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ggukivrse · 10 hours ago

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THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 08

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, fluff, angst, holy fuck jk is a pathetic yearner i love him, explicit sexual content (mdni), lots and lots of kissing, brief breast play, oral (f. recieving), petnames (angel), really really soft & tender sex :(

word count: 7.6k

notes: (read full author’s note at the end of the chapter cuz it’s longgg) i procastinated this part so bad, but finally, here it is. writing the smut in this was definitely an… experience, and it’s not my usual writing, so i apologise if it isn’t the best. likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are soo appreciated. enjoy reading my angels <33

⤷ chapter eight — lover, you should've come over

"so i'll wait for you, love / and i'll burn / will i ever see your sweet return?”

FIVE WEEKS LATER

It’s two in the morning, and the city has stilled.

Jungkook sits in the living room with the lights off. There’s only the orange glow from the streetlight that filters through the slats of the blinds, stretching in long shadows across the hardwood floor. The TV is off, the soundbar unplugged. He’s on the couch, feet bare against cold wood, a half-full glass of whiskey resting in his palm like an afterthought.

He hasn’t spoken to anyone all day.

He should sleep. He has work tomorrow — well, technically today, given the hour — but the thought of crawling into bed alone again, pretending not to notice how empty the sheets feel and how quiet everything gets without your breathing beside him, keeps him rooted in place.

He takes another slow sip, grimacing at the taste.

It’s not like he didn’t try to build something here. The place is fine. Modern. Big enough for one (really, it's big enough for two but he doesn't let himself say that out loud). The kitchen island is spotless. The walls still smell faintly of fresh paint. He bought a plant last week, a pothos or something, and it’s somehow still alive. The kind of normalcy he thought would help him forget. Reset.

But it never feels like home. Not the way you did.

Sure, the days are manageable. He's built up a routine that keeps his head busy — morning coffee, train ride, work, gym, home. He nods when people talk to him. He smiles when his manager tells a joke. He even laughed once last Thursday because Hoseok sent a meme to the group chat that was so absurd it cracked him up. But none of it sticks. Nothing lands. It all brushes off his skin like dust.

And the nights?

The nights are brutal.

This is when his mind slows down just enough to let the ache rise again. When he finds himself wandering the apartment, opening drawers like he’s looking for something, like maybe you might’ve left a bobby pin or a receipt or — God, anything that says you were once here. That you loved him once.

He knows he won't find anything. You haven't even seen this place, let alone lived in it. But still, he catches himself doing it too often.

It’s pathetic, probably. He knows it. But grief makes people strange. It makes time bend, like now, when seventy-three days have passed but it still feels like yesterday that you watched as he left, suitcase in hand, desperately fighting the urge to look back.

You asked for space. You asked for time. And he gave it to you. Every inch, even when it clawed at him.

Because the truth is, he knew he’d messed it all up. He let silence fester in place of conversation, convinced himself he was doing the right thing by letting you go. Convinced himself you’d be better off chasing your future without him weighing you down. He thought he was doing the noble thing — stepping aside so you wouldn’t have to choose.

But you did choose. And he never gave you the chance to say it out loud.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, elbows digging into his knees. The ice in his glass has mostly melted, the amber swirl going pale and soft at the edges. Somewhere across the street, a neon sign buzzes faintly, the only sound besides the piercing silence.

He should sleep.

He won’t.

Instead, he leans back, lets his head fall against the couch cushion, and closes his eyes, just for a second. Just to let the weight of everything he’s holding settle again.

He doesn't know many minutes pass as he sits in silence, but it's when the first inklings of sleep creep up on him that a buzz cuts through the air.

It’s faint. Barely there — a low vibration against the coffee table.

His eyes flutter open, groggy and flat. He doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even glance right away.

Because it’s never you.

Every call he’s picked up over the last five weeks, heart thundering in his chest, thumb swiping too fast — it’s never you. Wrong name. Wrong voice. Wrong timing. And every time, he feels a little more stupid; a little more hollowed out.

So he lets it buzz twice more before instinct wins over doubt.

He leans forward slowly, eyes finally dropping to the screen, preparing himself to feel that same old hit of disappointment in his chest. But it never comes.

My ____

Your name, exactly how it’s always been saved. He never changed it. Couldn’t bring himself to. Even on the nights where he told himself he had to move on and make peace with the silence — he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t erase that last bit of you from his phone.

His breath catches.

