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youthguk · 1 day ago

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Terms & Conditions | Act 1 of 2 | jjk (m)

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

genre: corporate lust, forbidden tension, and a shattering lie in silk and crystal.

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings:power imbalance, office tension, fingering, oral (f receiving), dry humping, unprotected sex, infidelity themes, toxic dynamics, emotional manipulation, angst, heartbreak, smut, dom!jungkook, heartbreak kink, chain kink, slight dumbification, broken glass

w.c: 15k

author's note: this is a story idea i’ve been dying to try for a while — something about the tension, the imbalance, the unraveling… it just begged to be written. part one ends here, but the story doesn’t: there’s a second and final part already finished and available now on my private telegram channel (through paid subscription). however, i’ll be posting part two here as soon as this post reaches 1k notes. in the meantime, i’d love to hear your thoughts — reblogs, comments, messages — anything. your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You don’t remember the last time your palms weren’t sweating before walking through those glass doors.

It’s only your second week at Jeon & Co., a name that sounds more like a private gallery or old-money auction house than one of South Korea’s most dominant conglomerates. They own everything — from high-end beauty brands to media networks, and you’re in their marketing sector, nestled under the glittering branch that manages global creative campaigns. The best of the best. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You graduated with honors, survived three interviews, and beat out hundreds of equally desperate graduates. You have a boyfriend, a freshly ironed blazer, and a bulletproof five-year plan that includes zero scandals, zero distractions, and certainly zero involvement with anyone who wears cufflinks before noon.

You repeat this to yourself every morning in the elevator. No distractions. No mistakes. Not here.

So when someone slides in just before the doors close — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a watch that probably costs more than your monthly rent — you look straight ahead, heart racing for no reason at all.

His cologne is expensive. Leather and clean spice. His presence, immediate.

You don’t dare glance.

“Which floor?” he asks, voice dipped in amusement, like he already knows the answer.

“Twenty-three,” you say, and you don’t flinch when he presses it for you. You don’t look when he shifts just slightly to face you. You don’t react when he murmurs — more to himself than to you — “New.”

The elevator dings. You get off without saying thank you. Only once you’re at your desk do you allow yourself to exhale.

Your coworker Lisa leans in. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No,” you reply. “Just… didn’t sleep much.”

Which isn’t a lie. You’ve been working late every night. Perfecting campaign research. Double-checking every deliverable. Your manager — cold and precise — has made it clear: your probation will not be extended. You either make it in three months, or you’re out. So you keep your head down. Say yes to everything. Go home with a sore back and swollen ankles, whispering apologies to your boyfriend when you miss your dinner dates, your calls, your chances to be soft.

You’ve made sacrifices. You can’t afford to make more.

Which is why when he walks into the strategy meeting an hour later, that same man from the elevator — no tie, blazer sharp, the kind of presence that makes everyone shift in their chairs — you feel your spine stiffen like he just walked straight into your safe little plan and lit a match.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just takes a seat at the end of the table, right where your line of sight lands if you dare look up from your screen.

You don’t. You stare at your laptop. Your notes. The slides you’ll be presenting — a case study on competitor branding strategies.

The meeting begins.

You’re halfway through your analysis when a voice interrupts.

“Why them?” he asks, casually, fingers tapping once on the table.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Why that competitor for your benchmark?” he repeats. “Seems like a safe choice. Predictable. I want to hear what you’d do if you weren’t trying to be perfect.”

It’s not rude. It’s not even harsh. It’s just direct — like he’s daring you to drop the mask.

You glance up. He’s already watching you. That same hint of amusement behind his eyes, dark and unreadable.

“I…” you begin, lips dry. “Chose them because their campaign’s ROI was comparable. It makes the analysis clean.”

“Clean’s not always compelling,” he says, leaning back.

The room is silent.

Your manager clears her throat. “Let’s move on.”

You nod stiffly and return to your notes.

But later, as everyone filters out, you feel him walk past behind your chair — and then pause.

He doesn’t look at you. Just murmurs low, soft enough for only you to hear:

Tighten your formatting. You’re being watched.

He keeps walking. You don’t move.

And that’s when it begins — that invisible thread. The one you pretend you don’t feel wrapping itself, silk-tight, around your ankles.

You don’t turn around until the room is nearly empty, the low hum of conversation fading into silence as the last team lead tucks her chair in and leaves. Your fingers still hover over your trackpad. Half a thought. Half a breath. Half a girl, now that he’s walked out of the room with your composure in his pocket.

You finally look up — and Lisa’s still there, scribbling something in her notebook, lips pursed.

“Who was that?” you ask, too casual, like you’re asking about the weather and not the man whose voice is still caught in the collar of your blouse.

She doesn’t look up. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. I mean, I saw him in the elevator this morning, but—”

Lisa blinks. “You really don’t know?”

You straighten slightly. “Should I?”

She laughs — not unkindly, just a little stunned. “That was Jeon Jungkook.”

The name lands like a slap. Familiar, terrifying.

You’ve read it before — on the press release pinned to your onboarding email, the company’s rebranding initiative, the headline in The Korea Economic Daily: Jeon Group Appoints Founder’s Son as Executive Creative Director.

Lisa watches your expression carefully. “He’s the CEO’s son.”

You swallow.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And technically your boss’s boss’s boss.” Her voice drops. “Well, not officially. But you know how it works.”

You do. You know exactly how it works. Corporate hierarchy doesn’t bend for title alone — it shifts around influence, power, legacy. And legacy, here, means being born with your name already engraved on the boardroom door.

You turn back to your laptop, the cursor blinking on the last bullet point of your abandoned slide.

You’d spoken back to Jeon Jungkook. You’d defended a case study in front of him like he was just some upper management consultant who’d wandered into the room. You’d told him it was clean. You’d looked him in the eye.

He hadn’t corrected you.

He hadn’t needed to.

Because the thing about men like him is that they never need to announce who they are. The room does it for them.

He just watches. Waits. Smirks like he knows you’ll figure it out eventually.

And you did — just a little too late.

✓

The week after the strategy meeting arrives with an avalanche of emails, a last-minute pitch request, and an ominous calendar update titled “Campaign Direction Realignment — Strategic Oversight Pending”. You don’t question it. You barely have time to breathe.

The department is shifting — again. A new cross-departmental campaign was approved at the executive level, and leadership wants it expedited. You’re still on probation, which means you’re volunteered for everything and credited for nothing. And this time, the stakes are even higher.

Because on Monday morning, Jungkook returns. Officially.

His title is printed on the internal memo: Executive Creative Advisor, Special Campaign Division. No photo. No introduction. Just the name. Like a storm warning.

He joins your team’s kickoff meeting with his sleeves rolled up, a Montblanc pen spinning between his fingers, and a face like he already knows how the presentation ends before it begins. The air shifts. Jittery. Over-earnest. Your manager smiles like her job depends on it — because it probably does.

But Jungkook doesn’t interrupt this time. Doesn’t speak at all.

He watches.

And when his gaze lands on you mid-presentation — unblinking, a beat too long — your voice catches, just for a second.

You go home that night with your lungs tight and your boyfriend’s voice echoing through your apartment, half-concerned, half-exhausted.

“You’re not even here when you’re here,” he says as he hands you your takeout.

You smile. Thank him. Kiss his cheek. You don’t tell him that when Jungkook had passed your desk today, he didn’t even look at you.

But somehow, you felt it anyway.

—

Thursday evening. 7:19 PM.

The office is mostly empty. The sky outside is the color of pressed charcoal, bleeding into the windows as you sit hunched in front of your laptop, forehead cradled in your palm.

You’re reformatting a proposal for tomorrow’s executive review — nothing in the slides is wrong, but it isn’t right either. You’ve changed the design layout six times and the forecast numbers three, trying to strike the perfect balance between innovation and risk management. You’re alone in the small side corridor near the breakroom, tucked into one of the standing desks by the vending machines, headphones on, blazer discarded.

You don’t hear the footsteps.

Not until he’s there.

Not until his shadow lands across your screen, and his voice, low and amused, cuts through the soft hum of your lo-fi playlist.

“Wrong forecast.”

You jump, heart snapping against your ribs.

Jungkook stands behind you, relaxed, one hand braced on the desk beside your arm. His other is pointing toward a line on your spreadsheet — the 2nd quarter projection. “You’re calculating based on hope,” he continues, “not market behavior.”

You yank your headphones off, pulse roaring. “I—sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was—”

“Still here?” he finishes. “I know.”

He doesn’t move.

You should. You should shift away, minimize your screen, say something neutral and excuse yourself. But your body is frozen, spine straightening inch by inch as his presence presses behind you — not touching, not inappropriate, just... inevitable.

