known for a while; maybe it’s what kept your hopes upright.

Perhaps that’s why you always swam through tsunamis and dragged your body through hurricanes for him. Because deep down you knew. And somehow, he kept saying it.

You mean so much to me.

I won’t let you go alone.

Stay.

Those three words were veiled in all he ever uttered, all the gestures, all the touches. But now that they’re drifting between you, resounding in your ears in their full, sparkling glory, you’re processing them like a disrupted machine.

Because there are only milestones like this ahead, right? Writing the two of you into the scars of each others’ hearts. Pinky promises about eternities and colourful sunsets. Vows laid open in three words.

I love you.

okay…

a breath of relief. oh my god. okay. guys… thank you for reading 🥺 the main question is.. what do we think? :') this was something i’d been anticipating for literal months and years and now that it’s out.. god, i’m nervy as heck :’D this chapter means everything to me, and i hope you find comfort in it, too, despite the monstrous wc. thank you for all the support and for giving me so much, constant love. i’m genuinely only still here bc of you all and i adore you to bits.

cmi11.5 is gonna be next! it’ll thematise the moving in process and incredibly honey sweet, fluffy scenes :’) wait for it, and don’t skip it!! 🥺 and then we move to cmi12 and.. it’s one of my favourite chapters ever :’)

so, you already know how close i hold Translucent to my heart… so i’d be elated if you supported the heck out of it 🥺 likes, an excited spam in the comments and in the inbox, plus reblogs are so so appreciated, don’t hesitate!! (reblog on desktop since rarely allows reblogs of big posts on mobile!!), but yeah, suuuper much happened, so please do share your thoughts. would mean everything to me 🥺🦋

p.s.: ‘easy peasy lemon squeezy’ anon, i haven’t forgotten you! your tiny request fits another chapter better, so.. stay tuned 🤧🤍

short drabble in jk's pov – from when he was looking for her to the very first 'i love you' <3

colour me in: translucent | jjk (m)

Summary: And whenever the world seems to fall apart and your thoughts cast a shadow over your heart, he rushes to lift you to your feet. Conjoining your hearts and souls, again and again and again.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; some healthy angst, so much fluff, smut ➳ warnings: y’all. So. Much. Fluff, talk about stars, talk about his hometown, mention of a wedding 😁, 1 nara mention, a guest appearance!!, and another guest appearance…, daddy issues mention, oc has a tummy ache :(, banter, conversation with her mom, badass oc, their friends <3, moving and work stress, overworking, kook panics in this one, oc does too, tears and tears and tea–, abandonment issues, overthinking!!!, they communicate too late bc they’re scared, pregnancy scare, mention of throwing up, kissing and hand holding <3, petnames, insecurities/slight envy; explicit sexual content: diving right into the smut as the chapter starts 🤭, tie around oc’s neck ha ha, oral (f. receiving) (over panties and without 🥲), fingering, brief masturbation (m.), making out, jk takes the backseat and oc drives for a while <3, bit of choking, they’re half clothed for a bit, tiddie and butt love, tears, flirting, big dick jk, soft dom jk, emotions omg 😷, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, he unloads in her mouth 😄, and yeah, maybe more but i forgot – lmk if you notice smth! also… THE 👏 EN 👏 DING 🚨🚨🚨 ➳ word count: 35.8k 💀 ➳ a/n: here it is… after a long ass fight with tumblr and my tears, it’s here! i don’t have much to say this time except that this chapter means the world to me. and i hope you love it just as much. shoutout to @missgeniality for betaing parts of this and helping me with difficult scenes, i truly struggled!! <3 if you guys enjoy this one, let me know and don’t be shy to reach out!! love you and let’s dive in 🥺 ➳ listen to: say you won't let go by james arthur | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs | DC SERVER

The whispers cease the moment your door closes.

The whispers of the world, of all traffic, of all passersby, of all echoes. And those in your head, susurrating since you left the glass building and its conference hall.

They dim the moment you drop your palm off the door; your heart is still a nervous mess as you take your shoes off, watch him take his shoes off. He places them neatly in the shoe cabinet, jacket hung on one of the coat hooks.

Right here, you’re surrounded by a tranquil, quiet dome. Not as subdued as the emotions the outer world elicits; just an arena that feels perpetually warm, sepia and still.

And amidst that warmth, there’s yearning. You feel it in every nerve of your body, burning through your limbs. Stunning sentiments pull at your soul, making it heavy; and your heart floats, perpetually above the clouds.

As he rubs his cheek with a soft hand — you know, because you were holding it just two minutes ago, clutching it in the car for dear life —, you take a step forward, your mouth open, but not quite capable of saying all that’s weighing on your tongue.

They’re good things; amazing things. And he hasn’t yet gathered all his thoughts either to truly voice what he’s been hiding since you left the chaos. Only opting for the living room, painfully slowly, as if he’s waiting to face you again.

And maybe… maybe he really is. And maybe he doesn’t need to talk at all.

Because he stops the moment you speak, tenderly calling, “Jungkook.”

It’s all he needs. Combined with the lightest touch to his elbow, a hint of your voice is all he needs. He wants to keep hearing his name. Again and again and again. And today, announcing it to the world, you promised that you’ll be doing just that.

Shit. What have you done to his heart? He wants to ask questions that neither of you has an answer to; or, not one that can be verbalised. One that could explain this euphoria.

So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, he stumbles as he turns back to you again, taking a deep breath before his head tilts. The unbounded amount of want is swimming in his tired eyes, and you barely manage a hushed, “Should we—” before his fingers flutter and he—

Dashes straight toward you. One large step, both hands jacking up to take your face captive. He raises your head, eyes closing, mouth parting an inch before it’s locked with yours.

If he hadn’t started, you would have.

The same thumb always caressing your skin pulls your lower lip down. An unfaltering habit, tender whenever he spirals. You trip backwards, with him in tow, immediately gripping his arms with a wild, accelerating heartbeat.

Your soul was already awake, lit up from today’s events; but he dunks it in a brighter shine — and now it flushes pink.

For a while, your kiss’ sounds are all that echo off the wall, mixing with your sighs. He starts gently, head angled, diving deeper.

Every now and then, he tugs at your lip ever-so-slightly, teeth and tongue dragging over it. The wet muscle is soft against yours, and you let your touch drop down to his waist to hold him closer.

But there’s not that much time to dissolve into him right here, against your entrance door, because Jungkook backs away before you can bid your sanity adieu. Maybe that’s for later.

Maybe you need to be okay with his breath grazing your skin for now, for the words he murmurs so close to your lips, “You’re crazy for this. Absolutely crazy.”

You are. Both okay with this, and incredibly crazy.

There’s never been more certainty in your actions or your intentions than whatever you do with him. For him — if that deems you crazy, then you absolutely are.

Heated from the kiss, Jungkook steps away, but not without entangling your fingers with his. On the way to the bedroom, you ignore everything that doesn’t entail him.

Like, the humming of the fridge. Or the sound of the traffic outside, audible through the tilted window. And the buzzing of your phone; it’s been doing that for a while now.

Of course it is.

But you don’t hesitate to deposit it on your bedside table mere seconds later; you barely manage to put it there, nearly watching it slide down as Jungkook pulls you back. You clash against his body, and the tongue once again mingling with yours only enhances your disorientation.

God, you’re a lost cause. Nothing else to expect with his palm holding your jaw, arm slung around you, kissing you senseless.

Time slows down; the sensation turns electric. His motions are rhythmic, fingers brushing your neck. And despite the bitterness he must have felt at the conference, he tastes so , so sweet.

Heady desire growing, you grip the back of his head, pushing it closer. You’re insatiable. Yearning for more of his damp, soft lips, hysterical when he lets out a craving, small moan.

“Do you have any idea,” he starts, giving your neck no more than a handful of teasing pecks, “what that did to me?”

He moves back until you plummet into the mattress; your eyes follow when he leans in and falls to his knees. Placing a hand at the nape of your neck, tenderly moving your face a bit closer to his.

“Without a warning, too,” he continues, “what, were you planning to drive me mad for so long?”

Not the angry kind of mad. His smile and the fondness in his eyes reveal that much. No — the mad that a lover is.

“Did it work?” you ask, and he flashes his teeth, beloved crinkles around his eyes.

“Did it? What do you think?” He kisses your nose; then, the apple of your cheek. “You didn’t notice any of it today? Or any other time before that?”

“I wanted to… I want everyone to know. I was going to tell you when you came home, but… I wanted to say it in front of everybody. That,” you touch the collar of his blazer, rubbing it between your fingertips, “I’m done with their games. I don’t care anymore, Jungkook.”

“I know… You don’t care.” His hand leaves the nape of your neck, caressing your face. “But you care about me, yes? You care so much.”

It’s not really a question. It’s a statement, a reassurance to himself. A mantra, as if he needs to repeat it and let it reverberate in his mind until he’s grasped its meaning.

“I do,” you whisper, peeling the blazer off his shoulder by only a few inches, “and I want to stay. Can I… just stay here?”

“You’re crazy,” he echoes once more, emphasising his words with a shake of his head, “to think I’ll let you go again. You’ll see.”

Although he still establishes a brief, temporary distance between the two of you right after; you’re reluctant to stop feeling his warmth when he stands. He towers over you, and you muster utmost courage to not faint.

Because the sight is one to behold.

How he removes the blazer in a swift movement, discarding it on top of the table at the wall. He rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, but only one side, glancing at you throughout the ordeal.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask.

“Why is your mouth open like that?”

“Do this exactly in front of a mirror, and… and you’ll know why.”

He smirks. “Right. And stare at yourself in the mirror for longer than a second, and you’ll know why, too.”

God, this guy…

And he actually doesn’t stop.

His pupils keep wandering; to your eyes, to your lips, to your heaving chest. To how you close your legs when he loosens his tie with tattooed fingers, lettered knuckles on full display. He opens a single button of his dress shirt; enough to reveal a patch of golden skin.

The tie dangles off his neck, doing wonders to your mind, and you resist the urge to grab it and pull him down to you. But you don’t need to; you only get to cherish the sight for another second.

Because right after, he pulls it over his head, baring the highly kissable mole on his neck before—

“What are you doing?” you wonder, eyes wide, and probably filled with anticipation as he puts the tie around your neck. “I’m…”

“Looks a lot better on you.”

One more shake of his head. You subtly catch a jerk behind his pants, and your gaze drops instantly. Behind the dark slacks, he’s already waiting for you, and the thought leaves you frothing at the mouth.

“You’re not looking bad yourself…” you say, drifting off, barely looking into his face as your hand reaches out. “May I?”

“What, baby?”

“Just…”

You move forward, a palm to his thigh, and close your eyes before placing a kiss to the growing bulge. It twitches under your lips, and you drag your mouth lightly over his dick’s outline.

“Should’ve known,” Jungkook breathes, affected straight away, “but somehow, this is worse than your hand.”

“Really?”

He clicks his tongue when you do it again, unfazed by the layer between you as you give his clothed cock an open-mouthed kiss. Two of his fingers settle underneath your chin, and he raises your head in order to meet your gaze.

Then, he pushes you back a little, within a second back to one knee; then the other. He cocks an eyebrow as if to reprimand you, but then gulps down a chuckle as he says, “Really. But wait a bit more.”

You need to wait, because he prioritises your pleasure. One demand you’re ready to give into.

So, so prepared, when he asks politely, “Open your slacks?” You do. The way he drags his hands over your thigh and up to your hips, starting to discard your pants, is arguably less polite. “Here we go. Raise your ass.”

You help him out as best as you can. But he attaches his lips to your naked thigh the moment it comes into view, scattering kisses over your hot skin as he casts it off of you entirely.

You raise your feet a bit above the ground, and he uses the moment to separate your legs. Doesn’t even bother taking off your panties first; casually making himself at home between your limbs.

Light-headed, you open your eyelids halfway to glance at the blurry ceiling light; you never noticed when you closed them. Maybe when the sweetness spread over your thighs’ skin.

Maybe he’s as dizzy as you — only, when your whirling stare descends to his face, he’s smirking. And for a second, you don’t understand why. Puzzled, you keep looking, observing the tempting lick over his lips; the deep exhale; the barely-there blinking.

And then he says, “Never thought about it. But you should wear light-coloured panties more often.”

“…Why?”

But you soon get why.

Because you feel the arousal behind the fabric. How it glues your pussy to it, the damp spot probably growing. It’s visible — that’s what he’s liking so much.

He can see all of the desire you harbour for him, showcased so blatantly. And despite the embarrassment, watching his face flush in that rosy dust boosts your ego, too.

Your face burns.

“You’ve been like that for…” he starts, shrugging his shoulders in curiosity, “how long now?”

“Long enough. And I dare you to do something about it.”

Because fuck, he talks too much. In hindsight, only really when you need him to shut up; deliberately.

“Oh god,” he exclaims, dramatic as ever; as he raises a hand, you nearly think he’ll place it on his chest for further effect, but he only touches your knee, “now if you’re daring me, I’ll have to.”

“Mhm. I’m sure you’re not a sore lo—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It’s a rude interruption, and the sudden push of his fingertip against your clit is ruder. It’s a momentary touch, fleeting, as opposed to the slow and calculated way that he buries his face in your panties. Eyes glued to yours for a moment.

And then…

Then, you relish the first taste of Heaven — as does he, you suppose.

Because the satisfied sigh is outrageous, hot against your covered folds. He licks over the damp stain, only the tip of his tongue; thoroughly salivated, because you feel the wetness seeping through the clothing.

There’s no moment between the start of his action and your immediate, ”Fuck.”

And to him, your reaction sets just the tone for a woozy night to come. He nods between your legs, gelled back strands tickling, hums so sweetly. You adjust on your seat, though the subtle change affects nothing; only drives you wilder as you shift deeper into his face.