The glass is left forgotten on the table as he grabs the phone with both hands, like it might vanish if he hesitates too long. His thumb hovers over the green button for a brief second before answering.

He waits for your voice. He can hear the faint sound of your breathing on the other end, and a part of him fears that you'll end the call any second now.

But then, you speak.

“Hello?”

You're voice is quiet. A little uncertain.

Jungkook’s heart caves in.

Relief pours through him all at once, warm and slow, like the first beam of sunlight after a long winter. For a second, he can’t even speak.

Every second he spent waiting, every moment he kept himself from reaching out, all erupts at once, and now that he’s heard your voice again, really heard it, his body doesn't know whether to collapse or run to you.

He sags back into the couch like his body can finally rest for the first time in weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice cracking around the edges.

You’re quiet on the other end, but he hears you breathe out hesitantly, like you’re testing the waters.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d answer.”

Jungkook closes his eyes for a moment, fingers tightening around the phone. “I almost didn’t,” he admits, voice low. “Thought it was another wrong number. Couldn’t take that again tonight.”

A soft exhale leaves you. He imagines you lying in bed, curled up in the way you always are, phone pressed to your ear, blanket tucked under your chin. The image cuts through him with a sharp kind of ache.

“I wasn’t planning to call,” you say. “Not really. I just... I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep.”

His throat tightens. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”

There’s a pause. It stretches out just long enough that his chest starts to feel hollow again before you speak.

“When I said I needed time,” you begin, “I meant it. I needed to get my head right. I needed space to think without everything feeling so heavy.”

Jungkook nods even though you can’t see him. He presses a hand to his forehead, thumb brushing the curve of his brow. He doesn’t say anything yet. He doesn’t want to interrupt.

“I needed to figure out what I was even angry about. Or what I was still holding onto,” you continue. “And maybe... maybe I wanted you to grovel a little.”

That pulls a breathy laugh from him before he can stop it. It escapes rough and surprised, but warm, like something inside him shakes loose.

“You wanted me to grovel?” he echoes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I see how it is.”

“Well,” you say, and there’s a hint of something familiar in your voice now — that teasing edge he’s missed so much. “I figured if I was miserable, you should be at least a little miserable too.”

“Oh, I’ve been more than a little miserable,” he mutters, tilting his head back again, letting it rest against the cushion. “Trust me.”

You’re quiet again, like you're rethinking your words.

“I kept thinking about the last thing you said to me,” you murmur. “At the resort. About the kiss.”

His body tenses, guilt twisting in his gut.

“And I hated how much that hurt,” you say. “Because you saying it didn’t mean anything made me feel stupid. Like I was the only one still holding onto something. Like I’d made everything up in my head.”

“____…” His voice cracks again, thick with regret. “I didn’t mean that. I was being stupid. I was angry and confused and— I was hurt too. I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

“Well,” you say, “you were wrong.”

God, he doesn't know whether he wants to cry or to laugh. A part of him wants to drive through the night until he’s standing outside your door, but he stays still, grounded only by the quiet rhythm of your breathing in his ear.

“I miss you, Kook." The nickname he hasn't heard in so long, falls from your lips as a shaky whisper.

He closes his eyes. His fingers twitch around the phone, like he might shatter it if he grips any harder. For weeks, he’s imagined you saying his name again, and finally hearing it from you has his heart swelling.

“I miss everything,” you go on, voice smaller now. “I miss talking to you about dumb things. I miss your stupid socks on the floor. I miss the way you made coffee even though you always forgot to stir the sugar in.”

He lets out a small huff of air — a laugh that’s too close to a sob.

“I miss you too,” he says, swallowing hard. “So much.”

You let out a soft exhale from the other end.

“Okay,” you murmur, and it’s barely a whisper. “Then, if we're gonna give this one more chance, I want there to be rules. But right now I— I just want to see you. Please."

His heart stutters for a few beats.

“Now?” he echoes, like he doesn’t believe it.

You hesitate before saying softly, “Yeah. I want to see you.”

Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice.

He’s already getting up, the couch creaking beneath him as he moves fast, grabbing his keys off the hook, pulling on the jacket that he'd draped over a chair after work. The phone stays clutched to his ear the entire time.

“I’m on my way,” he says, breathless.

He can hear your smile through the phone.

“Okay.”

You don’t move right away.

The lock clicks open beneath your hand with a sound that feels too loud in the quiet, and for a second you just stand there, fingers still curled around the knob, heart threatening to rattle right out of your chest. You tell yourself to breathe. Tell yourself you’re okay. That this is what you asked for. That you want this.