He leans forward slightly, voice warm in your ear now. “Competitor C pulled a similar stunt last fiscal year. Overestimated customer conversion by 8%. Stock dropped in three days. You really want to make the same mistake?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

You feel his breath near the shell of your ear, the silk of his voice stroking nerves you didn’t know were there.

And then — just like that — he steps back.

Gone.

“I’d recalculate based on conservative churn,” he adds over his shoulder as he walks toward the breakroom. “And switch your color palette. Executives hate muted tones. Makes them feel old.”

The hallway door hisses closed behind him.

You don’t move for a full minute.

You stare at the line he pointed to. The numbers that were off. He was right.

You feel exposed. And worse — seen.

But you don’t change desks. You take a breath. And you change the forecast.

✓

The apartment smells like steamed rice and detergent when you step inside, your heels clicking softly against the laminate as you drop your bag by the door. You’re late — again. Not dramatically, not enough for a fight, but just late enough that the soup is warm instead of hot, and the conversation thinner than it should be.

Seojin doesn’t look up from his tablet when you enter the kitchen.

“I reheated the jjigae,” he says, flipping a page on the screen. “Thought you’d be home by eight.”

“I was going to be. But there was—” You pause, trying to choose a word that doesn’t feel like a lie. “—a revision.”

He nods, still not looking at you. “You’ve been doing a lot of those lately.”

You open the fridge. Take the soup. Sit across from him at the small table you picked out together from a secondhand shop last fall. It wobbles at the corner. You’ve never fixed it.

The silence between you stretches thin, held together by the scrape of your spoon and the muted buzz of city traffic outside your balcony door.

You glance at him. He’s still reading. Still in his hoodie from earlier. Still here.

You should feel lucky. You do feel lucky. He’s patient. Steady. You’ve been together for nearly three years, since university — when everything felt simple and the future was just a hazy shape you planned for together over cheap beer and shared textbooks.

But tonight, with Jungkook’s voice still warm in your memory, Seojin’s steadiness feels more like stillness. The kind that doesn’t move forward.

“Did your boss like your slides?” he asks finally, voice mild.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you were redoing your slides for that new campaign. The branding one?”

“Oh.” You nod, taking a sip. “Yeah. She... didn’t say much. But I think it landed okay.”

“Good.” He says it like you just told him it was sunny tomorrow.

No further questions. No pride. Just an acknowledgment. Like he’s ticking off a chore on your behalf.

You should tell him what happened. Not everything — but maybe just that you were right, that your numbers were wrong. That someone noticed before you embarrassed yourself. That it rattled you.

But you don’t.

Instead, you ask, “How was your day?”

He shrugs. “The usual. My manager’s still an ass.”

And that’s it.

Later, when you’re brushing your teeth and he’s lying on the couch watching a re-run of some variety show, you catch yourself wondering if he’d still recognize you if you changed just a little more.

If your voice grew sharper. If you stopped explaining. If someone else started leaving fingerprints on the thoughts you don’t speak out loud.

You rinse your mouth. Look at yourself in the mirror. And say nothing.

✓

The day after the breakroom encounter begins like every other — a sterile loop of dark suits, blinking badge sensors, and recycled air — but something about the silence feels off-kilter.

Not loud. Not jarring. Just slightly out of place, the way a tilted painting disturbs a perfectly arranged wall.

You notice it halfway through the morning meeting. He’s not there.

It takes you a few minutes to realize this fact matters. That somewhere between the late nights and campaign decks, you’ve come to anticipate Jeon Jungkook’s presence. Not because he speaks — he rarely does in team meetings — but because when he is in the room, everything seems to orbit differently. Like the temperature shifts. Like someone’s watching, even when no one is.

But today, nothing moves. The room stays flat.

Your manager announces the new campaign direction — a fast-track initiative with a major overseas brand partner. It’s ambitious, high-pressure, the kind of opportunity the permanent employees elbow each other for in the halls. You try to focus on the details — target markets, deliverables, budget constraints — but you keep glancing at the empty chair near the window.

He doesn’t show up for the debrief either. Or the partner call in the afternoon.

When you pass the executive floor later, the door to his glass-walled office is shut, lights off. No coat slung over the leather chair. No Cartier pen abandoned on the table. No trace at all.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That one man’s absence has no bearing on your workload, your goals, your worth. And yet — when you sit down to update the forecasting model he corrected the night before, your fingers hesitate.

It was arrogance, probably. A performance. Someone too rich to speak gently, too powerful to worry about boundaries. You don’t need to think about it again.

Still, your hands hover over the spreadsheet longer than they should. Still, you find yourself replaying the way his voice slipped behind you, that cool, calm certainty, as if your miscalculation had always been obvious — and he’d simply waited for the right moment to remind you who was watching.

That night, at home, you try to let it go.

The lights are low. The TV is on. The apartment smells like basil and something warming on the stove. Seojin leans against the kitchen counter in grey sweats, scrolling through his phone as he stirs the pot with one hand, his movements absentminded.

He doesn’t look up when you come in, only says, “You’re late again.”

You check the clock. It’s 8:14. Barely different from last night. “Sorry. There was another meeting.”

“Is there ever a day you leave before seven?”

You smile. Or try to. “Not during probation, no.”

He says nothing to that. Just turns down the burner and sets out two bowls. The usual rhythm. Familiar. Safe. You sit across from him at the table, fingers brushing the edge of your spoon, and listen to the quiet clink of ceramic and the muted voices from the drama playing behind him.

This is what you wanted. Stability. Someone who didn’t ask for much, who supported your work even if he didn’t understand it. You’ve been together for years. He knows your order at your favorite café. You’ve talked about moving in somewhere bigger if your contract gets extended. Getting a car. Maybe a cat.

He’s good to you. Always has been.

And yet…

You eat in silence, nodding when he speaks, laughing softly at the right parts of his story about a difficult client. You tell him about the upcoming campaign, about the sleepless nights ahead, about how you think your manager might actually be warming up to you. You leave out the rest.

You don’t tell him about the way someone stood too close to you in a hallway and said your name like it was already his. You don’t mention the man who didn’t look at you at all today — and how somehow, that unsettled you more.

Later, when you brush your teeth and fold your laundry, when you set your alarms and plug in your phone, you don’t replay the numbers on your slide deck or the formula in your marketing report.

You replay a voice. Low. Even. Closer than it should’ve been.

You go to sleep without naming it.

But you don’t forget.

✓

The invitation doesn’t come with flowers or pleasantries. It arrives via calendar — cold, impersonal, and marked mandatory.

Event: Strategic Brand Dinner with LX International Partners Location: Le Méridien Seoul, 32nd Floor Executive Lounge Time: 6:30 PM, Formal Business Attire Attendees: C-Suite, Campaign Division Heads, External Brand Directors, Select Junior Staff

Your name is at the bottom of the list. Highlighted. Confirmed.

You blink at the screen for a long second, unsure if it’s a mistake.

Lisa leans over from her desk. “You got it too?”

You nod slowly. “I’m… not sure why.”

She grins. “It means you’re killing it. They only invite the golden children to those things. Either you impressed someone high up — or you’re being tested.”

Both possibilities make your stomach twist.

You open your inbox. There’s no direct message from your manager, no casual “great job,” no warning. Just that blinking blue icon — a formal request from HQ. Sealed like fate.

You tell yourself it’s a compliment. That maybe your data revisions, your late nights, your silence in meetings have finally started to translate into value.

Still, as you choose your outfit that evening — a black silk blouse and tailored slacks, something sharp enough to say I belong here, soft enough not to outshine — you feel like you’re walking into a room where the rules are different.

Where the lines blur.

Where someone might already be waiting.

The lounge is polished to perfection. White orchids and floating candles line the center of each table, and the skyline beyond the glass looks like it was painted just for tonight. You arrive ten minutes early. Of course you do. You’ve practiced your name, your role, your three-sentence summary of what you bring to the campaign. You’ve prepared for everything.

Except him.

He doesn’t walk in with the crowd. Not with the board members, not with the brand partners or the senior execs.

He arrives late.

And alone.

Jungkook steps into the lounge without ceremony, dressed in a black suit that fits like tailoring was invented for him. No tie. White shirt open just enough to feel deliberate. His presence doesn’t interrupt — it rearranges.

The room shifts. Conversations pause. A few heads turn. He offers no apology, no reason for being late. He simply walks toward the main table — and bypasses the head seat entirely.

You don’t breathe when he approaches your row.

He doesn’t look at the CEO, or the VP of partnerships, or any of the directors at the front.

He stops in front of your table — yours, the one tucked quietly at the side, where you’re seated with two other junior staff and one mid-level manager.

Then — smoothly, casually — he pulls out the chair beside you.