His tongue is painting circles over your clit. Drawing out sensations, and you don’t understand how… there’s underwear between him and you. A barrier, aching to be removed, so how is he doing this, howishedoingit—

“No! Oh god—”

You can’t decipher why you voiced the rejection; you don’t want him to leave. Frustrated when he does, mouth open, waiting for you to speak up until you do, “Sorry. Sorry, I don’t fucking know…”

“Babe…” He shakes his head… He’s doing so much of this today. But one of the loose strands keeps moving so gorgeously over his forehead, so if it was up to you, he could keep doing it. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry…”

“Nah.” He says it when you press your lips together, hot and bothered as he licks another stripe along your cunt. “Didn’t mean it that way. Open that pretty mouth. Do scream, yeah?”

You could melt into the ground. Or into the sheets; he always knows what to say. No matter what the situation. A verbal monster once, a graceful poet another time.

They say, get you a man who can do both. But he can do all million things known to humankind and the book of romance.

His mouth works deeper into where you ache. Tongue action expanded, he returns to the panties, seeking one of your nether lips to tease it, pull at it. He’s ruining your garment, making it stick to your pussy.

Pries your legs open when he comes back to the clit, and then drops down to the overflowing sex again. The sensual gestures are toying with your nerves, and you still can’t figure out how. Leaves you waiting, yearning, craving the lack of a blockade in between.

And once the uncomfortable, wet cotton of your panties rubs against the inside of your folds, you finally speak up, “Why are you—”

“Sorry,” he interjects, aware of his bestiality. You see it in his stupid wicked smile. “I know. This is just…” Big eyes stare back down, albeit hazier than before; his finger touches the drenched patch for a second. “So good to look at.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Of course.”

Shit, he’s so cheeky. If you had the strength, you’d wipe that bubbly smile off his face; not good for your heart. Would smooch it away. But fret not — you’ll get your chance, too.

For now, you need to grant him this win. Not least of all, because it feels so good for you, too.

So you don’t defy him when he suddenly moves in more. Hooks a finger into your panties and slides them aside, letting them snap back against the juncture between your pussy and leg. And then, you guess the actual fun starts.

Because he throws one carnal look at you before his arms wander under your legs. You can barely gather your thoughts before he digs in again, properly this time. Lips directly attaching to your skin, he starts diligent work on soiling your body.

And god, does he do it well…

So experienced. Aware. Studied you and your body well enough — because the agonisingly slow tease isn’t random. He knows how much you hate it; knows how much you love it.

How it builds anticipation, and how it grows your desire.

He’s a little fuck, but maybe that’s why he never fails to break you this hard. You know he’s enjoying this — delighted when your eyebrows furrow, close to weeping as he breathes against your pussy.

Even though a man starved, he takes his time. For a second. Then another. And then parts your folds with his fingers, whispering, “Would you say that’s better?”

Like he’s at some meeting. Goddamn.

You blink, responding, “I don’t know. Better than the panties, worse than…” His finger slips in mid-speech, just halfway through when you manage a breathy, “this.”

“I… Shit, you’re… hot as fuck.”

Right.

Even you’re turned on by how your head tips back again, eyes rolling inward when he diminishes the distance and kisses your cunt. Nobody else is going to raise your confidence like he does.

“Mmmh,” he voices as the make out session intensifies, smacking noises sounding from below. He lifts his lips by a mere inch, only to mumble, “So hot. So fucking good.”

And that’s it — back to business.

“Nnnghkook…”

The arms he dropped under your legs sling around them, hooking in, and somehow, he’s able to reach to your back like that. Raises your legs in the process, pulling you in. Deeper in your heat, big button nose against your pelvis.

Your right hand attempts to grip his hair before you threaten to fall backwards, failing miserably. You immediately place both your palms back on the bed, because you doubt you can trust that damned left arm to hold you upright — quivering like this.

The tip of your tongue touches the arch of your upper lip, and then you tilt your head, warning him, “Fuck… if you don’t fuck my brains out today, Jungkook…”

Brains? Plural? Acting as though even one’s present in your head right now.

Jungkook chuckles, licking you dry; the little sound combined with the sinful ordeal is a delightful one. Contrary, but gifting the moment some reality. Some tenderness. You’re having fun.

He stops to throw the escaping strands back again — all in vain, of course — and brings his hand to your ass, moving you over the bed until you’re off the edge. You yelp, close to falling, but he holds you carefully.

Ass half dangling, he throws your legs over broad shoulders, kissing your thigh before he promises, “Don’t worry at all. Won’t leave a single thought in either of our heads.”

You wince when he bites the flesh of your leg, and then proceeds to advance his soft lips to the tender ache. He collects saliva on his tongue, probably ready to dive in again; moves in at least, tickling your pelvis with his breath.

His nose takes a deep breath, inhaling you, dizzy from your scent. And his thumb — it floats over your clit, preparing for more insanity. But when the position elicits some discomfort, you say, “Put me on the bed. Can I… bed properly.”

Fragments of sentences. They make him smile.

“Sure,” he says rather calmly; you’re anything but.

It’s not normal. Watching a guy like Jeon Jungkook push his hair back with his jaw on full display; tongue darting out.

He signals his approval once more as he pats your thigh, and you make quick work at weakly turning around and crawling onto the bed. You’re still trembling as you get on all fours, very conscious of what you’re doing.

Casually, you say, “I’ll get the lube, too.”

Of course you know what might follow. What will follow. He never stops raving, daydreaming, bragging about your ass — walking past you in the kitchen, just to grapple a handful and to innocently claim, “What? I love your butt.”

But before he strikes this time, you’re only barely able to grab the lube out of the drawer, placing it next to the pillow instead of handing it back to him. Because… because before you know it—

There’s already a finger to your pussy.

“Shit,” you curse, “you and your impatience.”

“Do you want me to wait?” he asks, as purely as the butt-love-statements as his touch retracts. Mellow voice; only a flutter of his lashes is missing, really. “I can wait.”

No, he can’t. Liar.

“No,” you repeat, readily letting your upper body fall. You bring your fingertips back to your ass, tracing it down until met with your arousal. “Don’t do this to me now.”

You know his answer before he utters it, “Don’t you do this to me now.” You hear a click of his tongue; a poised beam plays around your lips. “Alright. But.”

He snatches your legs from under your body until you’re flat on your tummy; you grunt just a bit. Not expecting the soft, little, “Do tell me if I do too much.”

As if…

He knows his limits. But the constant, caring pleads still always grip your heart; so you nod.

“Okay.”

Simultaneous with a fond slap, that word is the last verbal sign of his presence that you receive for a while. Whatever follows is a pure testing of limitations; of jumbling up your senses.

Because the moment Jungkook lifts your ass to his face, his tongue is already out. Experimental at first, of course, patient. He takes a second for languid kisses and soft necking, fingers exploring the inside of your thigh as if to soothe your restlessness.

And it helps. Your limbs shake a bit less, your mind focused on where his touches go. Fingertips near your folds. Lips kissing around your pussy. Then, repeating the same brush of his hands as before, but on your other leg, moving inward.

Despite the first taste he already got, he’s suddenly changed his tactic; and you’re greedy. Mewling in tiny, quiet sounds, barely realising that they’re coming out of you. You repeat his name over and over, but it never quite tumbles out in its entirety.

So you keep it at moaning, eyes closed, so infinitely relaxed.

He moves back, gently asking, “All good?”

“So far… do more, please.”

It’s what he always waits for. You know. Jungkook has a fetish for your pleas, and the tiniest fragment of your beseeching voice is usually enough for him.

Like now.

Encouraged, he pushes your shirt up to your tits, halting right under them. He touches your naked stomach, brushing your belly button, grazing a palm over your lower back and straight to your ass.

The tongue ghosting around your sex finally dares a step forward. Gets a little taste of what’s to come. Circles around your folds, then to your nub; spit gathered on the tip, never too hard, oh-so-mildly — and maybe that’s what makes it even worse.

The lack of any force. How pleasant it feels. And you let him know — respond with a desperate, unheard sound, goosebumps sprawling over your skin.

Jungkook discerns it as a signal to go on; to do more. His nose buries between your ass, pushing his tongue in a little further, alternating between licking and kissing and collecting spit. Your lust shoots to the sky; you twist and move, but he holds you in place with a single hand.

And when he disappears, you regret it immediately. You hear him say, “Hey, hey… Don’t you want me to fuck your brains out, sweetheart? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Mmhyes, yes, please.”

“…Then stop moving.” His nails are harsh against your waist, and you whimper. “The more you behave now,” he leaves a kiss on your butt, loosening his grip around your waist, “the harder I’ll go later.”

“…Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”

He chuckles. What an ass; leaving you physically and mentally covetting, and then enjoying your reactions.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, biting a little, stroking your hips, holding onto your ass cheeks.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can voice at this point. You don’t have any power over your body; can’t lift it off the mattress. “Love it.”

“Perfect.”

And then, everything seems to happen faster.

Arousal and orgasm have already built from his advances, and he gives you the rest when he starts drawing circles around your pussy again. Heightens your senses, slurps and drinks you up. Every single time it feels like he’s learned something new; you swoon at the attention to detail.

What might he be looking like right now?

Perhaps he’s biting his lip. Maybe his eyebrows are furrowed, usually tell-tale signs of either him enjoying his meal or him enjoying his meal.

“Shit,” you mumble, but you don’t think he hears it — too busy sucking at your folds, adding a finger to the mix.

Sometimes, the licks are generous, wide-tongued; sometimes, he focuses on each part individually. The insides, the clit; how you sound, how you wind.

There’s truly an utter craze you feel for this man; no matter which hazy or soft or delicate situation, he fits you like a missing puzzle piece. Like a match made in Heaven. Knows what he’s doing.

Because he knows you. Because he studies you. Observes you.

Sex is only one instance of his attentiveness.

And perhaps that’s the whipped thought that pushes you over the edge eventually. Maybe that’s why the moment passes so quickly and explosions blind you all of a sudden. Why your face glows so hot, sweat collecting over your upper lip.

It must be.

Because as he stimulates you for another minute, your sensitive cunt submits, the knot in your lower stomach unwinding. He unties it fully, eliciting a stirring feeling that makes your pussy flutter.

“Holy shit…”

You only register your voice when the peeping in your ear stops. Your voice is still damped, the world around you vanishing a bit; except for him. Always except for him.

And.

You also notice that your fingers are hurting. Did you dig them into the sheets too hard? Tug too hard? You don’t know… but their pads are almost numb.

Jungkook’s mouth is still there, though lighter now, and his finger is slightly slapping your cunt, encouraging you to keep letting go. Catching you on his tongue.

And then… it’s over. You remain quiet.

You’ll be a mess for the foreseeable future; or at least, the upcoming one or two minutes. Your back and neck are already covered in a sheen of sweat; it’s so unbearably hot, as opposed to the recklessly approaching cold outside.

Remaining like this, you let him kiss your body through your orgasm, delicately soothing the pain his fingers caused across your ass. Hovering above the small of your back, he asks, “Can you move?”

“Not yet. But…” You scan the spot next to the pillow until you find the lube, throwing it back to him at last. “I can watch.”

No objection. So you turn around.

When you finally meet his gaze again, having started missing it, he’s already unbuckling his pants. Right there, towering above you, looking directly at you. Jaw chiselled, lips swollen.

You decide to spur him on; bring the tie between your covered tits before gentle fingers grasp them deftly. Rolling your digits around their outline before squeezing them. There’s an instant reaction: The hard bite of his lip, the rushed discarding of his clothes.

And fuck, he’s beautiful. So pretty how he despairs bit by bit, only letting his pants make it to his knees before his cock has sprung out. A true monster, bloodshot like this, further growing as it twitches and jerks… blue veins wanting to be licked.

But it’s lube-day, and neither of you can wait.

So you let him make a fist around his thickness, stroking it and momentarily letting out a groan. His chest seems to deflate, shoulders dropping as he jerks himself off once more, squirts some lube into his palm, and returns to his intentions.

“Good,” you praise, watching his cheeks grow rosier, “wish you could go all out.”

“I can’t.”

You know. You know, because he’s storing all his patience for what’s to come. With and for you.

Breath stagnating, you watch a drop of sweat trail down between his tanned pecs and then into his shirt; fabric sticking to his skin. He doesn’t notice it, dazy as hell, wiping his tip clear of the precum. Every damn time you’re in disbelief when his cock grows in size, firmer and rock hard.

So many veins adorning it as it rises to his belly button; you’re sure you’ll feel them against your walls, too. You get on wobbly knees, hair already a mess, both of you still in your soaked white dress shirts.

Jungkook’s mane is falling apart much as yours, messier now, but soaking him in so much more sex appeal. There are no boundaries to his beauty; it transcends your understanding.

Enough of watching, you mentally capitulate a minute later. Too many moans and clipped vocals fill the room, whiny once, deep later; so you float up once your body allows, targeting his cock straight-forwardly.

You only deliver one surprise kiss, helping him out as you drag your tongue along the tiny slit. He reacts, caught off guard, voicing, “Oh—”

But against his possible expectations, you don’t continue. Instead, you drag your hand along his cock only twice — up and down, feeling the smooth skin, the slippery lube, the hardness underneath.

And then, you order, “Sit. Please.”

“What?”

“Here,” you point to the headboard, on your knees, kissing his sides and up his chest until you reach the open button. “Sit down for me.”

He pauses. Waits for a moment, touching your cheek when your face aligns with his. And when you keep your begging, soft gaze intact, he huffs out a broken laugh, and states, “Not sure if I can trust you to not kill me. But…” A kiss to your left eyebrow. “Anything for you.”

And whatever happens next, passes by fast.

How he obliges, dick dangling in front of his body, waiting for ruin. How he hisses a little when the sweat-drenched back touches the cold headboard. And how you adjust your body, soon sitting in reverse, facing the closet.

Floating over his cock, straddling him, spreading your pussy with your fingers. He stutters behind you, grasping for words, but silences when you move and wiggle your ass a little, only dropping a few inches until your cock can prod your entrance.