But the second the door eases open and you see him standing there, the air around you stills.

Jungkook is backlit by the hallway light, hair messy from the hood he’s now pushed back, black strands curling slightly from the mist in the air. He’s wearing a grey hoodie — one of those oversized ones you always stole when you were cold — and matching grey sweats, hand tucked into the pocket.

His eyes meet yours, wide and soft in that way that always made your chest ache, and for a long moment, neither of you speak.

You just look at him.

He’s thinner than he was five weeks ago. Not drastically, not in any way someone else might notice, but you see it instantly. You see it in the sharpness of his jaw, in the slight purple shadows under his eyes, in the way his mouth trembles just barely when he sees your face.

There’s a split second — just one — where you consider running. Because standing this close to him again feels like pressing on a bruise that never really healed.

But then he exhales, chest rising slow beneath his hoodie, and you know you won't run. You can't run — not from him.

Your mouth opens and closes briefly. You're not sure how to break the silence.

After you'd cut the call with a giddy smile on your face, you'd planned exactly what to say to him. But now that he's actually standing in front of you, all the words die on your tongue.

"You actually came," you eventually say. It's a stupid thing to say — you'd literally heard him as he grabbed his keys and stepped out of the house — but it's the only thing your lips can muster in the moment.

His mouth twitches, but it’s not quite a smile.

“Of course I did," he says. His voice is low and the words are laced with tiredness. “You called."

It takes everything in you not to break right there.

Your fingers curl against the doorframe. You step forward before you can talk yourself out of it — only a single step, but it’s all it takes. His hand lifts halfway from his pocket like he might reach for you, then stops.

So you reach first.

You press your palm gently against the fabric of his hoodie, right over his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath your fingertips. He blinks down at you, lashes damp, breath caught.

Your hand is small against him, just a flat palm over soft cotton, but the way his chest stutters beneath your touch feels seismic.

Jungkook doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers rest over his heart, then back up again. The hallway light pools behind him like a spotlight, and for a second, all you can think is he’s here. He’s really here.

You don’t realise your hand has curled, fingers bunching in the fabric of his hoodie, until you feel the faint tremble in your knuckles. You’re not crying, but your eyes are hot, and there's a familiar burn growing in the back of your throat. When he finally lifts his hand and rests it gently on top of yours, the ache inside you swells.

Not because the gesture is romantic or anything, but because it's careful.

So careful, like he’s afraid too much pressure will send you backing away.

“I missed you,” he says, and his tone is quiet. Cautious, even. Like he’s testing the words on his tongue before committing to them fully.

You don’t respond at first. You just stand there, soaking in the weight of those words, letting them settle into the space between your ribs. There’s so much you want to say — I missed you too, I hated being apart, I thought about you every single day — but you’re not ready to spill that yet. You’re still trying to remember how to breathe when he looks at you like that. Like you're not just someone he loves. Like you're the only thing he’s sure of.

“I should probably let you in,” you murmur, voice tight.

Jungkook huffs something that's half a laugh and nods, stepping through the threshold with a quiet, “Thanks.”

His shoulder brushes yours as he passes, and though the touch is light, it leaves your skin burning. You shut the door behind him with a gentle click, and then it’s just the two of you. No anger or confusion in the air, no years of history clawing at the back of your throat.

Just you and him.

He looks around your apartment like he hasn’t seen it before. His eyes linger on the jacket you tossed over a chair, the slippers by the edge of your couch, the framed photo of the entire friend group that sits on your kitchen counter, frozen in time under a summer sunset.

“So,” he says, turning to face you again. “You said something about ground rules?”

You nod, arms crossing lightly over your chest. It's a defence mechanism more than anything, because if you don’t hold yourself together physically, you're afraid you might splinter into pieces just standing there.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Rules.”

He waits for you to continue and you take a breath.

“First of all — no more shutting me out. No more deciding what’s best for me without even talking to me about it.” You say it slowly, with intention, because you need him to hear you. “I’m not a puzzle to solve, Jungkook. I’m your partner. If we’re doing this again, we’re in it together. You don’t get to play martyr and walk away because you think you’re doing me a favour.”

He nods, shame flickering across his face like a shadow. “You’re right. I was an idiot.”

You don’t disagree.

“Second,” you say, stepping a tiny bit closer, “I need honesty. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable. I know communication is hard sometimes— God knows it is for me— but I can’t go through that again. I need to know what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. I don’t want to guess.”