The empty one.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, but he’s already lowering himself into the seat.

You manage a nod. Maybe a whisper of agreement.

He doesn’t speak again for the first twenty minutes. Just sits there — still, poised, his fingers toying idly with the edge of his crystal water glass. You feel him even when he’s not moving. You feel the space between you shrink every time someone leans forward and you have to lean slightly toward him to see.

When the appetizer arrives, he finally speaks.

“You didn’t change your slide formatting,” he murmurs without looking at you.

You blink. “What?”

He turns his head slightly. Eyes narrowed, amused.

“You changed your forecast. But not the design.”

You’re suddenly very aware of the neckline of your blouse. Of the pulse just below your collarbone.

“You weren’t tagged in the update,” you say carefully.

“I didn’t need to be.”

His gaze lingers for a breath too long. Not inappropriate. Not overt.

Just enough.

Enough to make you reach for your wine.

The sea bass on your plate is exquisite — lightly seared, nestled in a saffron cream reduction that someone nearby is praising with too much fervor — but you don’t taste a bite of it. The wine is dry, clean, a perfect pairing, and the woman across from you is discussing regional brand expansion in Dubai. You nod when appropriate. You raise your glass when the toast is called.

But you are not present.

You are aware — in the most visceral, immediate sense — of the man seated beside you. Of his arm brushing the back of your chair. Of the fact that he hasn’t touched his entrée, hasn’t sipped his wine, and hasn’t said a single word to you since you returned from the restroom twenty minutes ago.

You should be grateful.

Instead, your skin hums beneath your blouse.

And then it happens.

Not a jolt. Not a brush. Nothing dramatic enough to earn the room’s attention. Just a shift — the deliberate slide of his hand onto your thigh beneath the white linen tablecloth. His palm settles against the fabric of your slacks like it belongs there, warm and sure and intentional.

Your heart lurches in your chest.

Every cell in your body reacts at once — the stillness of your limbs, the tightening of your grip on the napkin in your lap, the breath that sticks in your throat. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t move.

And yet, he does.

While answering a question from the external marketing director — something smooth, intelligent, deceptively casual about multi-channel asset deployment — his fingers begin to glide upward, just slightly, along the inner curve of your thigh.

You nearly drop your fork.

The conversation at the table continues undisturbed. No one notices. No one sees.

Except you. And him.

His fingers stop just shy of the seam of your trousers — not bold enough to be obscene, not soft enough to ignore. The pressure is maddening in its restraint, and somehow, that makes it worse. Far worse. Your body aches to react, to shift, to respond, but the weight of the room around you holds you hostage in your seat.

He leans slightly toward the table, voice low as he offers some quip about Gen Z loyalty indexes. His thumb strokes once — slow, deliberate — along the inside of your thigh.

You inhale sharply, too sharp, and his head turns minutely in your direction, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, just enough to be a warning.

“Still pretending you’re unaffected?” he murmurs beneath his breath, eyes still fixed on the wineglass in his hand.

It takes every ounce of strength you have to rise from your chair — not too fast, not rushed, but fast enough that your manager glances up from her conversation with a curious brow. You offer something vague — a quiet apology, a mention of needing to freshen up — and slip away, your heels hushed against the thick carpeting as you walk toward the corridor outside.

You don’t head for the restroom. You don’t need to. You just need air — space — a moment alone to wrestle your heartbeat back into something that doesn’t sound like surrender.

The hallway is dim and cool, washed in soft recessed lighting and the occasional glimmer of crystal from a decorative chandelier. You lean against the wall, eyes closed, pulse thundering in your ears. You’re not sure if you’re more humiliated or aroused.

And then you hear it.

Footsteps. Even. Unhurried.

You don’t turn.

He stops just behind you, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back.

“You didn’t say no,” he says, voice low, quiet, but certain. “You stood up. You walked away. But you didn’t stop me.”

You open your eyes.

“That wasn’t consent,” you say, breath trembling, though you don’t move away. “You touched me at a business dinner.”

“I touched you,” he repeats, stepping forward until your shoulder blades meet the firm line of his chest, “and you didn’t even flinch.”

You should push him away. You should walk back into that room and sit beside someone else. You should report him, maybe.

You don’t.

Instead, your voice softens. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is at your jaw, brushing your skin with infuriating care. “But you won’t.”

His hand moves to your waist. Steady. Confident. The other slides lower, down the line of your hip, and then dips beneath the waistband of your trousers — no fumbling, no hesitation. He’s done this before. He’s thought about it.

You gasp when his fingers slip beneath your underwear. Not in protest — in shock. In heat.

“You’re soaked,” he says, so quietly it sounds like praise.

Your hand flies to his arm — not to pull him away, not really, but to hold on. He curls two fingers inside you, and your breath breaks, head falling back against his shoulder as his other hand finds the edge of your coat and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with ease.

“You want to pretend this is about power?” he whispers, lips brushing your neck. “That you don’t want this as much as I do?”

Your body is trembling. You hate that he’s right.

“Don’t do this,” you manage. “We’re at a—”

“Dinner. Yes,” he cuts in. “And yet here you are, letting me finger you in a hallway while your manager eats crème brûlée with a glass of Château d'Yquem.”

His voice darkens. “So say it. Say you want to come.”

You shake your head — not in refusal, not anymore — just in helpless disbelief.

“Say it,” he demands again, his fingers pushing deeper, slower, his palm angling upward so every stroke hits exactly where you’re weakest. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

You pant, words slipping through grit teeth.

“I want to come.”

“Louder.”

“I—fuck—Jungkook—please—” Your hands are on his chest now, gripping his lapels like a lifeline. “I want to come—please—”

“Good girl,” he breathes.

And then he breaks you.

His thumb finds your clit at the exact rhythm your body was begging for, the heel of his palm rocking against you as he curls his fingers one last time — and your entire body unravels. Not gently. Not slowly. You fall hard, silent but shaking, a moan trapped in your throat as you come against his hand, forehead pressed to his shoulder, nails digging into his jacket.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you upright as you tremble.

And when your breath finally steadies — when the world begins to return in flickers of scent and sound — he eases his hand from your trousers, adjusts your blouse where it slipped, and smooths the lapel of your coat with a strange sort of gentleness.

“You have five minutes,” he says, stepping back like nothing happened. “Fix your lipstick.”

And then he’s gone.

✓

The apartment is dark when you enter. The hallway light flickers softly on, motion-sensor timed, casting the space in its usual glow — clean, quiet, uneventful.

Your coat slides from your shoulders with practiced ease, your shoes joining the pair already lined up neatly near the door. You close the door softly. Out of habit. Or guilt.

Seojin’s on the couch, already half-asleep, blanket draped loosely over his torso and his phone still glowing in his hand. He startles slightly when you step in, blinking blearily toward you.

“Hey,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “You’re back late.”

“There was a dinner,” you say as you cross the room, dropping your bag by the table like you always do. “Client-facing. All hands on deck.”

He rubs his eyes. “You eat?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He yawns. “I left the rice cooker on if you’re still hungry.”

You’re not. You’re not sure you could swallow anything right now.

He shifts upright as you move past him. You pause, watching the way his hair sticks up slightly on one side, the way his eyes fight to stay open for you.

You lean down to kiss him — just lightly, lips on his — and when he doesn’t pull away, you go a step further.

Your fingers slip beneath his shirt. His skin is warm. Familiar.

You kiss him again. Deeper. Slower this time.

He lets you for a moment. Then he pulls back gently.

“Babe,” he says, voice still tender. “I’m so tired.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hover there, inches from his mouth, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name.

“I just missed you,” you say.

He softens, gives you a small smile. Brushes a hand over your cheek.

“I missed you too,” he says. “But I’ve been up since five. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

You nod. Step back. “Of course. Go to bed.”

“You coming?”

“In a bit.”

He shuffles toward the bedroom, feet dragging slightly on the hardwood, and you stand in the middle of the living room in silence, staring at the spot where your coat now hangs like a ghost on the wall.

Eventually, you follow him.

You slip into bed beside him without turning on the light, careful not to shift the mattress too much, careful not to let the scent of your blouse — still faintly stained with something that isn’t him — drift into the space between you.

He’s already asleep.

And you’re wide awake.

You lie still. Arms folded. Eyes open. The ceiling above you is flat and blank and impossibly still.

You think of what Jungkook said — Say it, and I’ll let you fall.

You think of how easily you did. How willingly your body betrayed everything your mind pretended to believe.

And what haunts you isn’t just what happened.

It’s who it happened with.

Jeon Jungkook — your superior. The CEO’s son. The one man in the entire building who could ruin you with a single word. And worse — the one man who saw straight through your ambition like it was glass.