And that’s all you do. Multiple times. Practising restraint, focusing on the closet, blinking rapidly. Perhaps you’re more patient this time, because from behind, you hear another sharp hiss, and then a somewhat agitated, but endlessly turned on, “The hell are you doing to me?”

“Nothing,” you promise; the jest costs you all your energy, “what are you talking about?”

“You’re so funny, aren’t you?”

His words are accentuated by sudden grabs of your ass. One or two pinches. You should’ve known. But despite his impatience, he never forces you down onto his cock. Lets you do.

“I’m not trying to be,” you argue, aligning yourself with him gradually. Preparing yourself mentally and physically. Leaking to no end. “You’re just delusional.”

“Must be. Too good to be real.”

If you had it in you, you’d laugh. But the approaching sins and the image of his affected expressions fog your brain. Your body burns, your lower tummy tenses; your muscles feel heavy as you loom over him, and you only endure another moment.

Because soon enough, your thirst overpowers every other thought; the weight of your desire drags your body down, thankful that he’s keeping his cock upright. And then, just like that… so easily, no resistance detected, you slide down.

His tip splits you open first, eliciting an immediate sensation. New every freaking time; like the craze he fucks your mind into space with wipes your memory each time.

“Hnnngh, this is just…”

Whatever it is, there’s no word yet invented for it. So you give up right away, squinting your eye shut until you see dots and forms, breath stuck in your throat. The lack of regular inhales muddles your mind, and you feel further heat rise to your cheeks.

“Go— slow,” he pants behind you.

Of course he’s not all the way in yet. No matter how much it feels like it; you could keep going and going. Hard and monstrous, burying inside you, no end in sight.

The filling feeling catches you off guard each time; the way he leaves no room inside, causing butterflies in your stomach, wandering straight to your pussy. A ridiculously perfect phenomenon, like a key to its lock.

God. You’re overspilling.

As soon as he’s bottomed out, you relish the feeling of his skin against your ass for a moment, registering how his fingers sneak to your flesh slowly. And then, you angle your body forward, clutching the sheets before you start moving.

You keep your pace slow. Put all your intention on delicate motions, all the way up with a whimper, and then slamming back down with a gasp. The farther you go, the wetter you get. Until you’ve probably left a shimmering liquid all over his cock, gliding too damn easily.

“That’s… that’s new,” Jungkook mutters. At least that’s what you think you hear. “Gotta do it again.”

And you’re not even done with this time. But you understand — oh, you fucking understand. There’s something about not yet seeing his face but imagining all of it. How fucked out he must look. How red the apples of his cheeks must be. How sweaty his hairline is.

You grip the sheets tighter, legs closer to his, head between your shoulders. All you manage between the heavy breathing is a high-pitched, ”Jungkook—”

“Yes. Yeah, baby. This is…”

“I know. I know, keep talking.”

Which is an unfair command. He can think as much as you; you can barely comprehend letters, even less put them into actual words. But somehow, he still mutters whatever nonsense he can think of.

“Gotta do it again,” he repeats as you fasten your pace.

“Why always play such an angel, huh?” he asks as you moan and whine.

“When you’re a… a fucking demon. Literally,” he declares when you blow out breaths, letting out a crying sound.

He feels glorious inside you. Solid and gorgeous. He holds your ass cheeks in a tight grip, the strength nearly bruising when you let a hand wander back between your legs, grazing his firm balls.

When you turn around to check briefly, slowing your motions, he looks up, meets your eyes. Apparently, he wasn’t gazing at you directly at all; and you imagine there wasn’t much to see other than a bouncing mane anyway.

What he’s actually so distracted by must be…

“How’s it… it look?” you ask, circling your hips, feeling every vein, as predicted.

“It looks…”

Must be art.

Combined with his love for your ass, he must be enjoying the view; at least judging from the constant kneading and spreading. Allowing a direct, front-seat show of his cock appearing out of you, disappearing inside of you.

Glistening. Sucking him in. It must…

“Looks so fuck—ing insane from where I sit.”

The swear word is interrupted by a millisecond, breathy as hell. Allows a glimpse into how delirious he might already be, possibly faring worse than you. Impatient, seeking more.

And you do know your Jeon Jungkook well.

Because not even another breath later, his body that slid down halfway, bolts up. You feel the shift clearly; it pulls you backwards along with him. Only, you realise the movement isn’t the only source straightening you so fast.

First and foremost, it’s the freaking hand. Covered in letters and more ink, tugging at the dangling tie and following it up to the slowly unravelling knot before… abruptly snaking around your neck. Fingers right under your jaw, lifting your head.

He tugs you in until your back collides with his chest, and to your chagrin, you notice that neither of you has gotten rid of those stupid dress shirts. You won’t be able to wear them again without drifting to this memory…

Sleeve open, he wraps his arm around your body, just under your tits, and whispers, “Why… drive me mad like this?”

“H–huh?”

“So far away. Weren’t you ffffu—” The messy zero you’re drawing with your hips interrupts his string of thoughts, and he spends a second finding it again before he finishes, “Weren’t you far away long enough?”

Shit…

This isn’t just an affair. This isn’t temporary. Your brain still can’t quite understand that you’ve actually occupied this man’s heart.

That your gestures and touches aren’t a fleeting dream, but blissfully real. That you’re his, and that he’s yours.

He’s right. You were far away for too long.

So you sneak your arm back, around the back of his neck and pull him closer by his hair. His lips brush your cheek and then retreat to your ear. Nibbling for a moment. Kissing it.

You don’t know what to focus on — on the way his teeth light up your nerves, or the way his hand moves down your shirt and bra, and up your body. Soon taking your tits captive, squeezing hard, pinching your nipples.

“Move a bit,” he orders, though you don’t really have to.

His hand remains on your neck, so he pulls you forward; guess he’s sick of the shirt, too.

“You too,” you murmur.

“Yes. Patience, love.”

No. Fuck no.

Is it the nickname or his actions that empty your head this time? You don’t know. But you react.

Moaning, but it soon transitions into a yelp when he jerks up suddenly, balls deep. Your voice breaks, and you’re breathless; grateful when he unbuttons your shirt, dragging it down your shoulders.

Helping him however you can, you pull at the clothing almost aggressively, over your hand until it’s stuck there. Sporting a shirt paw, you hear Jungkook laugh behind you, peppering more kisses to your shoulder as he says, “Ah… take it easy. You’re with me tonight.”

One quick pause, and then, “You’re always with me. No rush anymore, okay? Yeah, baby?”

He aids you out of the shirt and tie with tender pecks. Thoroughly affected when you only nod so softly, eyebrows kissing. He unclasps your bra swiftly, breathing against your neck as he bares your body once and for all, putting the garment aside.

And then his forefinger moves along your neck again, only barely touching over your vocal cords; feeling your gulp before he journeys further down, back to your tits. Probably leaving scars; his nails are reckless today.

“Wanted to see those pretty tits so bad,” he says, though he doesn’t halt here — tiptoes south to your pelvis, and then to your clit. “Been thinking about this all day.”

Really?

So each of these touches consume his thoughts every damn moment of the day, too?

“You wanna see them… properly?” you wonder. You haven’t moved in a bit, lost in him, mentally tracing the lines he draws on your body. “‘Cause I wanna see you.”

“Mmmmhm. Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Then I’ll…”

You don’t speak further; busy with your further advances. Your pussy feels lonely the moment you let him slip out. You’re terribly wobbly on your knees, your thighs visibly shaking as you turn around.

Jungkook holds a hand towards you, a safety net in case you tip over. He holds your wrist gently as you move over the mattress; never more than now are you glad that his isn’t as soft as yours back at the house.

Keeping your balance, you straddle him again, back in a similar position, albeit finally facing him now. And your eyes roll back just the moment he fills you up again.

Your legs are exhausted; the moment you start moving, you barely make it far enough, and Jungkook notices immediately, whispering, “My baby tired?”

And when you nod, he holds you tight, wrapping you in his arms, and—

“Hold– hold onto me, okay?”

You do. And then — he thrusts up once.

When your head falls, his eyelids drop a little, nose touching your jaw as he says, “I could fuck you all goddamn day.”

“Do it… you can now.” His head descends to your chest, mouth open. You’re not sure what you’re opting for, but you still call his name, “Kook…”

Repeatedly lunging in, he collects the words he needs to say, so irresistibly frenzied when he vows, “I’m yours. Okay? And… I need you to stay. Am yours, baby.”

Out of nowhere — or maybe not. Maybe these very sentiments were swimming in his eyes all the time; you could just not see them yet.

Lips a hair width apart, you opt for one single kiss, only a ghost touch. You tell him, “Promised the world. Will promise it to you… too.”

“Good.” His nails scrape your back, and you tug at his hair. A moan tumbles out of him, transforming into words as he holds your body in place, pumping into you, “Fuck, you– feel so good. Just you. So, so good.”

“Ngh, I—”

“I know, I can… can’t breathe, either.”

He kisses your shoulder, the skin flaming under his mouth. Although late, you imitate his prior gesture, peeling off his intruding shirt as smoothly and fast as you possibly can. It’s been a wall between you for too long now; you need to see those pretty tits, too.

And once the buttons open and the shirt flies, you finally bask in the toned beauty. Soaked chest, brawny, chocolate chip nipples as hard as yours. Soon pressing into you, lips thirsting for you, slamming against your mouth.

The fever rises, the temperature akin to lava. Your sounds are desperate and wanting, and you hold onto him for dear life. And before you know it, you’re not claiming your throne anymore.

Suddenly, you find yourself floating for a moment, and then sinking into the mattress, and then curling your hands into fists and him slamming into you harder, deeper, all the way in...

Fuck.

Towering over you, he spreads your legs wide, temptingly licking his thumb before it presses down onto your swollen clit. One jab. A second. Another and another and another.

“Yes. Yes, please—” you beg and yell, letting him pound you into oblivion.

The first hint of stars already grace the darkness behind your eyelids, but then Jungkook starts delivering rapid, light slaps to your nub. He’s chasing your high as much as you are; you know. The chaos unfolding doesn’t hold him back from observing your reactions.

Only focusing on his own end of pleasure when you’re done.

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes, and you cling to his arms, his hands pushing into your waist. And it takes just a moment longer. And another second. Several more shoves, the curve of his cock dragging along your walls and your sensitive spot.

Thoroughly drenched, both of you, as he drives all of him into you. Parting your legs whenever they attempt to shut again. And the universe finally expands, a million celestial bodies dying and imploding, much like you and…

Suddenly, you’re off the cliff.

Falling into a deep ocean. Or the vast night sky. You don’t know — you don’t feel real.

All you know is that your thighs and ass are wet. That you ruined yet another sheet. That Jungkook is out of breath, fucking you through your high, ensuring that you come back to him only bit by bit, so, so slowly.

Gentler now, you feel his body subside, down to you. His skin is glowing with sweat when your eyes crack open just a slit, though they instantly drop close again when he kisses you once more.

He does it only softly this time, as if he’s trying it out. Gauging your reaction. And you do reciprocate the touch, even if weakly. You’re still too gone to look at him properly, but that doesn’t deter him from casting another spell in your heart.

Because his words reach every fibre of you. Butterflies swarm your stomach as he says, “I still can't believe that you’re staying. You did this… you fucking did this—”

“Why not? Wh–why can’t you believe it?”

“Because you’re staying with me. You stayed with me. And…”

Somewhere, it stings. That he’s surprised by constant company. By someone not leaving… by someone worth all his affection glueing themselves to him. And yet, you understand.

That’s a pain the two of you share.

He stares through your gaze, as if he’s frisking for something specific. With each passing moment, it’s like he’s realising something new, yet unable to really verbalise it.

Like something’s burning on his tongue.

But all he does whisper is, “How do I ever stay away from you now, huh?”

“Don’t.” You touch his face, and he doesn’t waste a second to lean into your touch, kissing your palm. “Please just don’t.”

“Won’t be able to… And it sucks that—”

He frees your face from your stick hair strands, still moving inside you. His own tresses hang into your forehead; his thumb touches your lower lip.

“That I can’t be with you every damn second of the day. I mean…” He leans in. Pecks your eyelids; your heart bursts. “What if I can’t move an inch from you?”

You keep staring. Unable to answer. Keep looking and drinking in every emotion laid bare in his confessions. Your misty mind feels calm; not as heavy as hours ago.

And you’re woozy; so indescribably giddy when he adds, “You… you mean so much to me.”

Damn. Damndamndamn.

And you’re fucking obsessed with him. Want his kiss on you all the time; words tattooed on your brain, etched into your soul.

“Jungkook.”

“Huh— yeah?”

“Can you…” You gulp, drooling at the thought, and then spitting it out at once, “Finish in my mouth.”

“Shit,” he exclaims, though the word is more a maniac laugh than anything else, “you know exactly you— you can’t say this to me.”

You know. Because any image of his cock ramming your throat empties his head.

Once more, he mumbles, ”Damn it,” before he’s picking up on pace. You move your hands over his broad shoulders, soon curling your fingers in to hold tight — it’s what the situation suddenly requires. Because gradually, his hips slam into you faster.

The dull sound of his thighs meeting yours repeatedly is lewd, volume increasing when he starts jackhammering into you. Your rhythmic, breathless cries become irregular and broken, turning into screams, and you feel a droplet escaping the corner of your eye.

Throat dry and jaw aching from the parted mouth, you keen from the sensitive feeling inside. You’re so full. So invigorated. Holding onto him tight, so you don’t crumble.

And just as you yell out a dozen curses, Jungkook, voice raised, states, “Fuck, fuuuck, gonna come, babe, f— open your mouth—”

You do. Instantly, tongue out, choking because it’s so much harder to breathe like that. Jungkook trembles over you, lips wet; his arms threaten to give out, letting his body nearly collapse on you, but just a moment before he does, he pulls out.

Hurrying, his knees dig closer to you, cock and ass right above your face as he holds the length between strong fingers. Secured in his palm, he strokes himself over you, glancing into your hungry eyes.