Jungkook's voice is soft, a little hoarse. “Okay.”

You take another step. You’re close now — close enough that the scent of him hits you all at once. He still wears the same cologne, and it still makes your heart thump just a little faster.

“And third…” You hesitate, but only for a second. “You don’t get to kiss me unless you mean it. Not just because someone’s watching. Not just because it’s convenient. I need to know that when you touch me, it’s because you want to, and not just because you think you should.”

Jungkook’s mouth parts slightly. His brows knit. “I always mean it when I touch you.”

You believe him, but you needed to say it.

"So," you ask, almost shyly, “Do you still want this? Even with the rules?”

Jungkook steps forward so there’s barely any space left between you. His voice is low, but steady.

“I’ll follow every single one of them. And if you come up with more, I’ll follow those too.”

Your breath catches.

“I want you,” he continues, “however you’ll have me. And I’m sorry it took me so long to say it the right way. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you to make your own decisions. I— I'm sorry I left.”

Your eyes sting again. This time, you don’t fight it as hard.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “For letting you think I didn’t love you anymore. I should’ve said something sooner.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “I never stopped loving you. I don’t think I ever could.”

You press your forehead against his and let your eyes flutter shut as the warmth of his skin brushes yours.

Your fingers lift slowly, reaching up to touch his jaw. His skin is soft under your palm. So so soft.

He turns into your touch like he’s starved for it, like he's needed it for far too long and didn’t know how much until right now. You let your thumb brush across his cheekbone, and a moment of stillness passes before his lips are on yours.

The kiss starts tentative, almost unsure, like you’re both trying to remember the rhythm of something that once came so easily. But then he exhales through his nose and his hand comes up to the side of your neck, and it feels like the past few weeks haven't happened at all.

Because it doesn't feel like the days you spent not speaking your mind or saying things you don't mean in the heat of the moment.

It’s years of shared beds and grocery lists. It’s every late-night laugh, every sleepy touch, every quiet I love you that still lives in the walls of this very apartment. It’s the night he held you as you cried, the morning you curled around him when he fucked up an exam, the beach sunset where you first realised you couldn’t picture a future that didn’t have him in it.

When you pull back, you don’t open your eyes. You stay there, breathing him in. Letting the closeness settle and wrap around you like it always used to.

You feel his hands move down to skim your waist, both arms wrapping around you loosely.

When you speak again, your voice is quiet. “Do you want to stay?”

It’s not a question about tonight. Not really. But he answers both.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “If you’ll let me.”

You nod and pull away, taking his hand into yours.

He follows you through the darkened hallway, your fingers laced between his. Neither of you speak, but there's a soft smile playing on both of your lips.

The bedroom light is off, but the city spills in through the half-cracked blinds, painting silver across your sheets.

You turn to face him again, and he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Then your wrist. Then the inside of it, just where your pulse beats under the skin. His lips linger there, and you swear he breathes in like he’s trying to memorise the rhythm.

You reach for the hem of his shirt.

Not urgently or desperately. You just need to feel him. All of him.

He lets you. Raises his arms and watches as you pull it over his head, the fabric falling to the floor between you.

He’s leaner than he used to be. Slightly more toned in some places, a little sharper in others. You trace the lines of him with your eyes first, then your hands. He’s always been beautiful to you, but there’s something else now. Something more vulnerable.

He lets you take your time as you relearn him.

You rest your palms against his bare chest. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and you can feel the way his heart stutters.

You kiss him again.

The way your lips move against each other is still unhurried, but laced with something heavier — a thread of longing that’s no longer restrained. You feel it in the way his hands slide over your back, and in the way he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

He pulls you closer, aligning your bodies together.

You gasp softly when his mouth finds the curve of your neck, and suddenly it’s so clear: how much you missed this. How much you missed him.

Not just the comfort of him, but the way he touched you like he knew your body better than anyone. The way he always slowed down when you needed it. The way he never tried to take — only ever tried to give.

Jungkook pulls back to look at you.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said. “And I know we’re not fixed. I know we still have a lot to figure out. But if you’ll let me — I want to try. I really want to try.”

Your throat tightens, and your voice cracks when you answer, “Me too.”

You tug him gently by the waistband of his sweats, guiding him with you as you move backward, step by step, until the edge of the bed brushes the backs of your knees.