You tried to be perfect. Polished. Uncompromising.

And in the space of one dinner, you let your body take the lead. You let lust into your bloodstream like poison disguised as wine, and you didn’t even try to spit it out.

You close your eyes. Try to breathe.

You feel dirty. Disloyal. Weak.

Not because anyone touched you.

But because you let him.

Because it felt good.

Because you want to forget it — and you already know you won’t.

✓

The first thing you notice is that nothing has changed.

Not the walk from the elevator to your desk. Not the scent of too-strong coffee wafting through the corridor before 9 a.m. Not the way your coworkers hover nervously around the printer like it might explode if handled improperly. Everything looks the same. Sounds the same. Functions the same.

And yet, you are not the same.

You move slower now. Not visibly — not enough for anyone to raise an eyebrow or ask if something’s wrong — but with a stiffness in your limbs, like your body is still locked in that marble hallway, breath caught behind your ribs, the memory of his fingers inside you humming low and persistent between your thighs. You should feel ashamed. You do. But more than that, you feel… displaced. Unmoored.

And then he walks in.

The Monday strategy meeting begins at 9:30 sharp, and he enters just before the door closes — perfectly punctual, as always, not a single strand of hair out of place. He’s dressed in charcoal, no tie, silver cufflinks glinting faintly beneath the sleeves of his tailored jacket. His expression is unreadable. Composed. Every step purposeful, unhurried.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not once.

He takes the seat at the end of the table — his usual spot — opens his tablet, reviews the materials, and doesn’t so much as lift his gaze when your name is mentioned in the campaign outline.

You tell yourself that’s good. It’s a relief. You don’t want attention. You don’t want questions. You don’t want the weight of something unspoken pressing down between you in a room full of people who would devour the scent of scandal if they thought it belonged to someone young and unprotected.

But when he turns his head slightly to correct a minor budgeting note — sharp, efficient, disinterested — and his eyes pass clean over you like you are air... you feel the first crack form.

By Wednesday, it’s no longer a question.

He is avoiding you. Meticulously. Intentionally. With a precision that stings more than any confrontation would have. You’ve become a blank spot in his vision, a silence in his speech, a neutral space carved out in meetings and emails and shared corridors. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t pause when you speak. Doesn’t offer even a glance when you enter a room he’s in.

And for some reason, that’s the part that hurts the most — the erasure.

Because when he touched you, he did it like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And now, you could stand in front of him in nothing but your shame and your carefully pressed ID badge, and he still wouldn’t blink.

You bury yourself in tasks. Stay late under the fluorescent buzz of the 23rd floor. Redo the same slide deck twice, not because it needs it, but because working on something you can fix gives you the illusion of control. You don’t check your phone. You barely go home.

When you finally do, it’s Thursday night, and Seojin is waiting with reheated curry and a look in his eyes that isn’t quite concern, but is dangerously close to it.

He asks if something happened at work. You say no.

He asks why you’ve been quiet. You say it’s the new project — the pressure. The late hours. You offer him everything except the truth.

But he doesn’t buy it. Not entirely.

“You’re different lately,” he says softly, not accusing, not angry — just observant. “You don’t look at me the same.”

And you know he’s right.

Because when you look at him — when you kiss him goodnight or lean against him on the couch — your mind slips sideways. You remember a hand that didn’t hesitate. A voice that demanded. A mouth that praised you in filth.

You remember how easily you surrendered to someone you barely knew. Someone you had no right to want.

And no matter how many times you tell yourself you regret it… your body still remembers it as a gift.

That night, when Seojin reaches for your hand beneath the sheets, you lace your fingers through his and smile. You press your cheek against his shoulder and close your eyes. You whisper that you’re just tired. That you’ll be okay after the campaign wraps. That this is just a rough patch. He believes you, or wants to.

You fall asleep wishing you believed yourself.

But when morning comes and Jungkook walks past you in the hallway without a word, you feel your insides twist again — not because he ignores you.

But because part of you needs him to stop.

And the other part is starting to need him to look.

✓

It begins again in the elevator.

Not with words. Not even with touch. Just… a glance.

The doors are already closing when you step inside — rushing, breath shallow, one arm clutching a thick folder of campaign briefs. You catch it with your heel, the metal shuddering open again with a polite chime, and you murmur an apology as you squeeze past two senior assistants and the intern from product design.

He’s already there.

Back corner. Black suit. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a black coffee that matches the watch on his wrist. He doesn’t move when you enter. Doesn’t look.

Not right away.

But when the doors seal shut, smooth and final, and the floor number glows dimly above you — you feel it. His gaze. Turning. Sliding toward you slowly, like sunlight creeping across a wall.

You pretend not to notice.

But you feel the heat of it against your cheek.

You glance back — for half a second. Too long. His eyes stay on yours, dark and unreadable.

No smirk. No recognition. Just a look. Weighted. Patient.

The floor dings. You exit too quickly.

He doesn’t follow.

—

Two hours later, you’re standing in the briefing room, pressed between two product managers and a wall of glossy mock-ups, trying to follow the flow of the meeting. It’s warm. Too warm. The AC hasn’t been working right all week, and everyone’s packed in too tightly for comfort.

Someone shifts behind you — a slight shuffle, a pivot of weight — and then there it is.

A hand. At your back. Just barely.

Fingers ghosting the space between your shoulder blades and the dip of your spine — not firm, not demanding, just… placed. Like someone needed to steady you. Like someone needed to pass by and didn’t mean to linger.

Except he does linger.

Long enough for the breath to catch in your throat. Long enough for your pulse to surge.

You don’t look back. You don’t have to. You already know who it is.

The moment passes. The contact disappears. Someone asks a question. You answer it. Correctly, concisely, with a voice that sounds a little too composed.

But later, as the room empties and people begin returning to their desks, you don’t move.

He’s still standing near the table. Slow, methodical, scrolling through something on his tablet.

You walk past him — and then stop.

You don’t know why you stop. You just do.

“Is this your new thing?” you ask quietly, arms crossed. “Ignoring me in public and touching me in private?”

He doesn’t look up.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He swipes once. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think this is a game?”

At that, he does look up. The slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile — just enough to flash in his eyes.

“I think it’s amusing,” he says. “Watching you try to act like you don’t remember how good I made you feel. Like that hallway never happened.”

You bristle. “You ignored me for an entire week.”

“I was busy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Careful,” he says softly, stepping closer. “That kind of tone will make people think something happened.”

You hold your ground. “Something did.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you — like a painting, or a puzzle.

“I never denied it.”

“No, you just pretended it didn’t matter.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, long and steady, until your pulse starts climbing again.

“Would you rather I made a scene? Talked about how good you sounded with my fingers inside you? In front of your manager, maybe? The intern?” Then, casually, as if he's discussing a spreadsheet instead of your last breathless confession: “You’re the one who said it couldn’t happen again.”

You swallow hard. “And you agreed.”

“Did I?” He steps around you, his voice brushing your neck as he passes. “I don’t recall.”

You don’t turn.

You don’t breathe.

But later — when you’re alone again, and the afternoon drags long and hot — your body remembers the way his hand hovered at your spine like it was never meant to leave.

And it knows better than you do: this game isn’t over.

✓

The invitation arrives on a Tuesday — formal, sleek, printed in high-contrast type with subtle gold edging. Vēra Lux × Jeon Group: a sponsored industry event hosted by a European cosmetics conglomerate eager to break into the Asian luxury market. There’s talk of a brand merge. Of cross-cultural campaigns. Of a future collaboration that could define the next fiscal year.

Everyone who’s anyone is going.

Your department is required to attend. Attendance is expected. Enthusiasm is optional, but professionalism is not.

And so, you dress accordingly — a sleek black dress that’s just conservative enough to be safe, but structured enough to be remembered. Long sleeves, high neckline, slit just above the knee. You wear your hair up, your lipstick muted. You apply your perfume in three sharp sprays — one for your neck, one for your wrist, and one for your pulse point that hides just beneath the fabric at your hip.

You arrive exactly on time.

The venue is all polished floors and mirrored chandeliers, the kind of place where the light feels filtered through wealth. Waiters pass with champagne coupes and pale canapés no one really eats. The air smells faintly of rose water, expensive cologne, and subtle ambition.

Jungkook arrives twenty minutes late.

He walks in like he always does — unhurried, composed, drawing eyes without asking for them. He’s in a midnight black suit, no tie, top two buttons undone, the softest suggestion of silk visible beneath the lapels. He’s clean-shaven tonight. Sharp jaw, colder eyes. He doesn’t look at you when he enters.

He doesn’t need to.

He already knows you’re watching.