“Pretty girl,” his other digits raise your head by your chin, and his body is swinging, unstable; shoulders high. “My sweet baby… You can’t just…”

Pinching your chin fondly, he digs his cock into your mouth, still pumping the base and touching his balls. You raise your head to not suffocate in the process, and he lets your chin go to grip your hair, lifting you halfway just in time before—

His load finally spills. All of it. So much of it. Hot and sticky, thick as the ropes shoot straight into your throat. You nearly gag, keeping yourself together, swallowing diligently as he empties his balls.

There’s fucking buckets of it, shit…

You close your eyes, focusing on breathing, and once he’s done, you close your lips around his cock. Still hard, although slowly softening, you lick the remnants of his arousal and whatever’s left of you. The tastes mingle, and your head spins…

And then, he pulls back. You’re beaten, gulping, smacking away the saltiness.

Still overwhelmed from the taste, you let your head fall back onto the pillow; but your fingers still seek his touch. The mattress next to you flattens again as his knees retract, and soon enough, laying down beside you.

Both of you are too done in to speak, even less to move. So you let a few minutes pass. Then, you find his fingers, entangling them with yours; waiting a bit more.

And only when your heart rate calms a bit, you stir, hearing him suggest, “Quick shower?”

You smile. The kisses aren’t over yet.

For a while longer, the profuse heat lingers.

The radiator is off, and some of the windows were open when you came home. And despite choosing to stay bare after the shower for some more, you don’t register any of the cold yet; you’re sheltered, safe and so, so warm.

Jungkook’s fingers keep trailing up and down way after you’re done, lips planting generous kisses to your scalp and face. He paves his way to the corner of your mouth and then up to your eyebrows; and when he reaches your nose again, you lift your head abruptly.

Chasing his kiss, even if for just a second, a hand on his cheek and shoulders rising. Occasional giggles and smiles, tickles and pinches keep you busy temporarily; you don’t know how much time passes, nor do you care.

You only snap out of your daydreams when his kisses gain on urgency, tongue diligent. A palm creeps dangerously close to your ass, threatening to slink to your beaten sex.

But your reaction is quicker than his sly attempt, and you say, “Wait— no. Can’t do it again.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Of course.” Damn his shoulder shrug. You tap his pelvis before you wrap a leg around his waist, teasing, “I didn’t feel the twitch at all.”

He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. But it’s not my fault that you’re so stubbornly sexy.”

“Stubbo—” You giggle mid-sentence, imitating the shake of his head. “I hope you know I’d let you tie me down and do whatever the fuck—”

“My god. Stop saying it like that.”

“—but my body won’t let me yet. I also still stink.”

“Stink?” He shifts dramatically, burying his nose between your tits. His voice is muffled when he asks, “Do you?”

“Stop. You’re so weird,” you scold, but the word is drenched in laughter; you forcefully lift his head again. “We still need to change the sheets and the shower was quick. Do I not?”

“You kinda do. Like cherry blossoms.”

“Shut up.”

“What? Sue me for telling the truth. My girlfriend smells like cherry blossoms.”

Oh… oh?

Wait.

Your mouth shuts tight.

Did he…

The beam that spreads on your face is almost embarrassing; surprise, joy and affection conjoin, your guts twisting. You take a breath. Feel the sparkles in your own damn eyes; tender gaze directed at him.

And the freaking flutter in your heart; the temperature in your cheeks. Do these things ever stop?

The words sink in slowly; and Jungkook takes the time to ask, “What?”

“You… you haven’t called me that yet, have you?”

He’s perplexed. Guess even to him, it was a Freudian slip, because his eyes are wider than ever. He waits, thinks for a moment; then admits, “Uhm. No. I don’t think so.”

“Well, I… like the sound of it.”

“It’s… it’s true. You’re my girlfriend, aren’t you?” His eyes smile before he does; unrestrained devotion in them. “My baby?”

He says it so innocently, so sweetly that you can’t help but coo. Teasingly, you pat his cheek, telling him, “I mean I hope I am. Considering I’m moving in with you.”

“Yes. You are. Of course you are.”

“…Girlfriend.” Sheepishly, much like a teenage girl, you keep your twinkle intact, still feeling the lasting gleam on your face. You must be reminiscent of the sun and the moon. Emboldened, you start, “Then… boyfriend. Can I ask you something?”

The term elicits similar glee in him, teeth out, grin bright. He waits wordlessly with sparkling eyes, and you touch his lip, asking, “How do you feel right now? About all that?”

“I feel… I’m in disbelief. You’re moving in with me and just. Somehow, even saying it feels surreal.” He sighs, searching for words. “I’m in disbelief and crazy for you. That’s all I know.”

Falling deeper and without an end is possible. Jungkook has taught you that; still does.

“…I was so scared you wouldn’t like me doing this,” you confess.

“What? Saying yes to being with me all the time? Sounds horrible.” He laughs. “I’m happy. And I’m happy that you’re happy, too. Okay?”

“I wasn’t for a while, you know? You make me feel good. Take me by my word and give yourself credit for it.” He needs to. He might have doubted his role in everyone else’s life so far, but his value to you needs to be clear at all times. “Not just now, Kook, but, you always make me feel good. I hope you know that.”

“I do. This time, I do…” Content, you smile; until he stalls for dramatic effect, mouth open to indicate something to come. Your beam expands to exhilarated laughter when he squeezes your ass again, adding with another snicker, “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t make my favourite munchkin feel good?”

“…There’s more than one?!”

Hmm…

That’s what you’d been yearning for all this time.

Because there’s something so vulnerable about your elation; the enlivened titter. About your newfound feelings. About these very first phases of a sensitive relationship. Something serene.

And the meaning behind your words keeps changing with him; carries much more weight, and makes you feel so much lighter. As if levitating on cotton clouds.

Girlfriend. Boyfriend.

Peace reigns supreme and for a while you’re hopeful enough to doubt anything could disrupt it. Even the world is quiet when you look out the window.

September isn’t yet harsh enough to cover all above pitch black, but it’s still dark grey and drab. The sky still somewhat illuminates the unruffled room through the tilted window.

But just when tranquillity reaches its peak, your phone vibrates on the bedside table; you flinch.

The screen’s shine overshadows the faded monochrome of the world. It’s unwelcome, intruding — and once you lean over, holding the blanket over your chest, you realise that the message is just as unsought.

Mom [7:12PM]: We need to talk. Mom [7:12PM]: I’m still at Charmante for another hour and a half.

…At this time?

Did you leave her this desperate?

“What is it?” a dulcet voice asks from behind.

You hear the bed creak a little, his body cold without yours. Despising the distance, he puts a gentle hand to your shoulder, planting a kiss right next to it; when you lack his desired reaction, he asks again, “Everything okay?”

“Hm?” You barely tilt your head, eyes still glued to the words that you’ve already internalised. You cover his hand with yours. “Yeah. Just. Look.”

You hold the phone into his face; the penetrant white floodlights his skin. The warm gold shines in the glow, his lips drier than before. They move as he reads, and then, they close, giving way to a hum.

The initial silence suggests that he might be thinking the same as you — to bail. To shut the phone again, slide it to the edge of the bedside table and drop back against his chest, above his heart.

But you should know Jungkook better; he won’t discourage a familial reunion, praying for a better outcome than he ever had. He’s always spoken for your relationship with them — thinking back, he has never truly badmouthed your mother.

So you’re not too surprised when he hands you the phone back, careful to not turn your mother’s two marks blue, and suggests, “Maybe you should go.”

You sigh. You don’t want to. It’s too early for confrontation; time hasn’t passed, and the issue hasn’t yet marinated. Then again, the problem might only grow if you postpone this.

But your heart is biased, angry, refusing to oblige to her demands one more time. So you ask for yet another confirmation, “Right now? But I…”

You turn back to him, shaking your head slowly, troubled. He props his head up, eyes staring down to you as you lay flat on your back, hands folded under your breasts.

“Give yourself closure, babe.”

“I got closure.”

“No,” he strikes back, fingers lifting to your jawline. He touches it lightly, brushing it delicately, “Actual closure. To finish this. And she deserves it, too, you know? She’s still waiting there, angel.”

“Jungkook, you…” You click your tongue, gaze swerving to the unlit ceiling light and then back to him. “You’re too good.”

“I’m sorry.”

You smile, and he throws a palpitation-inducing twinkle back. You know he’s right — it must have been a shock for her after all. More or less double-crossed by her own daughter, humiliated in a public setting — her brain must be frying.

Reluctantly, you stretch your arm to the side, tapping for your phone, and roll your eyes at Jungkook playfully when you open the message to type back. His body floats down, lips planting a barely-there kiss to your collarbone.

You [7:14PM]: I’ll be there in half an hour.

“Alright then…”

Your body lifts off the mattress with the idlest of movements. The afterglow might die once you’re there, but you guess you need the confrontation–fight? Argument?—to ensure more, blissful nights.

This time, you don’t bother with your clothing as much as you did when you prepared for the press conference. You slip into the first best jeans you find, throwing a cosy pullover over your torso.

Busy with the rush, you don’t notice that Jungkook isn’t standing behind you in his usual grey joggers but in jeans, too. He’s fiddling with your car keys, stuffing his wallet into a pocket, and you stare wide-eyed, waiting for an explanation.

And once your digging stare pierces through him, he reciprocates it with similar confusion, half his hand still in the pocket as he inquires, “What?”

“What are you doing?” you ask, gesturing up and down his body.

“What do you mean?”

The back and forth of questions leaves you further bewildered, and you step closer, softly snatching the keys out of his fingers as you say, “Babe… It won’t take long.”

You don’t think he quite understands — it seems that to him, it was a given this entire time that he’d accompany you to your work building. But when it seeps through, his expression changes, more relaxed.

His head tilts, blinking slowly as he assures, “I won’t let you go alone.”

“Kook—”

“It’s honestly not a big deal. You said it won’t take long, so I’ll wait outside.” He shrugs, forefinger at the nape of his neck, scratching. “Plus, I’ll just get bored here alone.”

A warm flutter engulfs your heart. You wonder how couples spend days, months, years together without burning up every moment during their togetherness. Because you don’t think you’ll ever get over the fire he sets ablaze in your lungs — how does one get accustomed to affection like this?

You don’t know.

Maybe you don’t need to know.

Not more than what his eyes say, at least.

“What did you do all the time I wasn’t here?”

His grin is playful, but there’s tender truth in his words, “Something any guy waiting for you would do,” big brown irides meet yours, fingers fiddling, “counted the seconds until I could see you again.”

Your laugh is sudden before you ask, “Is that a quote from SpongeBob?”

And the joy holds on as you leave the apartment and rush down the flight of stairs. The short comedic journey to your car is distracting — most of reality only dawns on you when you step into the car.

Reminiscent of the last time the two of you drove over to a confrontation — just a little after his vacation; just a bit before the heartbreak.

The streets are quieter and emptier at this hour, the repose enhanced by the gentle drizzle. It’s significantly darker than when you arrived home, though it hasn’t been too long since you drove this exact way in the opposite direction. Two hours?

Maybe it’s the cloudy, almost black sky, accompanied by the hushed sound of the rain that’s amplifying your fears. Because the calming ambience from a minute ago worries you the closer you get — this once, you’d rather bask in sunshine and daydreams.

But no.

Hope is on your side; you’re done worrying, right?

As you sit up straight in your seat, Jungkook glances from you from the driver’s seat, eyes shooting to and fro between you and the street. His lips part as he operates the wheel with one hand, using the other to wrap around your fingers.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, squeezing once before he lets go, brushing over the back of your hand and gripping the wheel again, “there’s just so much she can say. You made a decision as a full adult and she’ll have to accept it.”

“Yeah.” You follow the streetlamps and their warm radiance, redirecting your focus on the next as you pass each. “I hope so.”

The ride home was different; you were filled to the brim with energy and adrenaline. Your legs were putty, so he insisted for you to freeze on the passenger’s seat, reluctant to hand you the keys to drive.

You were waiting for the streets to end, to shut his door behind you, and to breathe and sigh through a sleepless night with him. The anticipation, combined with the aftermath of the press conference made you restless — you wouldn’t stop gnawing on your thumb.

And he didn’t interrupt your thoughts, let you flick through them until he finally looked at you at a traffic light. Raising the back of his digits to your cheek, assuring, “It’s okay, angel.”

Maybe the breathy tone and the hundred promises wrapped into one reassurance prompted your reaction at his place at all.

Jungkook turns into your work street, and you hold your breath. Your heart knocks violently against your ribcage, disabling a proper thread of thoughts. Which is a shame, because you really wanted to draw a collection of snappy remarks you could retort in there.

Instead, you merely look at the entrance far at the end of the street, unmoving as Jungkook moves into a parking lot and kills the engine. You blink; then blink some more. The gulp, you think, is audible in the small space of the car.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks.

“No… I don’t think she’d want that.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pinch your chin between two fingers. He moves your head toward him, eyes a liquid, wavy ocean at night. Affectionate. “She’s your mom. Despite everything, I know she loves you.”

“I don’t know…”

“She does. I saw it the night I picked you up and I saw it Monday morning, too. So.” The head tilt, the soft curve of his eyebrows, the care in his pupils — they’re a healing bandage around your heart. “Don’t be scared.”

He leans over the centre console armrest, still holding your face in his grasp, and presses his lips just barely, sweetly to your wrinkled forehead. You think the muscles react immediately, temples relaxing.

For a second, he lingers, and then he pulls back a fraction, looking at you from an inch-wide distance, and whispers, “Don’t be. I’ll be here all the time.”

Right — armour-clad, like a knight. You finally nod, a weight dropping off your heart. You cement his smile deeper into your mind; a coping strategy in case things escalate in there.

Once more, you squint at the entrance doors, though barely visible from here. Hand on the handle, you say, “If I’m not out in twenty minutes, call the police.”

Jungkook tsks, eyes rolling with badly hidden amusement, ordering, “Just go. Will be here.”

Yes. Breathe.

He’ll be right here when you come back. And it’ll all be over then.