Your back meets the mattress with a gentle thud, the cotton sheets cool beneath your skin. Jungkook follows you down, his weight suspended by one forearm beside your head, his other hand still cupping your jaw.

The city light slices across his face, casting lines of moving silver across his skin.

You reach up and brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, then let your fingers trail down, just barely tracing the curve of his cheek, the edge of his mouth, the hollow of his throat. He lets you.

He always let you.

His lips move slowly against yours gently, and you realise with a strange ache that you’ve never felt rushed with him.

Even at the beginning, when everything was new, he always made space for you.

Your fingers find the slope of his shoulders, then slip lower — down the hard lines of his back, where his muscles shift under your touch. You press your palm against the nape of his neck, anchoring him to you.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, lips pressing wet kisses along your jaw. "So much."

Something deep inside you stirs — the kind of warmth that swells and swells until it makes your whole body feel full.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, fingers ghosting along the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t tug on the fabric until you nod, and when you do, he helps you sit up a bit before slipping the top over your head in one smooth motion.

His eyes dance across the expanse of your bare skin, which prickles under his gaze. He leans in to kiss your shoulder, then lower, just above your collarbone. Then just below.

Each press of his lips is slow and warm.

When his hand finally spans across your ribcage, fingers spreading wide, his touch is feather-light — almost too light — like he’s scared to bruise something delicate. But you’re not fragile. Not with him.

You slide your hands down his sides, thumbs brushing the waistband of his sweats.

He kisses the centre of your chest — open-mouthed, breath fanning warm across your skin — and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel wholly wanted. Not in a performative way. Not like you’re being consumed.

But cherished.

Worshipped, almost.

Jungkook shifts to press kisses to your jaw, then your cheek, and finally your mouth again. His tongue slides gently against yours, and you sigh into it, tilting your head for more. His hand finds your hip, and you arch into him without thinking.

You can feel him now — hard, yet tentative, still holding himself back.

But you don’t want him to hold back.

You whisper his name against his mouth, barely audible.

He breathes, “Yeah?”

Your hands slip beneath the waistband of his sweats — just a little — just enough to make your meaning clear. He tenses for half a second, like he’s making sure this is still okay.

You look him in the eyes.

He exhales shakily, the sound catching at the back of his throat. Then he kisses you again — slower this time, like he’s savouring the feel of your mouth beneath his, letting it pull him under.

His hand slides up your waist, over your ribs, and he pauses just beneath your chest. You feel the way his fingers tremble, and it makes something in your throat go tight.

"Please, Koo," you breathe out.

He leans in, mouth pressing to the top of your breast before his lips trail across the curve of it. Each kiss feels deliberate, his breath warm, his voice even warmer when he murmurs against your skin, “So pretty.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t stop.

“So, so pretty,” he whispers again, like the words are meant for him more than you.

Your hands bury in his hair as his lips drag lower, brushing over the centre of your chest before he lifts himself just enough to look at you — really look at you.

His eyes search your face like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. Like he knows this doesn’t erase the pain or the time you lost, but it means something.

“I love you,” he says again. The three words sound like a prayer falling from his lips — something he'd whisper against your skin because it's the only truth that matters right now.

You whisper it back without hesitation. “I love you too.”

He dips his head and kisses just beneath your breast, lips brushing across the tender skin there, the press so soft it borders on worship. His hand holds your waist steady, thumb stroking over your side with the kind of care that makes you melt a little deeper into the sheets.

Your body arches instinctively, chasing more of him.

He groans softly at the movement — like the feel of you against him might actually undo him.

“You don’t know how much I missed this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You have no idea.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I missed it too. Missed you.”

He leans in to kiss you again, and it's messier this time. You moan into him, and his hand slips down to your thigh, then back up again.

You guide him as your legs part slightly, wrapping loosely around his hips. He doesn’t push forward, doesn’t grind down. Just settles into the space you give him, chest pressing against yours, nose brushing your cheek, lips brushing whatever skin they can find.

His voice is nothing but breath as he speaks. “You’re perfect.”

You shake your head, the faint shade of embarrassment from how tender he's being painting your cheeks. But he lifts himself slightly, meets your gaze.

“I mean it.”

His hands skim down your thighs now, calloused fingertips dragging slowly along your skin. He presses a wet, open-mouther kiss to your stomach and whispers again, “Perfect.”

His mouth trails down and lingers just above your navel, lips parting slightly against your skin. You feel the way his breath stutters as he exhales there, chest brushing your inner thigh, and your hands instinctively tangle deeper in his hair.