The event itself blurs together — polite introductions, branded speeches, the occasional laughter as executives flatter each other with measured ease. You float through the evening as you’ve been trained to: poised, efficient, collected. You speak only when spoken to, smile when appropriate, and accept a second glass of champagne when your manager insists it will “help your networking face.”

It’s your third glass by the time you feel him behind you.

You’re standing near a tall window, half-listening to a senior strategist dissect mascara demographics, when his voice cuts low near your ear.

“You clean up well.”

You freeze — just for a second — then turn your head.

Jungkook stands far too close for comfort. His eyes roam your profile with quiet precision, one brow lifted in something that isn’t quite flirtation, but lingers close enough to be dangerous.

“You weren’t even looking at me,” you say.

“I didn’t need to.”

His gaze lingers at your neck. The hollow of your throat. “You always wear your hair up when you’re trying to behave.”

You step back. “I’m not doing this here.”

He smiles, slow. “Not yet.”

You spend the next half-hour avoiding him — or trying to. You circle the room, swap meaningless phrases with visiting reps, let one of the Paris-based creatives compliment your accent while you sip something dry and French. You refuse to look toward the back corner where Jungkook now stands, deep in conversation with someone who owns three niche fragrance brands and is known for sleeping with all his interns.

But you feel him. Constantly. That quiet weight at your back.

It’s when the event winds down that you find him again — or maybe, more accurately, he finds you.

You’re standing outside in the valet circle, the night air cutting cool against your skin, when he appears beside you.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just says, “You don’t need to Uber.”

You glance over. “I didn’t ask.”

“I know. I’m offering.”

“I’m fine.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You’ve had three drinks. You didn’t eat.”

You exhale. “You’ve been counting?”

His mouth curves. “Of course I have.”

A car pulls up. His. Matte black. Sleek. The kind that costs more than your college degree.

“I’ll take you home,” he says, stepping toward the door. “No expectations.”

You fold your arms. “That’s a lie.”

“No,” he replies, and this time his voice is lower. “That’s a warning.”

You don’t answer right away.

You know what this is. You know that getting in that car means surrendering something — not your safety, not your dignity, but your ability to lie to yourself about what this isn’t.

But you’re tired. You’re floating from the wine, and the night is too warm for judgment, and the truth is — part of you wants to be seen again. Touched. Cornered. Ruined.

“Just a ride,” you say at last, walking past him.

His hand brushes the small of your back, guiding you in like a gentleman.

But his eyes tell you exactly what he’s thinking.

And you let the door close behind you.

✓

The car hums low as it glides through the city — engine soft, lights muted, windows tinted like secrets. You sit angled toward the window, arms crossed, legs crossed tighter, the kind of posture that says I’m in control even though your heartbeat betrays you with every street you pass.

Jungkook hasn’t spoken since you got in.

He’s not looking at you. His left arm is draped loosely across the center console, fingers tapping a rhythm against the leather, the other hand relaxed on the steering wheel. The cabin smells like amber, like sandalwood, like something familiar and ruinous.

And the silence is deafening.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks — not loudly, not sharply, just enough to fill the space between your knees and your stubbornness.

“You’re quiet.”

You glance at him. “So are you.”

He doesn’t look away from the road. “I thought you needed space.”

“I do.”

He smiles — slow, like he’s known all night that you’d say it. “No, you don’t.”

You turn your face back to the window, but his voice follows you, low and even.

“You didn’t say no when I offered to drive you. You didn’t say no when I touched you at the briefing. And you didn’t say no in the hallway.”

Your breath catches, sharp and involuntary.

“You want to be good,” he murmurs. “But you love being undone.”

“You’re wrong,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, voice darkening, “I’m not.”

He stops the car.

You blink, startled — realizing too late that you’ve driven far past your apartment, pulled into a quiet side street lined with trees and gold-lit windows. Everything here is hushed, safe, wrapped in the kind of privacy that could shelter a thousand sins.

Before you can ask anything — before you can even find your voice — he shifts in his seat and turns to you fully.

“I won’t ask again,” he says softly, dangerously. “Do you want this or not?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Something inside you — reason, guilt, shame — tries to rise up, but it drowns under the way he’s looking at you, not like he owns you, but like he’s already memorized the way you taste.

“You won’t even have to move,” he says. “I’ll do everything.”

And somehow, your body leans before your mind agrees.

You shift toward him, breath shaky, thighs still clenched but no longer crossed. You whisper, “This is wrong.”

He doesn’t answer. He just kisses you.

It’s not soft.

It’s not kind.

It’s consuming — his mouth parting yours with an ease that should be criminal, his hand curling around the back of your neck like he’s done it a thousand times in his sleep. He kisses you until your hands are in his hair, until your back hits the seat behind you and your knees slide apart of their own volition.

And then he pulls back.

Just enough to breathe against your mouth.

“You smell like guilt,” he says, voice low, rasping. “But you taste like surrender.”

And then he’s lowering himself — slowly, carefully — one knee pressing into the floorboard as he guides your hips forward, your thighs apart. His hand is steady beneath your skirt, and when he bunches the fabric around your waist, he does it without hesitation, revealing lace already damp against your skin.

You gasp as the air hits you. He watches the way you shift — the way your thighs tense, the way your chest rises.

He doesn’t unzip his pants. Doesn’t undo a single button.

Instead, he places one hand on your stomach — not to hold you down, but to anchor you — and then leans in, breath warming the inside of your thigh until your hands fly to his hair like instinct.

The first brush of his mouth is featherlight — a ghost of a kiss against the lace, not even contact, not fully. But then he pushes your underwear aside, and when he finally tastes you — skin to skin — it’s with a moan so low and full you feel it vibrate through your spine.

You whimper.

“Fuck—” you whisper, hips lifting.

But he’s already gone deeper — tongue parting you with devastating ease, licking slow, flat strokes up your slit like he’s savoring you, like he’s making art out of your undoing.

Your back arches.

“Don’t—” you pant, hands fisting the leather. “We shouldn’t—this isn’t—”

But he only groans softly, tongue flicking hard over your clit until your words dissolve into sound.

“You taste better when you lie to yourself,” he says, lips grazing the tender skin between your folds.

And then he devours you.

He eats you like a man who’s starving — mouth working you open, tongue dragging slow circles, then harder ones, then faster. You try to stay quiet. You fail. You try to close your legs. He pushes them apart with his shoulders.

You try not to moan his name.

You do anyway.

“Jungkook—” it rips out of you, breathless, shattered, desperate.

He groans against you, tongue plunging deep, his fingers bruising your hips now as he holds you down, sucks your clit with the kind of focus that should come with a warning. Your hands claw at the seat, your heel digs into the floor, your stomach knots and unravels and knots again.

When you come, it’s not elegant.

It’s raw.

Your entire body trembles. Your thighs shake. Your voice breaks in his mouth, and you ride his tongue like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world.

And still — he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, soft now, gentle now, like a promise.

You pant, dizzy. Boneless. Skirt still bunched at your waist, blouse damp from the heat of your own breath.

He finally pulls back, chin wet, eyes half-lidded.

You meet his gaze.

He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and reverent.

He climbs back into the seat beside you without a word.

For a moment, all you can do is stare straight ahead, dazed and pulsing, your body still fluttering with aftershocks that haven’t fully faded. Your breath is shaky, shallow, your thighs slick and your mind scattered in a thousand directions that all lead back to him.

But then — slowly, impossibly — your gaze shifts.

You turn your head. And you see it.

The tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens around the gearshift. The bulge straining against the dark fabric of his tailored trousers, thick and pronounced, so hard it almost looks painful.

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes — slow and shallow — as if he’s holding himself back from tearing the steering wheel in half.

And suddenly, your need returns like a second wave — sharp, molten, clawing up your spine. You thought coming would be enough, that it would hush the want. But it hasn’t. It’s only sharpened it.

You want more.

You want him.

Without thinking, you shift in your seat, your bare thigh brushing his. His breath stutters — the smallest hitch — but he doesn’t stop you when you move closer. Doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down, soft and tentative, to trace over the bulge in his pants.

His knuckles go white on the console.

“You didn’t even touch yourself,” you whisper, voice hoarse and trembling. “You just… took care of me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” he replies, jaw tight. “I was too busy tasting you.”

You groan — quiet, wrecked — and then you move.

You climb onto his lap slowly, knees bracketing his thighs, one hand on his chest, the other sliding up the back of his neck to bury in his hair. His breath punches out of him the moment your weight settles fully over his crotch.

“Fuck—” he hisses, finally looking at you.

His eyes are feral now, glazed with heat and restraint, the control he’s always carried like a weapon now trembling at the edges.

You start to move — slow, deep, rolling your hips in a long grind that presses your soaked core directly against his clothed cock, dragging your swollen clit over the rough fabric.