The building feels sinister, empty like this. Nothing of the busy and lively mood remains; the lack of the chatter and footsteps drenches the entrance hall in gloom.

It reminds you of horror movie locations; you can’t help but hesitate as you walk in.

Especially today, the silence is unbearably odd; the press isn’t lurking anymore, isn’t swarming you anymore. You don’t want to imagine how hard it must’ve been to convince the reporters to finally leave.

You sigh…

In less than a day, they’ll have today’s highlights printed in newspapers and posted; feasting. Big, bold headlines will narrate the words you uttered; of course they will. With your family relishing a local celebrity status, the media would be damned if it didn’t make any profit out of you.

For the first time, however… you don’t care. You inhale.

And as you walk past the glass walls and up the stairs, clutching your work keys, you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to run away from this place anymore.

You’ve liked your job since you started, no doubt, despite your initial worries and fears. But the thought of losing against the world, or of losing him terrified you. Maybe you were too naive to fight those who wished you harm mere months ago, freshly out of college.

But now that you realise that you won’t be roaming these hallways in a couple weeks, that you have dropped the mic in a way they won’t be able to pick it up to hurt you again, you feel relieved.

Feel a sense of responsibility. Like an adult.

Okay.

She told you she’d wait in an unoccupied office on the first floor — you usually frequent it with Zara, sifting through theories and changes. You wonder why your mother didn’t settle on her own office — then again, you imagine it must hurt to suffer defeat in the very room where she’s supposed to reign.

As you reach the room, your fist lifts to the door. Though you soon realise that it might be entirely unnecessary, judging the slight gap and the soft noise from within. So you gently push the ajar door open, met with a tired figure behind an imposing desk.

She’s lost in thought, but as you enter, her gaze slowly ascends, her posture reclining. And you see it immediately.

The usually cold eyes, now brimming with disappointment and sorrow.

Her eyes flit, as you assume unintentionally, into a corner. She dodges a simple greeting when you mumble a timid, “Hi,” and you drop the formalities right away. Don’t even attempt to sit — stand there, towering in front of her, not intending to stay long anyway.

And it seems her thoughts and intentions align, because she refuses to beat around the bush, a weary voice asking, “Why did you do that?”

“Mmh… You’re asking like I shouldn’t have.”

“Because you shouldn’t have.” Typical. Her point of view will always be her only truth. You listen on, but can’t help but tense. “Your father and I built this for you, and we intended to forward it to you. You know that.”

You don’t like that tone; you never have. It always ran over your spine as a shiver, weakening your knees. Even today, you’re conditioned to buckle just a bit. You exhale.

“Mom, have you ever heard yourself speak? You’ve never even remotely tried giving me anything else that way,” you complain, leaning to clutch the chair with one hand, the other gesturing around the room. “You built this stupid empire for yourself and kept it intact for me, so I can continue your work.”

You huff out a mocking breath, shaking your head just a little. “You never even asked me. You just told me to do it all.”

Her voice is sharper when she responds, “We didn’t hand it to you to make you suffer, for god’s sake.” She’s irritated, eyebrows deeply furrowed. “Christ, you were supposed to have a good future.”

“Yes, and I will! I’m happier than I have been all summer. Do you even have any idea what happened during that time?!”

You pause. She doesn’t answer, clearly sorting out a hundred answers.

Because a lot happened — most of it a direct effect of her or the media’s bullshit. Of course she won’t be able to pick out just one single thing.

So you explain, “Did you even understand that Jungkook broke up with me because of the thing you pulled with that dumb journalist?” You spit the word like a curse, grimacing. “And that he avoided me because he thought he was ruining me?”

You try to make it sound as ridiculous as you can muster, wondering if the realisation is dawning on her.

“Did you even notice how I didn’t come out of my room for da—”

“Just why,” she interrupts, eyes shutting tight in disbelief and agitation, palms toward the ceiling, “would you jeopardise your life and emotions because of him?”

Jeopardise. Holy fuck.

She has a whack understanding of villainhood.

“Because he’s important to me! You can’t even imagine how hurtful it is to only be talking about work to you. You never ask me if I eat or sleep enough. You didn’t even give me a graduation present. He did! But you wouldn’t know!”

You think back to the lamp in your room, the one she has never seen — remember the dark ceiling, the aurora and stars projected to it. The touches that followed.

“He’s unbelievably important to me, Mom. Okay?”

“You’ve been with him for just a while.”

You grit your teeth. It’s like talking to a wall; a daycare child would catch the sentiment better than her.

“Yeah,” you say, scoffing, “and it makes me embarrassed for you, because I’ve known you my entire life and you never cared this much. Like, fuck, even Dad did.”

Her jaw clenches as you swear, nostrils close to flaring as you concede more pain, “Jungkook actually makes me feel human.” There’s a sting in your eyes. You blink it away. “I’ve been feeling like a person, which just… made me understand that—”

You gulp, your throat tied and your head heavier now. You wait, shrugging. Then—

“That I can receive affection, too.”

Your friends are your first memory of care; barring them, you only had a faint idea of what devotion entailed. Learning what it means to be genuinely important to someone had been on your bucket list — this year, you ticked it off.

“I just hate that he had to glue me together first for me to understand.”

Because she broke you first. The contrast couldn’t be more crystal clear.

She doesn’t dig your monologue. Her countenance fills with different shades of ridicule and embarrassment, shreds of anger thrown into the mix. Filed nails tap against an open folder, the other hand rubbing her forehead.

“You sound ridiculous,” she derides, “you can’t throw your future away because of love. It won’t pay your bills.”

“I’m gonna be a manager, though. I’ll pay my fucking bills. And Jungkook is working his way up, too.” Your latter statement gains a sceptical stare, followed by a skyrocketing eyebrow. It satisfies you. “He is. He’s getting his own part at an exhibition. We’ll be fine.”

She frowns, mouth already agape as she psyches herself up for another answer, and you already roll your eyes, prepared to interrupt.

“You—”

“You were so grateful last weekend,” you argue.

“Because you almost killed yourself!”

“No! If you’re so worried, then call! You could’ve called and asked where I was like mothers do. Made sure I was well and not drunk out of my mind!”

“Stop it,” she stands, her voice as damaging as a serrated knife. You flinch as she charges for you, and you breathe out, ready for a slap — but her body halts in front of yours. “How do you expect to run from this just by switching to another company? Novaura’s still mine, too.”

No…

You hold your breath. Straighten your back, hands sweaty as your nails dig in. She’s been predictable half her life; not always quite vile. But you know what she’ll say next, and you know it’ll be the most odious thing she’s ever uttered.

“And I could keep you here if I wanted to. They’d throw you out if I told them, too.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you blink, scorning, “You’re serious?”

A breath of laughter escapes your chest, and you shake your head in disbelief. You’re done.

You press your lips into a thin line before smacking them, nodding in faux agreement before you say, “Okay. Go ahead. But if you do, I won’t shut up this time. Today, I was being nice. I praised you, and none of my nice talk was actually deserved.”

Choosing your words carefully, you pronounce every syllable as if explaining molecular biology. She listens, not spitting an answer immediately.

So you challenge further, “You want to throw me out? Do it. It’s your reputation. I didn’t say anything wrong at the conference today, because it’s my right to choose the career I want. You’d be abandoning your own daughter if you pulled this through.”

You have her attention. Her lips stay sealed.

“And when they ask me,” you continue, eyes now fiery; you’re so done. So, so done. “I will let them know that you did it out of spite. Try finding an excuse why you did when we’re there. I won’t be at any disadvantage.”

You press into your palms one more time, relaxing your jaw, and opt to turn and walk away. Hurling one more glare towards her, you spit, “I have a degree, just a reminder.”

And that should be it.

Pride unfurls across your chest, warm in your stomach as you take long strides out of her office. You hear the quiet call of your name, suddenly desperate. But now that you’ve said your part of the truth, you don’t turn around anymore.

Only shut the door behind you hard; shutting all she’d hoped for with it.

Despite the satisfaction still bubbling in your stomach, you can’t shake the clump in your throat and the anxiety in your heart. The post-fight adrenaline pumps through your veins, and your fingers shake.

There’s discomfort in deserting your own mother; the irrational fears were to be expected. You didn’t do anything wrong, you know, you know. But your organ still thumps like drums, and you lift a hand to your chest. A vain attempt to calm your breathing.

And then… something miraculous happens.

The brisky gust of the evening brushes your cheeks; the bright lights of the city contribute to your sudden peace. They’re a reminder that the world is far wider than this damn building. Than her.

But more than anything, your worries dissipate when the strolling figure grows in your sight. As you walk the short distance to your car, you feel your heart lighten — your forehead and temples relax.

He has his hands on his waist, chin slightly raised as if watching the stars that hide in the city sky anyway. His steps are small, and his eyebrows calm. He looks serene.

And once his hands slide into his open jacket’s pockets, he looks down the street again, surprised when you’re mere steps apart.

“Ah,” he voices, one palm already out as he stretches it toward you, “barely fifteen minutes. I was about to come in.”

Deep sigh in, you let his arm pull you in his embrace, swiftly wrapped around your torso. He smells like fresh clothes, after-rain, and vibrant, like the lights in the sky.

Your arms sling around his body with an urgency, and you muffle your voice against his chest as you ask, “Already?”

“Already?” he repeats, though dragging the word more than you did. His arm squeezes you once as his other hand escapes his pocket, too, stroking your head. “Those weren’t days? I swear I felt myself ageing in there.”

Your fist thumps against his chest lightly, and you giggle against his sweater. “Don’t be so dramatic.” Eyes slowly unfocusing, you rub the zipper teeth of his jacket between your fingers, softly mumbling, “Thank you for being here. You’re the best.”

You feel a movement over your head; he’s lowering his chin to your hair, still caressing your head as if lulling you into sleep. And it’s working — you feel drowsier by the second.

But then, his chest rumbles as he hums, cautious as he asks, “Are you okay?”

Are you?

You’re about to start a new life where you desire, with whom you desire. Finding permanent residency in his presence the way he finds it in your thoughts.

A few more steps, and you can make yourself home. Not in those rooms, but in him. Because that’s what he is.

A blanket, a radiator, the comforting voice that soothes and heals. Worshipping you within the same four walls every single day.

You’re not just okay — you’re craving.

Leaving his warmth and scent, you lean back and look at him. His eyes are as big as you’re used to, awaiting an answer, genuinely curious. Your heart threatens to burst; the sting is painfully sweet.

“Yeah,” you answer, touching the purple sweater, “I promise I am.”

Because. Because that’s all you ever wanted.

It’s over. You’re going home — you are home.

You can’t remember whether it was your fingers clawing into Jungkook’s shirt or his hand brushing through your hair that kept you in the sheets twenty minutes longer than anticipated.

The plan was to snooze once and get into a routine with divided work. One prepares breakfast, the other makes the bed and cleans up before leaving the apartment.

But it seems that so far, your routine has consisted of lazy mornings. Tired hums. Quiet, hushed and slightly hoarse good mornings and entangled limbs.

You pressed between his shoulder blades as he strokes your head, planting kisses on your temple and your forehead.

“Slept well?” he asked today. Another peck in between. Then, drowsy and sighing, “Is the mattress okay, by the way? I like the firmer ones better since they’re good for your back, but I know you had a softer one, so if you need…”

“No, not at all,” you promised, warm and safe under the covers. “This is perfect.”

No… the softness wasn’t needed. Your muscles were so relaxed, you were sinking into the bed anyway. Sleeping a dent into it. At peace as his nails gently scraped over your scalp, massaging and caressing.

He could’ve lulled you into sleep like that; and his voice served as soft, white background noise. The words he used. The honey sweet tone. The past tense in what you had, and what you have now.

If you hadn’t been so lethargic, you would’ve floated through your chores. But when the clock ticked too dangerously fast and brought your working hours sickeningly close, you decided to eat out instead.

You always fool around at breakfast too much — stretching it longer than it needs to be. A café was, surprisingly, the smarter, more time-efficient option.

And a great opportunity and excuse to explore the places near you. Jungkook promised there was an amazing bakery nearby, and you trudged along, tummy rumbling, now that you weren’t in bed with him and satiated anymore.

“You’re sure you’ll be at home by the evening?”

You gather the remaining crumbs of your pastry with the pad of your thumb, waiting for Jungkook to slurp the last of his coffee. He nods, soon answering, “Mhm. I won’t be at work for long. Might come home before you do, actually.”

“Okay,” you suckle at your thumb, shoulders relaxing as you stare at the drizzle outside. The day started out grey. “And then tomorrow, I’ll be off work by the afternoon, so I should be able to bring more things over from the house.”

Tired from the morning, your eyes remain on the customers trudging in and out of the café. They shake the water drops off their umbrellas, or sigh at the prospect of stepping out into the rain again.

Their expressions aren’t quite dispirited, but… perhaps a little dim.

You raise a side of your lips in empathy, and then continue, “And then on Saturday, I’m getting the truck to the house, for the rest of my stuff.”

“Babe,” Jungkook interrupts, pausing to smack the coffee’s taste away. His hand slides over the table, wrapping his fingers around three of yours. “Let me come with you tomorrow. You’re already doing too much.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t drag you there unless I absolutely have to. Besides,” your voice is soft when you lean forward, raising your entangled digits to your lower lip. “You’ve been busy plenty, too.”

And it’s true.

He’s been taking care of the apartment and cooking dinner these days. Organising documents with you, so you have whatever needed to change your address and whatnot. Doing small purchases for the household and vacating some of the closet to make place for your stuff.

Two weeks have passed since the press conference — and Jungkook has been a pillar of strength and sanity as much as you have been his. You communicate each night, regulating finances, dividing roles and sharing comfort.

You don’t think you’ve ever witnessed or felt a relationship as symbiotic as this one… and you’re just starting out.

His thumb brushes over your fingers, still reassuring you, much as you expected, “I honestly don’t mind.”

“It’s okay,” you argue, “we still have a lot more to do. Save your energy for that. I’d still love these deco vines for the living room, remember? Let’s get them together.”