Jungkook shifts lower, tracing a line of kisses along your hipbone, then across to the other side. Every movement is slow, and you'd be complaining if it didn't feel so good. It's as if he wants to stretch this out as long as he possibly can.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “I hope you know that.”

And god, you're not sure how to feel when he says it like he truly believes it. Like he's not trying to convince of anything, only reminding you of something you forgot, and the feeling that embraces you is so overwhelming that you can feel that burn in the back of your throat again.

The first press of his mouth against you steals the air from your lungs. He groans quietly against you, like he’s been starved and finally, finally gets to taste something he missed more than he let himself admit. His hands stay steady on your thighs, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing small circles into your skin.

You suck in a breath, eyes fluttering shut as your hips tilt toward him, and he follows to adjust without hesitation, because he remembers exactly how to move with you. How to listen, not just to your words but to you as a whole. The way your body tightens under his mouth. The way you sigh when he slows down, and shiver when he picks it back up again.

You thread your fingers tighter through his hair, breathing his name when his tongue flicks just right, and he hums against you, sending low vibrations of pleasure coursing through you.

"Just like that," he murmurs, barely audible between kisses. “You’re doing so good for me.”

The tension builds, curling in your lower stomach, spreading heat through your limbs. Your breaths come faster and more shallow, hips twitching toward him without meaning to. Jungkook places his hands firmly on your thighs, anchoring you in place, giving you something to push against.

Your orgasm hits you as a sharp inhale and a soft, broken moan slipping past your lips. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs trembling, and your hand laces with Jungkook's tightly. It rolls through you in waves, stealing your breath and scattering your thoughts.

Jungkook lets you ride out your high against his mouth, only moving away when you let out a soft whine.

As the feeling starts to ease, you sink back into the bed. Your chest rises and falls in uneven pulls of air, and your fingers stay wrapped in his.

Through the haze, you blink down at him, a soft smile curling at the corners of your lips.

Jungkook looks up at you through his lashes, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

He presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before shifting up, his hands gliding over your waist as he makes his way back to you. The sheets rustle quietly beneath his weight, and when he leans in, you meet him halfway.

The kiss is messy, a little dizzying, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It makes your cheeks flush, but you don’t pull away. You only press closer, sighing into his mouth, your fingers sliding up the back of his neck to keep him there a moment longer.

When you finally break apart, your nose brushes his, and you can still feel his breath against your lips.

“I need you, Kook,” you whisper.

He lets out a low sound at the tone of your voice.

You let your fingers drift down his skin until they reach the waistband of his sweats. You tug gently, and he shifts up to help you, pushing them down, then off completely.

You rise slightly, tugging him back toward you, your mouths meeting again in a kiss that’s so so soft. Your legs part again, wrapping around his waist with ease, and this time, you feel him settle fully between them.

His hands cradle your hips, thumbs stroking over the sensitive dip there. Your hands cup his face as your mouths press together over and over, and every kiss is more desperate than the last. You can feel just how much he wants you in the way he kisses you. Like he’s making up for all the ways he held back before.

When he finally rocks his hips forward, just enough to feel the drag of you against him, your breath catches in your throat.

You arch into him, chasing more of that friction, and your body trembles with the anticipation of it.

“Are you sure?” he breathes, voice already wrecked from the feeling of you against him.

“Yeah, I'm sure,” you say, holding his gaze. “Never been more sure about something.”

He exhales, a small smile playing on his lips before leaning in to kiss you again, and there's so much love behind it that you could drown.

His kiss swallows your answer like he’s tucking it away somewhere inside himself. His hands press more firmly to your body now, mapping the curve of your waist and the dip of your spine.

He leans his forehead against yours, nose brushing gently along your cheek. “I dreamed about this,” he admits. “Almost every night. Not just the way you feel, but this. Being close. Being yours again.”

Your heart clenches, pulled taut with the weight of his honesty. You tilt your head just enough to kiss his jaw, then again at the corner of his mouth.

“You've always been mine,” you whisper, with a small breath of laughter. And it feels good to say the words out loud and finally allow them to rest in the air between you.

The last thread of hesitation slips loose as he finally pushes in, giving you every second to feel him stretch into you and open around him. Your lips part in a quiet gasp, and his brow furrows instantly, like the sound physically affects him.

“Fuck,” he says. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off with a groan, kissing you again, almost like he needs to because it’s the only way to hold himself together as he bottoms out.