He chokes on a sound — part growl, part moan.

“Don’t,” he bites out, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in. “You don’t know how sensitive I am—”

“I know,” you breathe, rocking against him again. “I can feel you.”

You lean forward, brushing your mouth along his jaw. “You’re so fucking hard it’s obscene.”

His hips jerk up into you, involuntary. You moan, louder now.

“I wish there wasn’t anything between us,” you whisper, grinding harder. “I want to feel you. All of you. No zipper. No excuses.”

He groans, low and guttural, one hand flying up to grip the back of your neck as he yanks you into a kiss — not soft, not even close. It’s messy, hungry, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing and parting and finding each other again like you’ve both already gone a little insane.

You’re panting into his mouth, hips rolling with more pressure now, chasing friction, chasing heat. His cock strains between you, thick and leaking beneath the fabric, and your underwear is so soaked it feels like it isn’t even there anymore.

“You want me to fuck you in the back of my car,” he growls into your mouth, breath warm and filthy. “Tell me.”

You nod, moaning. “Yes. I want to ride you, skin to skin. Want to feel how deep you go.”

He snarls — honest to god snarls — and suddenly his hand is between you, yanking down your neckline so hard the fabric groans. He shoves your bra aside, mouth closing over your nipple in one desperate pull.

You scream — high and broken — your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he sucks hard, tongue rolling, teeth grazing just enough to make you shake.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“Say it again,” he demands, voice muffled against your chest. “Let them hear.”

You don’t even know who he means — the city? The night? God?

You don’t care.

You ride him harder now, pace faltering, movements jerky, breath shattering as your orgasm builds again, ten times sharper than the first. He thrusts up to meet you, every grind of his clothed cock against your pulsing heat dragging you closer to the edge.

You’re incoherent now, whimpering, gasping.

“You’re going to make me—fuck—” he growls.

“I’m so close,” you sob. “Don’t stop. Don’t—please—”

He doesn’t. He pulls you tighter, faster, mouth still on your breast, his hips slamming up to meet yours again and again until—

You break.

You come with a cry, thighs clenching, back arching, hips jerking through it, the pleasure washing over you in waves so violent you nearly collapse. He grinds against you one last time — a low, strangled groan escaping his throat — and you feel it: the twitch, the sudden wet warmth spilling into his boxers, even through his slacks.

He buries his face in your neck, panting.

Neither of you moves.

You stay in his lap, blouse ruined, underwear soaked, chest heaving.

The windows are fogged. The car smells like sex.

And still — he hasn’t unzipped his pants.

✓

The apartment is warm and dim and quiet, the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket — soft, familiar, still.

Your boyfriend is in the shower. You can hear the water running through the wall, steady and casual, the same way it’s always sounded. The bathroom door is cracked slightly, steam curling through the gap in lazy coils. His phone buzzes once on the nightstand. Yours sits beside you, face down.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling.

Your body is clean. Your skin smells like lavender and lotion. Your blouse is hanging in the laundry basket, still crumpled from where his mouth was on you. Your underwear is in the trash — soaked through, impossible to explain.

You haven’t spoken since you got home.

You said you were tired. You said you had a headache.

You crawled into bed and turned off the lights, your face calm, your voice soft, your body wrecked.

And now you’re still. Still on the outside. Burning underneath.

The bathroom light spills out through the door as the shower runs and runs. You listen to it like a countdown. You close your eyes.

And then — your phone buzzes.

You reach for it without thinking.

[Jeon Jungkook]You’re not sleeping.

You stare at the screen. You don’t answer.

Another message lands five seconds later.

[Jeon Jungkook]You keep clenching your thighs when you’re thinking about me. Do they ache now, baby?

Your breath catches. The air in your throat turns to fire. You shift — slightly — and yes, they do ache. The friction, the pressure, the fact that you came twice still doesn’t feel like enough.

You type with trembling fingers.

[You]Stop. Behave properly.

[Jeon Jungkook]I was behaving.You’re the one who climbed on top of me like you were going to cry if I didn’t let you come again.

You close your eyes.

Your hand is gripping the blanket now. Your heart is thudding in your chest like a warning bell.

Another message.

[Jeon Jungkook]I haven’t stopped thinking about how wet you were.How hot you felt through those panties.I almost came the second you started moving.It hurt. It still does.

Your thighs squeeze together. Your breath trembles.

[You]You’re going to ruin me.

[Jeon Jungkook]You’re already ruined.

You clench your jaw. Your eyes flick toward the bathroom door.

The water is still running.

Your fingers are typing before you can stop them.

[You]I can still taste you on my tongue. I hate that I liked it. I hate that I’m still horny.

There’s a pause. Then your screen lights up again.

[Jeon Jungkook]I wish there were no clothes between us in that car.I wish I could’ve felt how tight you are while you’re dripping down my cock.You were grinding so hard, baby. If I’d let you keep going, you would’ve soaked my pants.

You press your thighs together again. Harder. It does nothing.

[You]We’re not doing this.

[Jeon Jungkook]We already did.

[Jeon Jungkook]But next time… I’m not stopping at your underwear.

You drop the phone.

You roll onto your side, eyes wide, heart racing.

The shower shuts off.

And you lie in the dark — flushed, panting — as water drips quietly in the background.

Wondering when next time will be.

✓

The meeting is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. sharp.

You sit near the back of the executive briefing room, spine straight, notes prepared, smile polite — everything about you composed to the point of perfection. This is what you’ve been working toward for months. The pitch campaign of the quarter. An internal competition so sharp it’s been whispered through office floors for weeks. The chance to lead a brand identity presentation that might stretch far beyond the company’s own legacy — new reach, new budgets, and possibly, your name in lights under the quarterly report.

You should feel proud.

You do.

Until you see his name on the slide.

CREATIVE LEAD — JEON JUNGKOOK

The moment you see it, your throat closes. Your pen stills.

You stare at the words like they’ve betrayed you — simple, professional, as if they don’t belong to the man who had your skirt bunched around your waist in the backseat of a car just three nights ago. The man who hasn’t stopped texting you after midnight, painting fantasies in your mind you should’ve long since buried. The man whose mouth tasted like sin and whose voice still lingers in your head when you lie beside a boyfriend who never asks why you’re so quiet lately.

You blink. Hard. Force yourself to sit up straighter.

You can’t afford to falter now.

The division head outlines the project details — brand refresh, digital campaign strategy, staggered regional rollout — and then announces, with a kind smile, that you have been selected to lead the analytical direction of the pitch.

You hear your name. You nod. You smile.

You don’t breathe.

And then — when you feel it — you look.

Across the room, Jungkook’s already watching you.

Seated at the far end of the table, elbow resting on the leather armrest, fingers curled beneath his chin. His expression is unreadable. Too calm. Too casual. But his gaze lingers just a second too long before he looks away again.

As if he already knows what you’re thinking.

As if he already planned it.

✓

The building empties early on Thursdays.

You don’t know why. You only know that by seven thirty, the only sounds echoing through the halls are the quiet hum of computers still running and the faint mechanical sweep of the cleaning crew on the lower floors. Most teams are gone. Most lights are off. But you’re still here — tucked in a corner conference room with your laptop open, slides half-polished, fingers stiff from typing, heart beating too loudly in your chest for someone just working on a pitch deck.

You could’ve done this from home. You should’ve. But ever since the assignment was announced — ever since you saw his name beside yours — you’ve started staying later. At first, you told yourself it was just strategy. Focus. Fewer distractions. A quiet space to think. But by now, you know better.

You know it’s because this is the only time he stops pretending.

The glass door clicks open behind you.

You don’t turn around. Not right away. You just lower your screen slightly, forcing your breath to steady. Forcing your expression into something composed.

“I figured you’d already gone,” you say, keeping your voice level.

“No,” comes the answer — smooth, steady, low. “I was waiting for you to stop pretending you could avoid me.”

You glance up.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in a way that should be casual — but nothing about him is casual anymore. Not the weight of his stare. Not the tension coiled in his arms. Not the way he looks at you like he knows exactly how wet you are under that professional pencil skirt and the excuse of your silence.

He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a muted sigh.

You rise from your chair — not to run. You’re not sure why, really. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s that part of you that still thinks you can bluff your way out of the gravity you’ve both been circling.

But he only watches you.

And then, finally, you break the silence. Not with something soft. With something angry.

“Is this a game to you?”

His eyes narrow. “No.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold onto something. “Then what is it?”

He steps forward — not fast, not aggressive, just sure.

“You,” he says quietly, “make it hard to play fair.”

You blink.