Your words are breathy, as if you’re being reborn. A breeze of refreshment — and he feels it, too. There’s something about the thought of simplicity livening up your bustling days.

Mundane tasks, like shopping for casual things together.

Groceries. Decoration. Plants.

With all the planning of switching work and homes, the two of you have been incredibly breathless. You even told him about a meeting at your new place today, a discussion about trivial matters, general know-how and preparation you need to do.

The sliver of stress is visible in your eyes — you’ll be seeing the other managers today. And you’re nervous about it, unsure what vibe the meeting might set.

But despite the stress, you’ve been as bright as Venus in the night sky. He understands. If anyone does, then him.

Because the idea of strolling through Ikea's tableware department is balm to his mind. Your laughter sounding through its hallways, half your body leaning over the shopping cart, because you surely seem like the type to do so.

His voice is as gentle as the mizzle outside when he promises, “We’ll get anything you want.”

“Really?” Your smile is radiant, cheeks glowing as you press the lightest kiss to one of his knuckles. “Sounds good to me.”

Time passing has always been a bummer. Despite the quiet noise in the café, the clock ticks as if in a deafening volume, a reminder that you need to let this hand go soon.

Sometimes, you do worry. About the attachment, and the healthy obsession with him. And on the other side, about every moment he worships you, and every second he misses you.

How there’s discomfort in being apart, even if for mere hours. Maybe that’s why he holds you so tight at night. Or why you’re constantly itching to get home.

Perhaps there’s a lingering fear that your time separated brought, a sneaking anxiety of being dragged apart again.

Yet, instead of dwelling in improbable what-ifs, you breathe in the air of the room, direct your senses away from the clock and toward the increasing patter of rain against the window panes.

You squeeze the fingers around you harder, delving into one last soft conversation as you ask, “You’re at lunch with Joon later, right?”

“Yeah, he promised me burgers today.”

“What for again?”

“Because I’m his favourite staff member?” Jungkook lifts your hand to your mouth when you open it, shushing you with your own fingers. “Don’t say it. I am his favourite staff member.”

“‘Kay. Understandable.”

“You know…” He shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly, but the soft drop of his gaze, fingers fiddling and toying with yours betrays him. He’s still so delicate around you. “If you want, you can join.”

“Oh. Mmmh,” you think for a moment, but then click your tongue, insisting, “it’d be weird, I think. Dunno if he’d want it.”

“I would want it.”

He always does.

Yearning. Obsession. A humane way of falling in love.

You feel like a person. No matter how odd the phrase might sound in your head, the painful truth behind it is undeniable. You feel like a person.

“Okay,” you reply, slowly reclaiming your hand, reluctantly preparing to leave. “I’ll see if I find time and energy during my lunch break.” You halt, unblinking, before you look back at him with squinting, uncertain eyes. “Totes Bag Street, was it?”

The sudden, choking laugh erupting out of Jungkook is a surprise. If his coffee cup wasn’t empty yet, he’d still be sipping, probably ruining the white, silky shirt you’re sporting today.

You actually mean it, don’t you?

His trademark laugh is high-pitched, melodious, though a little more controlled in the public space, but the flashing of his teeth and his dimples implies genuine joy.

You already know: the lighthearted banter has become a hallmark of your connection. Doesn’t get old. Heartwarming — albeit right now, very confusing to you.

So you cock an eyebrow, questioning, “What?”

“Babe,” he simply mutters, hands coming together in a mock prayer. “Shit, you’re so fucking cute.”

He lowers his head between his shoulders, torso shaking, and you pull his palms apart again to dig with another, ”Hey. What?”

“Boats Track Street. Not Totes Bag Street,” he corrects, endeared by your wide eyes. The back of two of his fingers grazes your temple, and then down your face, before playfully pinching your chin. “You’re so cute. And a dummy. I mean it.”

“You’re a dummy,” you reply, forcing your face back and out of his grip. “Besides, that’s a pretty stupid name.”

“To be fair… I agree.”

A hesitant smile spreading on your face, your gaze wanders to the clock at the opposite wall again. The beam drops a little, giving way to a small sigh.

“It’s okay. I’ll probably be busy anyway… will join you guys another time.” You shove the chair back, getting off with a fatigued groan and a hand rubbing your tummy. “And I feel a bit weird today, too. Shouldn’t have eaten before bed because I’m feeling the effects right now.”

“Ahhh, I told you. No worries. I’ll make you something light tonight. And some peppermint tea.” His hands wave you goodbye, making a begone motion. “Go for now. The longer you stay, the worse the next hours will be for me.”

“Dork. You must survive.”

You huff, eyes rolling at the dramatics, and push your bag behind your body before you lean into him. A hand on his cheek, you watch his eyes close, setting your lips onto his.

The two-second long goodbye peck remains just that before his fingers, pushing against the nape of your neck, tug you in again.

Against your lips, he mutters, “Eat, okay? Call if your stomach bothers you. Anytime. And don’t be nervous. You’ll have fun.”

And before you can answer, he kisses you again.

Once, and then twice more. Your guts somersault, even when he finally lets you go. Your lungs feel dry all of a sudden.

All you have left in you is to nod. For your wobbly legs to step away. Looking back a few more times until the door opens, the bell chiming, your transparent flower umbrella spreading over your head.

Jungkook watches as your careful steps wander away, your head never lowered like every other passerby’s. They’re hiding from the rain, but you’re staring up, observing the movement of the clouds before your focus falls on the road — and a minute later, you disappear out of his sight.

His chest and muscles relax, a quiet laughter still tumbling out as he repeats, “Totes Bag Street.”

The sky may be colourless. The people might look into the world dimly.

But despite the rain tapping against the window, no inch of you is painted in a dismal, drab grey. You’re the brilliant, gleaming sun.

The location of your new job isn’t as fancy as the area around Charmante. The building certainly isn’t made of reflecting glass throughout.

There’s wood and actual walls; not every door opens with a chip, but a key, and the luxuries are limited. Compared to your old building, this one is humble, but it still oozes wealth and success — guess that’s what a subsidiary looks like.

The meeting room for today is somewhere on the third floor. Your mind races as you fix your clothes in the elevator, throwing regular glances into the mirror to guarantee that your hair sits as perfectly as three seconds prior.

You breathe deeply, exhale through a rounded mouth. Whether it’s this meeting or something you ate, your stomach does not feel great.

As the nerves start kicking in, you think of Jungkook’s hand in yours and the everlasting smile. You use him as your safe place; close your eyes for those few seconds that the elevator floats up.

And it works. Feels like an oasis, calm and lovely.

That is, until the bell pings, forcing your eyes open. You stare up at the number, nearly stepping out until you realise that — you’re not on the third, but on the second floor. Were you supposed to halt here?

No. And there’s nobody outside, waiting.

Until, someone is.

Rushed steps move to the elevator, a nice but stressed voice urging, “Ah! Keep the doors open, I’m coming!”

Strange. Oddly familiar voice.

You can’t say why, but you already prepare a polite smile, trying not to let the ticking seconds stress you out. Rationally, you know you’re not late, but the time passing messes with your nerves.

And it seems it doesn’t get better when the figure finally rushes in, pressing the already lit number 3 before he says, “Good. Just in time.” Looks back at you, delighted as if he expected you somewhere around, and adds, “Ah! Hello!

It takes a moment. Then another.

One more until you figure out who he is, why you feel like hurling and how maybe, just maybe, he might be heading to the same room as you — as another new manager of Novaura.

You blow a raspberry at the boxes in your backseat.

Deciding to at least take your favourite box up with you, you leave the rest here for now; you don’t want to bug Jungkook yet. You can heave it all upstairs on the weekend, in peace.

It’s only moderately heavy — but with both your hands busy, the task is a hassle. You secure it under your arm as you close the door of your vehicle with your hip, clutching the phone previously tucked between your cheek and shoulder.

You straighten your head, reflexively looking up to Jungkook’s apartment window. To your apartment window. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue just yet.

Somehow managing to open the entrance door, you sigh into the phone, giving Taehyung a relieved, “I’m finally back home.”

“Mmmh,” Taehyung voices, and you imagine his full lips in a line, tiny nods serious, “how’s it feel? Knowing that this is where you’re gonna be for the foreseeable future?”

“It feels… quiet.”

“What, he bore you to death like that?”

You giggle, taking deep breaths as you ascend the staircase; though slightly irritated by the slowly and constantly slipping box. You heave it back up.

“Absolutely. You’ve no idea, really.”

Taehyung laughs, but your joke doesn’t stick for long. You feel bad immediately — even in a playful tone, your heart knows nothing for Jungkook but praise. You guess that’s how kindness affects people.

And your brain stays mean, prolonging your pout — because it conjures pictures of a crooked smile, wrinkles around tender eyes, a tilted head as shoulders rise when the laughter reaches its peak…

A sting jabs your chest.

The longing is unbearable, and you’re barely another level from the apartment. He’s waiting for you on the other side of that flat’s door, and you know his pupils will widen in his dark brown eyes the moment they fall on you.

“No, that feels horrible to say,” you correct, shaking your head. You pause in the middle of the staircase for a moment, gaze fixated on a dirty spot before you shake your head once more. “You know Jungkook. If he’s not joy personified, then I don’t know.”

And it’s true — despite his own demons, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone spread this much comfort.

“I just meant that my mind’s been quiet. And a lot more peaceful. Not a hundred worries whirling around anymore,” you tell him, your steps upward slower now.

“Just ninety-nine, huh?”

You smile. “Maybe. But he’s not one of them.”

Dull background noise interrupts your thoughts; Taehyung doesn’t respond to you, but reprimands Yoongi in a distant mumble. He’s been doing it since he called, covering his phone to argue with his friend.

Apparently, Yoongi had been with him for hours before you picked up Taehyung’s call; they’ve been settling the rest of the arrangements, scurrying through paperwork. The apartment you considered is entirely their adventure now, but you aided in anything they needed.

Which basically just meant clearing things with the landlord and then answering his new tenant’s million questions.

As in — how were you thinking of decorating it? Why were you going to take it? Did you calculate monthly costs including rent, water and gas? You didn’t mind, because Yoongi might be one of the most polite people you have ever met.

But it seems he’s reluctant to return to his dorm’s lonely walls, too.

Because Taehyung values alone-time, and Yoongi hasn’t granted it for hours. You feel kinda bad for Yoongi. And while the younger man attempts his hardest to maintain the gentle tone, you hear the exhaustion in his voice.

“I’ll drive you home after this, ‘kay?” he tells Yoongi; you snicker at the groan that returns. “You got this, bro.” Attention back to you, a murmur of your name. “Anyway. Everything should be good now.”

“I’m glad. That was… quite something.”

A euphemism, really. The handful of visits weren’t fun; not to mention the stuff you had to get over with for your own move. And then all those calls. You needed minutes upon minutes of preparation for each of them. One hell of a businesswoman, you are.

“No, say it as it is. ‘Cause it knocked me the fuck out. You guys really had to drag me into this.”

You feel guilty about making Taehyung your spokesman here; but as an already residing individual of the building, he was a great support in this matter.

“We— love you,” you tell him, inhaling deeply between your words. You rub the dirt off your soles on the welcoming mat and hold the box tight, not opening the door yet. “Tell your forehead to feel kissed.”

“Nah. You’re gonna upset Eun.”

“Why? Eun and I are more in love then the two of you might ever be. She’ll choose my side.”

“Ha. Fair. Whatever.” His voice doesn’t carry an ounce of solemnity. Once again, you imagine him pulling a face, waving your statement off. “Enjoy your life. Your voice has been echo-y forever. Also, don’t forget to talk to Jungkook about what we discussed.”

Ah… yeah. There’s more than just one thing you need to clear, actually.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” you confirm, though arguing, “I’m surprised you haven’t done it yet.”

“You do it. I know he’ll like hearing it from you better.” He pauses to answer his friend; you don’t even know what he said. “Okay. I’ll go grappling with Yoongi then.”

“Good luck.”

“Buy me sushi.”

One last laugh before you cut the call.

The clicking sound of your keys turning in the lock is music to your ears and balm to your feet. You skip the threshold with a relieved release of air; the apartment smells like diffusers, so warm compared to the declining temperatures outside.

You don’t hear a movement until you get to your knees, seating the box next to the shoe cabinet. As you start working on your jacket, you register a shuffle from the living room, but no voice — Jungkook said he’d be home before you. Perhaps he’s painting; or gaming.

A short text message during lunch assured him he could start dinner without you; deep down, however, you understood he wouldn’t listen anyway. And the obvious lack of aromatic scents wafting from the living room proves it.

You don’t enjoy eating alone — and he knows.

Clearing your throat, you announce your arrival, bent as you take your shoes off and rub your aching heels for a moment. You wish you could float. Offer them reprieve.

Stumbling in the anteroom, you wait for a greeting, but it seems he didn’t hear or notice you. You lick your lips, standing straight, and then speak into the hallway—

“I swear I don’t have a foot fetish,” a short pause — nothing, “but can you massage my feet again today?” You wait. Not a word comes back. So you joke, “Actually, just massage my whole body? I don’t mind. Need some hands-on relaxation.”

Subjectively, you think you’re hilarious. You giggle on your way to the living room, cheerful despite the jam-packed day — but your laughter ebbs down soon. Because he’s standing in the middle of the room, lips pressed into a tiny smile, head lowered, hands in his pockets.

And right in front of him, a timid woman in a coat. Blinking at you.

Your eyes dodge her gaze immediately. It’s an impolite reflex, heart pounding as you watch Jungkook’s hand lift to his forehead, hiding behind his bangs as he rubs. When he looks at you again, there’s an equal amount of worry and amusement in his expression.

“Shit,” you mumble, another mishap, and you continue cursing internally. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And then, “I’m sorry.”

She looks like him. Same sweet aura, short hair, big eyes.