Your fingers clutch at his back, nails dragging faint lines across his skin as you adjust to the fullness of him, and the sound he makes in response — a broken, breathless moan pressed into the skin of your shoulder — has you clenching around him.

He doesn’t move at first. He just stays there, buried in you, letting the moment settle.

You cradle his face again, lips brushing his temple.

“Please,” you whimper, and it's all it takes for him to give in.

Every thrust is slow but deep. His hips roll with aching precision, drawing soft sounds from your throat with each dragging press, and he swallows every one of them like he’s starving for them.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, barely audible. “You’re perfect, you always— fuck— always were.”

Your hand finds the back of his neck again, pulling him closer, and he drops his forehead to yours, your bodies rocking together.

There's barely any moments where his lips aren't on your skin. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck, everywhere.

“Look at me,” he says, voice breaking.

You do, and you watch as he falls apart a little right there under your gaze.

He looks at you like he's witnessing the very thing that hold the stars in place, that if he stares long enough, he might finally understand how the universe works. There’s something raw in his gaze — a mix of awe, relief, and maybe a little disbelief — like he can’t quite believe you’re here, touching him and choosing him all over again.

His movements falter, just slightly — a soft tremble in his thighs, a caught breath in his chest — and his hand finds yours on the sheets, fingers interlacing without hesitation. He squeezes once, and you squeeze back.

He leans down and kisses you, and it's the type that lingers and settles into your bones. You tilt your chin to meet it, breath catching as he rolls his hips again, a little deeper this time.

You whimper into his mouth.

“You’re so good,” he breathes. “You feel so good, angel.”

Goosebumps arise across your skin at the nickname.

His free hand roams across you, fingertips ghosting along your skin like he’s sketching the outline of everything he lost. It rises to cup your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

Your lips part again, a quiet moan catching between his fingers.

“That’s it… that’s my girl.”

Fuck, how you've missed this. Missed him like this. Not just the way he touches you, but the way he loves you out loud, with everything he has and with every inch of himself.

His pace deepens again, rhythm rocking you into the mattress with each pass of his hips. Your body starts to tighten around him, tension winding low in your stomach — a slow, blooming pleasure that spreads with every stroke and every broken whisper of your name.

His nose brushes yours. “You close?”

You nod, unable to find words.

He slides his hand between you, fingers finding the spot that’s always made you fall apart the fastest. He moves his fingers against your core, and your legs shake around his waist, hips rolling up into his.

“Let go,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Just let go for me.”

You do.

The wave breaks over you, your body trembling under his as your release pulls a cry from your throat. His name is the only thing that falls from your lips as pleasure courses through you.

He follows you just moments later, hips stuttering as he buries himself one last time, spilling into you with a quiet, ragged moan.

Your name leaves his lips over and over again, like a prayer.

Your name, and I love you, like it's the four words he knows how to say.

You feel his weight settle just a little more on top of you, the tension in his arms easing as his body finally lets go.

Eventually, his voice quietens as he comes down from his high, and a comfortable silence fills the room.

You run your fingers slowly through his hair, the damp strands sticking slightly to your palm, and his breath fans warm against your collarbone.

He exhales shakily, the tension in his body starting to soften as he presses one more kiss to your skin. It's nothing more than a brush of lips, but it makes your chest ache all the same.

He shifts slightly, kissing your shoulder again before slipping out of you slowly, like the thought of putting even an inch of space between you stings. You exhale at the loss, but before the air has even left your lungs, he’s pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing your chest to his like he needs to feel every part of you still there.

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin gently.

Then, a breath hitches in his chest, too sharp to be from exertion. His hand loosens against your cheek, fingers curling into a soft fist near your jaw.

You whisper, “Kook?”

He tries to answer, but it catches in his throat. Instead, he presses his face into the side of your neck, and you can feel it fully now — the way his body begins to tremble, the tears he tries but fails to hide.

“Hey,” you breathe, hands moving up to cradle his face. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

But he shakes his head against you, arms coming around your waist like he needs to hold you closer to survive it.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice wrecked and a bit uneven. “Fuck— I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, no. Jungkook—” You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to apologise. I promise you, we’re okay now.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, and the sight guts you.

His cheeks are damp. His lashes clumped. His mouth trembling with something he can’t bite down.

“I almost lost you,” he whispers. “I thought I could live with it— that maybe it was what you needed— but I couldn’t. Fuck— I really couldn't.”