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, voice smooth, deliberate, like every word has been sitting on his tongue for days. “The way your lips part when I walk into a room. The way you hold your breath when I pass behind your chair. You want to be good. But you’re not.”

You should walk away. You should push past him, leave the room, erase this moment with professionalism and pride.

But instead, you whisper, “You’re not either.”

His mouth twitches — not into a smile, not quite. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

And then he moves.

His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt as he pushes you — not hard, but fast — until the back of your thighs meet the edge of the glass conference table. His mouth finds your throat before you can speak, tongue dragging up the line of your jaw as your hands fly to his chest, not to stop him, just to hold.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs against your skin. “To fuck you where anyone could see. To hear you moan when you know you shouldn’t.”

You gasp as he lifts you — easily, like you weigh nothing — and sets you onto the table, pushing your knees apart as he steps between them.

“I think about you when I’m on calls,” he growls. “I can’t look at you in meetings without imagining you under me, legs shaking, begging me to make you come.”

“Jungkook—”

He silences you with a kiss — deep, wet, devastating — and then his hand slides under your skirt, pulling your underwear aside with one sharp tug. You’re soaked already, and when he drags his fingers through your folds, he groans against your mouth.

“Still so fucking wet for me.”

He doesn’t wait.

He unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other still buried between your thighs, thumb rolling over your clit until your hips lift off the glass in a broken, desperate rhythm. You don’t even hear the sound you make when he frees himself from his pants — thick, flushed, already leaking — because all you can feel is want.

And then he’s there.

He doesn’t tease.

He thrusts in one smooth stroke, hips snapping forward as your body takes him all at once — stretch and heat and fullness that makes you cry out, nails clawing into his shoulders, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel—fuck, you’re so tight—”

Your head falls back, fingers trembling. “You’re big—too big—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, pulling out halfway only to slam back in. “You take it so fucking well.”

The table shakes beneath you. His rhythm builds — deep, unrelenting, hard enough to echo in the room. His hands grip your thighs, then your hips, then your ass, pulling you closer, holding you still as he ruins you one thrust at a time.

You cling to him like you’re drowning.

And then — just when you think you can’t take more — his hand slides up, yanks the neckline of your blouse down, pulls your bra aside.

He mouths at your nipple like he owns it, sucks hard, tongue flicking over the peak until your scream breaks the silence.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being fucked like this? On a table? At work?”

You’re nodding, breathless, boneless, thighs quivering. “Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when your nails scrape down his back, not when your head lolls back against the smooth glass with a sound that doesn’t sound like you at all. He finds the rhythm that undoes you — deep and measured, every thrust angled just right to drag across that spot inside you that makes your thighs jerk around his hips and your mouth fall open with a helpless cry. He grinds into you on every downstroke, not rushed, not frantic — just devastatingly precise, like he’s memorized the way your body coils before it breaks.

Your fingers tremble where they grip the edge of the table. You cling to the glass like it might anchor you, but it doesn't. Nothing can. Not when his hand slides up to your throat, not tightening, just holding — grounding you as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching harder with every slick, obscene snap of his hips.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls into your neck, voice hot and ruined. “That’s it, baby—come on. Come for me.”

And you do — with a sound so high and strangled you don’t even recognize it as yours, thighs locking around his waist as you shudder through it, everything going white-hot and wet and wild, your body seizing on his cock as he fucks you through the tremors, relentless, groaning at the way you clench.

But he doesn’t stop.

He kisses you hard — messy, teeth dragging your lower lip, tongue claiming your mouth like it’s a promise — and fucks you deeper, harder, until your second orgasm is building too fast, too sharp, making your legs shake and your moans rise into whimpers.

“Again,” he hisses, pulling back to look at you, flushed and panting. “You’re not done.”

Your head shakes, but your hips chase his anyway.

“Jungkook—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he pants, sweat beading at his temple as he slams into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing against the glass walls. “You’re gonna give it to me again. Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

And when his hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing fast over your swollen clit while he pounds into you, your body gives in again — your muscles locking, stomach contracting, lips parted in a silent cry as the second wave crashes down, louder, messier, wetter than the first.

Your body writhes against him, blouse hanging open, skirt pushed so high it’s barely on you anymore. Your legs shake around him, your vision blurs, your voice breaks.

You sob his name.

Not once. Not softly. But over and over — “Jungkook, Jungkook—fuck—” — as he fucks you through it, until your body trembles so hard he has to grip your waist to keep you from sliding off the table.

You're completely undone — face flushed, chest rising in jagged gasps, breasts slick with sweat and spit, fingers twitching against the glass. Not a single part of you is untouched. Not a single part of you is safe.

And still, he doesn’t stop until he’s spilling inside you with a low, strangled growl, hips jerking against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he groans your name like a secret he shouldn’t have ever learned.

You stay like that — tangled, panting, broken open in every way that matters — before you finally move, legs still trembling as he slips out of you, your body flinching from the sudden emptiness.

You slide down from the table with shaking legs, adjusting your blouse, pushing your hair back, not meeting his eyes.

You whisper, “We can’t do this again.”

And then you leave.

No goodbye. No pause. Just the sound of your heels echoing through the empty corridor as you walk away from the man who just made you forget your name.

Behind you, Jungkook stands in the silence — shirt open, belt undone, lips parted — watching the door you didn’t look back through.

He doesn’t follow.

But he’s already planning how you will break that promise.

✓

You ghost him.

Not all at once, but methodically — first by refusing to look at him during meetings, then by ignoring the messages that come after dark, still arriving on schedule even when you pretend to be asleep, your phone lighting up on your nightstand like a warning you no longer feel brave enough to read.

You delete his number, but not before copying it somewhere hidden, buried in a place you hope you’ll forget, though you already know you won’t. You archive the message thread, stare at the space where his name used to sit between your alarms and your reminders, then delete it too — and for a second, you feel something close to power.

But it doesn’t last.

You go to work like nothing’s changed. You sit in the same seat during team calls, speak in the same calm voice, wear the same pressed clothes and polished shoes. You keep your face neutral when his name appears in the group chat, when your inbox holds notes tagged “for approval” with his initials beneath, when he speaks during creative syncs like nothing has passed between you but timelines and metrics.

And you match it.

You match his silence with silence, his professionalism with poise, until every moment that ever existed between you becomes something weightless and false — like a fever dream you were never sick enough to die from.

Except you were.

You still are.

Because your body doesn’t forget. Not when you cross the lobby and smell the cologne someone else wears that’s too close to his. Not when you sit through a meeting and feel a phantom pressure against the inside of your thigh, like your skin remembers where his hand once belonged. Not when you’re lying awake beside a man who doesn’t press against you anymore, who’s too polite to ask why your body flinches when he touches your hip in his sleep.

You try to be good. Again. The kind of good you used to believe in. You stop staying late. You make dinner even when you don’t feel like eating. You answer every text Seojin sends you with a smiley face or a photo of your desk, as if that can somehow make up for how far away you’ve already drifted.

But it doesn’t. It’s not enough.

Because the night he stands in your kitchen, damp hair from the shower and phone in his hand, and says “I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he says it like he’s tired of waiting for an answer you’ll never be ready to give.

And you can’t look at him.

You don’t cry, don’t explain, don’t ask him to stay.

Because you know — if he asked you the same question, you wouldn’t know how to answer either.

So you nod. And he leaves. And you sit in the silence that follows, wrapped in a sweater that still smells like his laundry detergent, wondering when exactly you became the kind of person who could fall apart in a stranger’s mouth and still call it a mistake.

You tell yourself you’re free now.

But when you lie down in a bed that feels twice as empty, your first thought is that you didn’t block Jungkook’s number.

And you don’t.

You just leave your phone face-down, fingers curled in the sheets, and try to remember what it felt like to want someone who didn’t already ruin you.

✓

You keep your head down for days — not because you’ve done something wrong, but because it feels like you have. Every morning you pass through security expecting your badge to blink red. Every unread email from HR makes your heart stutter. Every slack notification jolts like it’s about to summon you upstairs, into a boardroom where everything ends in glass and shame.

You think about what he must’ve said. If he said anything. If he covered for you. If he stayed quiet.

If he let you burn.

But the fire never comes.

Instead, on the following Monday — rain tapping soft against the windows, your hair still damp from walking too fast in a coat that never quite keeps you dry — your manager pulls you aside with a printed letter in hand and a smile that borders on triumphant.

“You’re being moved to permanent,” she says, tapping the corner of the offer letter against your desk like she already expects gratitude. “Full benefits. Salary bump. A higher bracket than standard for someone in your first year, but—” she smiles wider now, “you clearly impressed someone up high.”

You stare at the letter like it’s in a language you don’t recognize.

Your throat feels tight.

You take it with steady hands, but you don’t speak.