Her right digits are wrapped around the fingers of her other hand, mouth shut tight, though smiling. She knows less what to say than you, and the moment stretches and stretches and does not end and—

“Hi,” you finally murmur, bowing slightly before you cringe. Too much? Not enough? You clear your throat again, and then introduce yourself quietly. “You must be Mrs. Jeon. I… I didn’t know you’d be here or I would’ve come earlier! I’m very sorry.”

Are you rambling?

How horrid. You’d feel so uncomfortable if you were her.

Only, she barely showcases any sign of displeasure or irritation. Despite striking you as an introvert, her movements soon prove confidence — the type to know what she’s saying or doing, but in a humble and gentle way.

She unfolds her fingers and lets them dangle, soon moving up to clutch the strap of her bag. Looking between Jungkook and you once, she raises her eyebrows and shakes her head, as if to promise that there’s no reason for any tension.

You sigh when she speaks, “Oh, it’s alright. I didn’t stay long and I need to go in a minute anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I was going to leave ages ago, but,” she points to her son with rolling eyes, and the man in question shrugs in faux guilt before she speaks on, “that one wanted me to see you for at least a second. I wanted to meet you properly… prepare dinner and all, but. It’s still nice to meet you.”

Her eyes are kind, taking you in; if you could guess, you’d say she’s… excited. Urging to finally speak to her son’s girlfriend.

She moves a teeny tiny bit, as if opting to offer her palm to you, or to— maybe hug you? But maybe she realises the timing, or sees your terrified expression, because she holds back for now politely.

“I see. It’s wonderful to meet you, too.” Incredible how you spoke about initiatives just this morning, rambling in the office until someone had to interrupt you for their own turn. Now, you can’t get a word out. “But, I… I am still sorry I barged in so rudely.”

She grimaces, moving closer to you with a waving motion, “You didn’t barge into your own apartment. It’s all good.”

Jungkook doesn’t interrupt much; doesn’t interfere with his own jests and statements. They mirror each other so much, though. In the way they smile, and in the way they talk.

Even the manner in which she places her hand on your arm, reassuring you, delivers the same warmth. You tense for a moment, not quite expecting the touch; but it’s motherly. Soft.

A new emotion floods your heart, but you can’t decode it. Too many thoughts streaming in, brain working overtime to come up with a full sentence without stuttering, without those dumb hesitation markers that your studies taught you to avoid.

And maybe you’ve succeeded — only, the clump in your throat, accompanied by a strange twist in your stomach builds a barrier now.

Her touch feels… good.

“Do you… would you like to sit?” you ask, voice softer by an infinite amount. “I have a variety of tea here, and you could choose one. If you…”

You want to talk. About whatever. Not the slip occurring a couple minutes ago; maybe you just finally want to know who made Jungkook the man he is today. It wasn’t necessarily his father, was he?

Somewhere, this incessant, constant comfort derived from. But.

“I’d like nothing more than that,” she admits, “but I have massage therapy in a bit, and should get going. An adult’s back.” You laugh, and she gestures towards you with an open palm. “Oh, don’t you work in an office? Take care of yourself, too.”

“Not just an office, Mom,” Jungkook interrupts, inching closer until next to you and rubbing your back, proud, “she’s a manager. She walks around a lot, so the problem are,” he nods toward your feet, “these.”

True. Just today alone, your heels made it feel like you ran a marathon. Learning about each corner and wandering around that building drained you.

“Ah… I thought so,” she says.

You blink in faint confusion until you realise. Jungkook lets out a breathy laugh, brief but telling, and his mother smiles in awkward amusement. Hell.

Your blood shoots back into your face, warming it thoroughly, and just before you can opt for another apology, she says, “You have him to take care of you. Make him spoil you! You do, don’t you?”

Her voice changes the moment she faces her son, a little strict but all in good fun; her eyes squint and he exclaims, “I do!” the moment you defend, “Oh, he does! He definitely does.”

She seems to like this. There’s a sparkle in her eyes, similar to the one you already know; perhaps she’s just as endeared as mothers–usually?–get, realising their children are happy and settling.

“We take care of each other,” you tell her then, and she responds with a content nod.

“Good. It’d be a shame if not. Taught him how to treat people.”

“He knows for sure, ma’am. I don’t think you’ll ever need to worry about that.”

You’re careful with your gestures, your smiles, your movements. Even though she’s made clear as day that she’s not to fear, you still shift your entire focus on the delivery of your words.

If you weren’t, you’d be more lax. Looking through the room, exchanging glances with Jungkook. If you weren’t so distracted, you’d notice that he’s playing with the ends of your hair.

And you’d see the way he looks at you.

With those barely blinking, calm eyes. An ocean of fondness in them, a light, lost smile around his face. As though you’re soothing him, pumping oxygen into his lungs.

You don’t see any of it; but his mother does. And you register the drift of her pupils, the minimal upward movement in her eyebrows as she shoots a glance at him — then back at you.

But when you follow her gaze to him, he’s already snapped out of it, clearing his throat.

“You should go before you’re late,” Jungkook reminds her, removing his hand from your hair, “I’ll go spoil her as you taught me, Mama.”

“You better. Pressure’s on.”

He smirks, lopsided as he slings an arm around her shoulder. She’s so much smaller than him. “Tell Dad Hi from me.”

A slight drop of his lips. He doesn’t look at her but the ground. Tell-tale signs of a distant ache, hidden behind an attempt to find a cure.

The sting is palpable, right in the middle of your heart, but it dissipates bit by bit as he smiles at you again. Genuine once more, back to where he was only five seconds ago.

You nod at her, one last, non-verbal confirmation that you feel cosy here. There’s something inarguably sweet in her instant care. How she instantly roots for your happiness. How she’s pouring all her empathy into you with a single look.

A stare that usually understands someone else’s pain; and then hopes for eternal peace for them.

She doesn’t even know you — does she? You wonder if he ever did speak about you.

“Okay then. Tell me if you need anything,” she says it to Jungkook, but promptly turns to you, promising you, “you can, too. Of course.”

“I will. Thank you so much.”

Purse lifted further up her shoulder, she starts a move toward the exit, already starting to wave you goodbye before she suddenly stops. Looks at you, and blurts, “Oh, and— has he uhhh…?”

She starts the sentence with hesitation, ending it with uncertainty and a look over her shoulder. You follow her eyes, barely catching him throwing a warning sign. His eyes are ripped open, head delivering tiny shakes, but he returns to normal the moment he catches you staring.

Okay. Something happened there that you’re not part of.

But that you’re supposed to be part of? You don’t know.

You’re curious, though. Already aware of what you’ll be pestering him with tonight.

She shuts up, letting out a short, tiny breath. Her small, sweet fingers curl just once before she releases them again, and she flattens her coat, nodding.

“I’ll leave you two alone then,” she declares.

“You should stay for dinner next time, though!” you offer.

“Of course. I’m eating with my husband after the appointment, so he’ll probably already be waiting, but. Next time for sure. And you should come, too, someday.”

Right.

It doesn’t stop. It’s permanently odd hearing someone talking about that man other than Jungkook. Shouldn’t be, because she’s the closest and dearest individual to him, sharing a home and marital bed. But…

It’s like people don’t quite feel real from stories until one actually faces them. His mom’s subtle, harmless words about her husband make him feel realer, and Jungkook’s issues with them.

But most of all you wonder — why has he never visited here? You wish he had. You wish he would sometimes. But she didn’t even suggest bringing him with her next time. Or how his father would be delighted about a visit, too.

It doesn’t seem to faze Jungkook. Or maybe it does, but he doesn’t let it show. Or — worse. Has he gotten used to it? His father’s absence, or the term that defines their relationship.

Because he nods, a soft smile as a son usually throws at his mother. Casual but loving. He says, “Won’t keep you here then.”

Jungkook kisses her head at the door, and she stuffs her hands in her coat, politely bidding you goodbye.

You watch as she approaches the staircase, still waving when she turns around one more time. You sigh in relief — she was friendly. No panic. You didn’t fuck up entirely.

And despite the last moments of gloom that the mention of her husband evoked, you hear Jungkook’s chuckle resonate once the door finally closes. His steps move toward the living room, his shoulders shaking.

You nearly slide down the closed door as you watch him, head falling back before he falls into a wholehearted laugh. You imagine deep, multiple crinkles around his eyes, mouth wide in joy.

Eyebrows kissing, you follow him inside, nearly bumping against him when you realise he’s standing in the middle of the room, body still shaking from the chortle. He’s facing the ground, and you hit his arm from the back.

“Shut up,” you only order, opting to walk away.

But he turns to you, a hand around your elbow; he can barely breathe when he assures, “Okay. Okay, I’ll stop. Sorry, I just—” He sniffles as you look at him, sulking and trying his gloating not to make you laugh, too. “What were you doing?”

“That’s not funny!”

“I’m not trying to be funny! I’m serious.”

Which he clearly isn’t. The smile is too infuriatingly wide, and the tug at your arm too affectionate. He’s amused and you hate–love?–that you are, too. You keep the act of agitation intact for another moment.

But pieces of you break, your heart a melting mess when you watch his eyes nearly close, nose scrunched up. His shoulders rise — they always do whenever his laughter increases, bunny teeth protruding and the mole under his mouth a magnet to your lips.

And when he raises his hands to your face, cradling it, and speaks, you lose it entirely.

“What were you even saying, munchkin, huh? You’re such a little idiot, you know?” he playfully scolds, squishing your cheeks; peppering kisses on your skin and your lips; barely allowing you a moment to talk.

“And you’re—” you say between tiny kisses, distracted by the childlike, muah-ish sound effects that accompany his pecks, “so mean.”

“And you are the sweetest thing to exist.” The lovingly aggressive touch vanishes from your cheek to be replaced by sudden pinches; your protests are high-pitched, and unfortunately, enhance his statement. “Okay, okay. Come on.”

He flicks your chin as if to provoke you further, but dodges all your teeny tiny rage to come when he moves past your body. Warning abandoned, his fingers tweak your ass as he targets the kitchen, and you yelp, instantly slapping a hand over your butt.

“Freshen up and let’s get to dinner. And hurry. Gotta give you hands-on relaxation later.”

“You’re the worst, I mean it.”

But his evil snicker isn’t.

He might make your hackles rise, and test your patience the way he used to so long ago. Back when you’d seek him out in a miniscule dorm room, eyebrows furrowed just to see him a bit longer after class.

You’re always baffled how your foundation still stands; after all the shattering and agony and stings that fractured your heart. Only now, you’ll be surrounded by the bicker every hour of the day.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Living through an odd day at work, driving around town and embarrassing yourself in front of your boyfriend’s mother makes one dizzyingly hungry, you realised. Stress didn’t let you eat properly today.

Even now, there’s something you need to reveal to him — but the moment you sit down to eat and crack the first joke, you don’t have the heart to. And then, combined with the rush still lingering from the awkward, wholesome interaction before, and the shift in mood, you soon do the worst:

Forget about the issue.

Your eyes meet the bottom of your bowl sooner than preferred, your stomach still seemingly as empty as before. Whatever magic Jungkook seasoned the dish with, you want him to sprinkle it on your tastebuds every day.

Jungkook is sipping on his water when you suddenly look up and place a hand on his bicep, shaking him for attention. A guilty Oh slips out of you as you watch droplets roll down his chin, and he tries not to choke as he puts the glass back on the table.

“Babe—”

“I’m sorry!” you exclaim, thumb wiping at the fluid dampening his chin. “Just. Can we have more? That helped with that sickness all day, and… I’m still hungry.”

Along with the lack of appetite, you assumed the stress and the constant overworking dragged the feeling of illness and stomach ache throughout the day, too. Jungkook keeps warning you about burnouts — doing a thousand things at once, you’ve been thoroughly burdened.

But honestly. Maybe it was just hunger for a real meal.

“Oh? I'm so glad it helped then! And sure,” he responds. “Go ahead, there’s enough for like four people.”

You blink. “And you?” He shakes his head, patting his full tummy, attempting another try at drinking. You argue, “I’m not eating alone, though!”

“Angel, I’ve had like two portions. I'll be full until next dinner.”

“Lame!” You shift on the couch, half of your ass holding you onto it, “And if we found ways to burn it off?”

“…Ah?”

“I mean… You like working out. So just work me out.”

“Shut up. You’re impossible.”

You’ve long given up — you’re not an ass. You would never force him to eat or not to eat, unless he hasn’t in hours. But you also need a foolproof way of amusing him.

Which, despite his very unimpressed expression, you know you did. His lips still twitch.

Sombre, his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek before he shakes his head. You pat his strong thighs, standing from the couch with a hungry groan.

“Fine. I’ll go heat up some for myself then,” you announce, but Jungkook’s shrill alarm bells ring immediately, his body jumping off his seat.

“Not the microwave.”

“Jungkook—”

“Not! The microwave. Just toss it in the pan and heat it up there.”

You tiptoe to the kitchen just a little faster, playful as he hurries after you. You spend your seconds explaining why the microwave won’t explode; how tickling you won’t change anything; how you’ll break something if he doesn’t stop.

But most of all, you spend your seconds allowing him to chase away all sorrows you carried for so goddamn long.

Shut up. You’re impossible.

His prior agitation truly wasn’t one at all.

Because despite your obvious jests, the calories lost on the couch rob you of all sanity at last. A hand in your hair, a body pushing yours down, free fingers roaming your sides and your legs, and lips never separating from yours.

He doesn’t strip you off a single piece of clothing. Doesn’t dig a hand underneath your shirt, focused on how your mouth feels, how his name rolling off your tongue sounds.

The eyes he stares into are vivid and bright, and he uses up all his power to not let them kill him. Your body wraps around his like the most tender of all embraces; he doesn’t need you bare for it, no matter how blank the thought leaves his mind.

Only needs the proximity. The tongue touching his, the nails testing his shirt’s quality.

You miss most of the movie that he suggested, eating each other up, a fist around the hem of his shirt until he nearly falls off the couch and wakes you from your dream. You giggle and joke, spending the second half of the film yawning, sipping the peppermint tea.