You press your forehead to his again, tears pricking your own eyes now, but you blink them back.

“I was right here,” you say softly. “Even when I wasn’t. I was still yours.”

He swallows hard, his thumb brushing a faint streak of dampness from your cheek. “I didn’t know if I’d ever get this again. Not just the sex— this. You. Your voice. Your touch. Your arms around me. I missed you so fucking much it hurt to breathe.”

Your hands find his face, thumbs brushing over the wet lines beneath his eyes.

“I missed you too,” you say. “Every single day.”

His mouth finds yours again, the pressure featherlight.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to press soft kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, your jaw, as if he’s trying to soothe you and himself at the same time.

Eventually, you feel his hands trace your sides, lingering at your waist before he lifts them reluctantly, as though a part of him still isn’t ready to let go.

He leans in once more, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, and then another to your shoulder before slipping out of bed with a quiet rustle of sheets. He slips on his sweatpants again and disappears long enough to get a towel and a bottle of water.

He helps you clean up gently, and when you're finally able to just curl into him beneath the sheets, legs tangled, arms wound around his torso, he tucks your head beneath his chin with a content sigh.

“I love you,” he whispers again, voice small in the dark.

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “I love you more.”

He smiles — you can feel it against your forehead — and pulls you impossibly closer.

You fall asleep like that — tangled up in everything you never thought you’d get to feel again.

Morning doesn’t rush you.

The world outside the window begins to stir, but inside these four walls, time moves different. It stretches and breathes. Jungkook shifts beside you with a sleepy sigh, and you feel it again — that quiet swell in your chest.

The day eventually pulls you out of bed. You make coffee in his hoodie. He watches you move around the kitchen like it’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen. You both laugh when he accidentally adds salt instead of sugar, and neither of you care that the pancakes burn slightly because you’re too busy kissing over the stove.

You spend the day close.

Brushing shoulders when you pass in the hallway. Sharing a blanket on the couch. Washing dishes together with music playing low in the background. At one point, he comes up behind you while you’re towel-drying a mug, wraps his arms around your waist, and presses a kiss to the side of your neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because it is. It always was.

You don’t talk about the weeks apart because you don’t need to. It’s all still there, woven into the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, or the way you catch yourself touching his wrist just to make sure he’s real.

When night falls again, you fall asleep with the window cracked open, the breeze lifting the curtains, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

And when you wake to find his hand still tangled in yours, you don’t think about what comes next.

You’ll talk more, and keep talking. You’ll argue sometimes, and figure it out anyway. You’ll laugh in grocery store aisles and fall asleep on the couch and maybe cry again, too — but you’ll stay.

Because now, you both know what it means to leave.

And even more than that:

You know what it means to come back.

extended author’s note: I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS TECHNICALLY THE END OF THESE TWO :<< they’ve been my babies since april and i’m so attached for no reason hdjdjs

writing the smut for this — as i briefly mentioned before — was such a love hate experience. i literally didn’t know how to go about it, but it ended up being really dramatic (i’ve been reading classics lately and you can tell with the writing LMAO) but i think it ended up okay. it’s not as explicit as what i usually write but i do think it fits these two better. but yeah, pls don’t be mad at me for it not being as detailed as other stuff i’ve written 😖

i am planning on writing a little epilogue (hint: proposal) but it’ll be a while before it’s out cuz i’ve bitten off a lot more than i can chew so i just need to focus on other projects for a bit. also (i’m gonna make a proper post explaining all this) but i’m gonna try and have a good few works pre-written so that when i start classes again in september and get extremely busy, you guys still have something to read. life does get hectic though so i have no idea how things are gonna go, but we stay optimistic :)

a little special thanks to my angel, j @tranquilreign, because i swear to you, half of this series wouldn’t have existed without her. she’s helped me so so much with scenes and ideas for the plots and has listened to me yap endlessly about this. i also wanna thank isa @page-isa, who has even had to suffer with me talking about this couple irl while we hang out 😟. she also beta read this chapter while i spiralled about it :)) i genuinely don’t know what i’d do without you both and i love you soo much <3

and of course, i want to thank each and every one of you reading this right now. words cannot describe how much i love you guys, like my heart is genuinely going to burst. this series has received so much more love than i expected, and i’m so so sooo grateful for each ask i receive and every comment and pieces of feedback you guys leave. it all means the entire world to me, and i hope that i can continue to write things you guys enjoy. i fucking adore you so much, please never forget that. MWAHHH <333

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