Jungkook uses the quiet time for whispered conversations; massages your feet as you pleaded for, repeatedly asking for your comfort.

The moments aren’t anything big, in theory. You’re not in a fantasy novel, not throwing a ring into a volcano. You’re mortal and here, surrounded by humane domesticity and drowning in casual conversations.

Yet — even though you’re not living through spectacular adventures, you’re breathing through special moments nevertheless. Because not a single second spent with him feels mundane, after all.

Sometime as the ending nears, you let your legs fall, pulled close to Jungkook by your hip. You don’t quite understand when or how he does it, but miraculously, you land half on his lap, ass barely on the couch and cheek pressed to his temple.

Jungkook pushes a hand against your thigh, heaving you up further and moving you until you’re comfortable. There’s a light groan, followed by a feathery kiss to your jaw; and you wrap an arm around his shoulder to hold on, shifting even closer.

Your touchy warmth isn’t new to Jungkook; but it seems that the changes in your lives made your inhibitions disperse. Like you broke the bars trapping you so far.

Because the increasing clinginess feels carefree; you don’t overthink your movements tonight. Even before, there was lightness in your interactions; how you’d breathe in his presence, compared to when the world intruded.

The difference was still never quite veiled.

He saw it when he called from so far away all those weeks ago, staring at the distress in your face through a device — versus when he returned to your world.

Or just recently, when you stood on that tiny stage, talking down to reporters — as opposed to when you whispered for him to get you home.

Your shoulders always dropped in relief the moment you stood in his soothing radius. And yet—

There was quiet discomfort in your eyes. And today — today he doesn’t see that usual steam frying your brain. Your smile isn’t burdened; you’re weightless, like you’re breathing.

Overwhelmed and endeared, Jungkook gulps. The pricking needle rods his heart, simultaneously flicking the wounds. He could cry.

He watches you busy your fingers with his shirt, unable to put his thoughts into a coherent string of sentences; so he only says, “You’re so cosy today.”

“Hm? I’m always cosy.”

“Mmmh… a bit more tonight.”

Your forefinger traces the outline of his pecs over his shirt, and you nod with a hum before you declare, “That’s because I’m trying to establish a healthy balance.”

“A healthy balance? How so?”

“I need to be nice, because you’re not.”

His eyes follow your finger’s slow movements, so his voice is soft, barely concerned. But his brain can’t quite compute as he asks, “I’m not nice?”

“You’ve always been mean, actually.”

He laughs. Taps your thigh rhythmically, close to your butt. “How am I mean to you?”

“Like,” you press your palm flat in the middle of his chest, looking at him. There’s a crease between your eyebrows, the slightest hint of a pout on your lips. “You ass could’ve answered when I came home. You didn’t say anything! Or did you really not hear me?”

Oh.

Ogling into your anticipating, subtly piqued eyes, he suppresses a laugh. His lips form a thin line, but the glow in his dark eyes betrays him. Your hand lifts a little, ready to spank his pecs, but you close the gap again as you grant him another chance.

“Hey, if you tell me you didn’t hear, I’ll let it slide.”

You’re well aware Jungkook graduated as the best of his year in Teasing You, and holds the degree proudly to your face every day — but you also know he’s honest.

So you’re not surprised when he admits, eyes mischievous, “I heard you.” Your slow blinking, the scolding gaze are hilarious to him; he looks unspeakably pleased. “I wanted to see what you’d do.”

Now you do slap his tits.

“And you didn’t expect me to say that shit?!” you reprimand. He wraps his arms around you, his laughter a deep, genuine emergence from his chest. “I’m an idiot, in case you didn’t know.”

“Of course. I do know,” he suddenly deadpans. Wow. That couldn’t have come any more naturally. “I know you well, baby.”

“And yet…”

He waves your concerns off, hand soon returning to your back to pull you closer. “She’s chill. I knew you were gonna amuse her right away.”

“Oh god. You planned this… Wait. You didn’t shush her when you heard the door open, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps looking at you. And then… is he…

Is he zoning out?

“Jungkook,” you call again.

“Hm?” He stares at you beguiled, as if utterly distracted by whatever. “Sorry. Can’t hear you—”

“You so can. We’re alone and I’m speaking loud and cl—”

“Nah, you’re just so pretty. I can barely focus.”

“I hate you.”

But you don’t.

He doesn’t need to spell his intentions out for you to understand. He might be testing your patience, but there’s a hidden meaning in his words that he can’t hide as well as he intends to after all.

Because you know he just wanted you to be yourself instead of playing a different role; just like he has never pretended in front of your parents. He knows you’d try extra hard for him — but he needed you to come in and receive affection as the person that you already are.

Guess whatever you blurted was the first impression he wanted to leave of you.

“So,” you start after a moment, back to tapping his chest, “do you think I did amuse her?”

“Oh, she loved it.” Of course she did. You could see the Jeon-esque endearment in her eyes the moment you stepped into the living room. Humbles you. “She’s gonna adore you, too.”

“Ah. Like you adore me.”

Jungkook’s response arrives in the form of a long, semi-damp kiss, delivered to the corner of your mouth. You grimace, torso moving backwards at his gentle force. He adds another Mmmhhh to the gesture until you’re nearly falling off his lap, pushing him away again with a giggly, “Stop!”

He leans back with a content sigh, eliminating more of the distance between you until his head almost rests against your chest. But when you speak again, he looks up into your face.

“Hey. Your mom was saying something as she was leaving. What was it again?”

“Uhh…”

His pupils roll up in thought, one shoulder already rising to shrug, but then it drops again before he voices, “Oh… Yeah…” A break in thought; then, “I figured you’d be busy with everything going on, so I was being reluctant about asking. Didn’t wanna put you in a difficult position.”

You wait. He speaks on, “But my cousin’s getting married next month, and I’m invited.”

There’s a beat of a pause, and you anticipate, already sensing a presentiment before he spits it out—

“And you are, too.”

Hold on.

Weddings. More often than not, weddings happen in big places, filled with a great number of guests. Of friends. And… of family members.

If what he’s suggesting isn’t a hallucination, it means that’d be how you’d step into the battlefield. Attempting your best to be yourself, to charm his family with whatever strategy.

Is he thinking of the same thing?

Because you’re speechless.

You close the mouth you only now notice stood agape, trying not to show the bubbling exhilaration too blatantly. That’d be your first joyful event together.

Oh god.

You might squeal; faint of nervousness. If you could, you’d press your fists to your lips and stomp your feet and twirl your hair and—

“Wait… You want me to go to a wedding with you?” you finally ask instead, keeping your voice in a normal pitch.

“Only if you feel like it.”

“And… and you?” you inquire, wide eyes looking into his wider ones. He’s nervous, too. “Do you want me to?”

“I… yeah. I do. I really, really don’t want to go without you, actually.”

Shit.

“Where is the wedding?”

“Yeah, see, that’s why I was afraid to ask. You’re so busy and your job’s so new. But we’d—” He hesitates, as if scared of rejection. Clicks his tongue, evaluating his words. “The thing is that we’d have to drive all the way down. It’s back at home.”

You need a moment. Back at home; you’re home. Meaning, it’s not here.

Meaning, it’s in his hometown. Meaning, you wouldn’t just meet his family, but walk through a place of memories and deeply rooted, nostalgic affection, too.

Which is… such a huge fucking thing.

Especially for a girlfriend.

Eun always says it doesn’t do bringing a girlfriend or boyfriend to big events such as birthday parties or weddings. It’s disadvantageous for the pictures, she claims. Who knows how the future might play out?

But Jungkook isn’t concerned with these issues. Jungkook wants you all the way down there, lurking on streets with him that he grew up on; tripped on; played on.

These are places with core remembrances. So easily expanded when more are added to them in later years; and so easily shattered when hearts break.

But a heart breaking is not an option, is it? Not anymore.

“You’re… taking me to your hometown?” you ask. You immediately realise the choice of words, and don’t hesitate as you add, “I mean. You’d be taking me home. You’d like to—”

“Is that—” he interrupts, suddenly unsure, “bad? Did it change your mind? You don’t have to, I promise.”

“No. I actually might cry.”

His expression momentarily softens, a big, clear Awwwh written in it. Gentle fingers brush your hair back, observing the vulnerability in your eyes. But shit, you mean it.

You could cry.

Because you talked about this so long ago.

Back when he was miles away, yet so deeply settled in your heart. Sneaking his way into your head, eating you up inside. When he broke off a piece of you and took it with him as he left, no relief for weeks on end.

And when he came back, he promised he’d take you with him one day.

Is that it? Is that now?

“Fuck,” you curse under a quiet laugh, confused by the burning in your eyes.

Jungkook’s hand brushes over your cheek, eyebrows slightly cocked. He might not have expected you to react with such… emotion. You hadn’t either.

“Hey,” his voice soothes, “don’t cry. It’ll be good. And if it’s not, or if you don’t want to, we can just stay here and never go again.”

You’re gonna sob. How did you deserve him?

Of course you want to go. Of course you’d make the best of it. No fibre in you wants to reject his offer.

In fact, you’re already daydreaming. Because…

How’s it gonna be? Will you see more stars there? Will his family like you? His Dad like you? And what are weddings with boyfriends like? Will you be seeing him in every flower in the hall, in every kiss the couple shares?

“No,” you say, “I’ll go. I will go because you’re too obsessed with me to leave without me.”

Jungkook chuckles immediately, but not speaking before rolling his eyes, “And you’re a brat.”

You wait a moment, smiling in unison with him, and then ask, “Honestly, I… I’d love to. Can I just still ask…” You’re curious; but you also want to keep feeling that warmth. More tranquillity from his words. “Why would you not go without me?”

He doesn’t stall.

“Because it’s such a big event, and… so far away. I don’t want to leave you here. And the thought of being at the most lovey-dovey place without my favourite person sucks.”

You’ll freaking screech.

“Jungkook!”

Half of the name is muffled when your lips drop to the crook of his neck, back uncomfortably arching and face heating up. Your ass threatens to fall back on the couch, legs still over his, and he hugs you close as he snickers again.

He shakes your body gently, trying to lift your face. Calling your name when your breath tickles his skin, asking, “Are we embarrassed?”

“No.”

But when you look at him again, your smile is wide enough to freeze your muscles in place. He shakes his head, flooded with aching joy, and makes sure again, “So you want to go, yeah? Don’t need time to think or something? It’s okay if you do.”

“As if. I really wanna go. I’m gonna make this,” you touch his collarbones, then your own, “work.”

He smiles. Grants you a short break to organise your thoughts. And while what you query next shouldn’t come as a surprise, it does introduce a delighted shift in mood.

“What am I gonna wear?”

Jungkook puffs out a breath.

You don’t notice; your focus drifts, directed to the carpet. You mentally scurry your closet, quietly trying to recall appropriate attire for weddings. Which is odd, because you should have the entire catalogue of your and every other place cemented in your mind.

“What do I wear?” you repeat, back to looking at him, barely allowing him a moment to think. “And don’t say anything would look good on me. Serious answers only.”

“You know a question like this prompts nothing but unserious answers from m—”

“Kook—”

“Okay. I mean, you have such pretty dresses. Lemme just choose one and we’re supplied.”

It’s an easy idea; fair enough. Only, you’re barely listening, earning a side-eye from Jungkook when you say, “I should buy a new one.”

Which still doesn’t deter him, though. “Cool. I’ll go with you then.”

“Or will I seem overdressed?”

“It’s a wedding, baby. Overdress like hell.”

“And… if I’m underdressed?”

“You’re still gonna be the hottest around!” he exclaims, and you flinch just a little. He’s not truly agitated, but there’s playful frustration in his voice, a grin around his lips. “Don’t worry about the dress, okay? It won’t stay on you anyway.”

Jungkook expects you to react with similar scolding, using it to hide how timidly flattered you actually are. But you’re too fired up, restless in his grip as your voice grows shriller, “I’m so. Fuck, I’m so excited!”

“I am, too. But…”

His palm moves up and down your back, one eye squinting shut as you start swaying a bit, pumped with serotonin. Like a thrilled child. You’re so…

He lowers his gaze; you might just see the heart eyes otherwise.

“Okay, hey,” he tries again, calming you as his fingers grasp your wrist. “Should we go to bed for now, though?”

You wait with your answer, relaxing your body. Stopping your elevated sounds, you draw the deepest breath in history, and then breathe out a whispery, “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Good. Oh.”

“Hm?”

“You haven’t actually been to the bedroom yet, right?”

“Oh…”

True. Since you came home, you only conversed with his mother, then rushed to take a shower as she left, still filled with prickling and nervous emotions. And then you hurried back to him, starving, eating, watching TV.

And now you’re here.

Was something different about the bedroom, though? You don’t think so.

“You’re right,” you tell him, “no, not really. Just to shower. Why?”

“Just…”

“…What?”

“Okay. Hold onto me.”

“Hold ont— oh, f—”

You gasp for air when two strong arms replace his soft hands, settling under your kneepits and around your back. He shifts dangerously on the couch, moving forward before he starts to lift with a self-motivating grunt.

“And— off we go.”

You sling your arms around his neck immediately, hiding, letting out a panicked, ”Be careful, I’m sli—”

“All good. Relax.” His arms wrap more properly around your limbs, and you dare to listen. Allowing your legs to dangle, you let him carry you calmly, breathing air through O-shaped lips. “Good girl. I won't just let you fall.”

“You better not.”

“No. Just wait.”

He looks at you with a comical grin, throwing a kiss into the air and down to you. Using your feet to kick the door open, he halts at the threshold; for a second, he looks… up.

And just when he finally enters the room, you quietly follow his gaze. The question as to what to wait for gets stuck in your throat when you realise what it is he needed you to see.

Holy shit.

the chapter isn't over yet – much to go!! tumblr just doesn't allow more than 1k blocks/paragraphs. apologies for the scrolling, but i promise it's worth it :'D here's the rest! (link upcoming) <3

#and the rest! this time a quiet long one and possibly the most important part of the chapter!#enjoy <3

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