She thinks you’re shocked — that you’re humbled, grateful, flattered — and maybe you should be. But all you feel is the way your skin prickles under the fabric of your blouse, like your body knows what your brain doesn’t want to ask.

Was it him?

You don’t say thank you.

You nod, quietly. Professionally. Then sit back down and pretend to work, eyes glazing over every line of data you open, because your thoughts are too loud to see through.

He doesn’t reach out.

Not that day. Not the next. Not even when your name gets added to the internal newsletter with a bright yellow star beside it.

There are no texts. No glances in the hallway. No lingering silences when your hands almost brush over a shared coffee machine.

You tell yourself this is good.

You tell yourself you should be relieved.

You tell yourself the raise is a sign that your hard work mattered — that it wasn’t your body that got you this, or your moans in his mouth, or the way you shook under him on a glass table while the city looked in.

You tell yourself all of this, again and again, until the lie starts to taste like truth.

And then — four days later — there’s a knock at your door.

It’s late.

Too late for deliveries. Too late for neighbors. Too late for anything except what your gut already knows.

You don’t look through the peephole. You just stand there, bare feet curling against the wood, heart slowing into something heavy and low, as if it’s preparing itself to be touched again.

You open the door.

And there he is.

Jeon Jungkook. Standing in the hallway like a promise you never meant to keep.

Black coat. No tie. Hair a little tousled like he’s run a hand through it more than once. Hands at his sides, no phone, no flowers, no excuse. Just him.

And a look in his eyes that says he never stopped wanting you.

He doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

And neither do you.

Because suddenly, you're not sure if this is another fall, or a chance to finally stop crashing.

✓

He doesn’t step inside.

He just stands there, shoulders damp from the mist outside, collarbone sharp where the open neck of his coat dips against his skin, and he looks at you like he’s not here to start something, but to finish something he never meant to leave undone.

The hallway light above flickers softly, golden against the deep navy of the night behind him, and you wish you could tell yourself this is a dream — some shame-tinted fantasy summoned from the ache in your spine and the burn between your thighs — but it isn’t.

He’s real.

He’s here.

And when he speaks, it’s not a confession. It’s not a seduction. It’s not even an apology.

It’s quiet.

“You earned it,” he says, voice low, barely more than a breath. “Everything in that offer. You did it.”

You look at him, lips parted, chest rising with something too uneven to be calm.

He continues, gaze steady. “I just… made sure no one overlooked you.”

There’s no smugness in it, no triumph, no pretense that you owe him something now.

Only truth.

Only the unbearable weight of knowing he never tried to take the credit. That maybe — just maybe — he wanted you to win, even if it meant he had to stand at the edge of your silence and wait.

But you can’t let that be enough.

You won’t.

Because the shame still clings to you like a second skin, and his presence in your doorway — soft-spoken, beautiful, calm — makes you feel like every step you took away from him was just walking in a circle back to this moment.

So you breathe deep. You press your palm against the door.

And you say, “You need to leave.”

It doesn’t sound like anger.

It sounds like surrender.

And when his gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly, then lifts again to meet your eyes — not asking, not pushing, just waiting — you already know what’s coming next.

He leans in.

And kisses you.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

But with something slow and ruinous, like he’s memorizing the feel of your mouth in case you never let him taste it again.

Your hand doesn’t stop him.

It curls in his coat.

And you kiss him back.

Because maybe you’re tired of lying. Or maybe you're tired of pretending that anything in your life has felt this right and this wrong all at once.

You don’t invite him inside.

But you don’t close the door either.

And he doesn’t need words to know he’s already inside you.

The kiss deepens slowly — not because either of you is hesitant, but because it doesn’t feel like either of you has the heart to rush through it this time. He doesn’t push past your lips like he’s trying to win something, and you don’t open your mouth like surrender — it’s not about giving in anymore, not about being claimed or punished or ruined.

It’s about being felt.

He presses closer. Not a step forward — just a lean, the weight of his chest brushing yours, his hands finding your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear again. And you don’t move. You just stand there, door still open behind him, arms curled into the fabric of his coat as the warmth of his mouth lingers against yours like a breath, a pulse, a truth.

You kiss him again — slower now, deeper — and when he follows, when his tongue slides softly past your lips and you moan, helpless, against the taste of him, that’s when you reach up and curl your fingers around the chain that rests against the hollow of his throat.

He groans.

It’s quiet, low, barely audible, but it’s felt — like it comes from his spine, like the metal between your fingers is connected to something under his skin that was always meant to belong to you.

You pull him in by it.

Not hard — just enough.

And he walks forward, past the threshold, the door nudging closed behind him as his coat falls open and his mouth captures yours again — this time with a hunger that tastes more like desperation than dominance.

He doesn’t touch you like a man who’s trying to fuck you.

He touches you like someone who missed you in the places he hasn’t even touched yet.

His jacket drops to the floor with a soft thud, your fingers already working open the buttons of his shirt, slow and trembling, as he backs you toward the couch, hands slipping under your top like he needs to feel your skin now — all of it, warm and honest and bare beneath his palms.

You both undress like you’re undoing each other’s grief.

Your shirt peels off. His pants drop low on his hips, exposing the trail of muscle that makes your breath catch. You step out of your underwear while never breaking eye contact, and when he pushes his boxers down, your eyes fall to his cock — thick and already leaking, not intimidating this time, just right, just him.

He lowers you onto the couch, his hands cradling your thighs as you lie back, and when he settles between them, you don’t gasp or beg — you exhale. Soft and full and steady. Because this time, you’re not falling. You’re choosing.

He slides into you slowly — achingly slow — and the stretch is so deep, so thick, so familiar that it burns in the most beautiful way. You moan, long and low, arching into him, your nails dragging lines across his back.

And Jungkook groans — face buried in your neck, arms shaking slightly as he stills inside you, like he’s overwhelmed too.

“You feel like home,” he breathes.

You don’t answer. You just kiss his temple. And move.

The rhythm you find together is slow, grinding, intimate — a pace that isn't about how fast you can get off, but how long you can stay wrapped in each other. He kisses you between every thrust, forehead to yours, mouths brushing, your breath shared in tiny gasps and broken sighs.

And when he reaches down and strokes your clit — gentle, slow circles — your legs begin to tremble, the pleasure curling from your spine like a tide rising. You cling to him, closer, tighter, needing more of him, needing to anchor yourself somewhere inside this moment.

So you reach for his chain again — fingers wrapping around the cool metal, knuckles white — and you pull.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Just connected.

His hips jerk at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you as he groans, mouth falling open at the feeling of you clenching tighter around him.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Keep doing that.”

You tug again. The metal glints against his sweat-slicked chest. Your orgasm builds with every grind of your hips, every whisper of “don’t stop” falling from your lips, every stroke of his fingers between your thighs, until you’re gasping his name again — but softer now, like a secret.

When you come, it’s full-body — waves of heat rolling through you, your back arching, your eyes closing tight, the chain still twisted in your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And even as you pulse around him, wet and aching and overwhelmed, he doesn’t let go.

He’s trembling above you now, his jaw slack and his chest rising in ragged waves as your bodies move together — not with the frenzy of earlier, not with urgency or teeth or bruises, but with something far more dangerous: something honest. His thrusts have slowed, deeper now, less rhythmic, like he’s no longer chasing climax but trying to hold it off, trying to stay in the moment just a little longer, trying to memorize what it feels like to be this far inside you — surrounded, wrapped, welcomed.

But it’s slipping.

You can feel it in the way his control starts to crack, in the way his hands slide down your back with too much pressure, in the way his mouth grazes your jaw like a man whose words are caught behind his teeth, trembling and unfinished. His hips begin to stutter, no longer smooth but erratic, messy, desperate.

And when your fingers tighten around the chain at his throat — silver glinting faintly between your sweat-damp chests, cool to the touch even now — his head drops, a moan clawing from his throat, so raw it nearly breaks you to hear it.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whispers, not pleading, not asking, just admitting it with a vulnerability that feels heavier than any of the filth he’s ever murmured into your skin. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it.”

He’s still inside you, so deep you can feel every twitch, every tremble of his body as he hovers at the edge, and when you press your lips to the corner of his mouth — soft and sure — and whisper, “Then don’t,” something inside him gives out.

It’s not just his orgasm that comes.

It’s him.

His entire body seizes above you, his muscles tightening like drawn wires, his breath hitching hard in his chest as he buries himself in one last thrust so deep, so full, you swear you stop breathing altogether. His hands fly to your hips, gripping like anchors as he comes inside you — thick and hot and overwhelming — his groan curling out of his mouth in a low, strangled sound that vibrates against your collarbone.

It goes on longer than you expect — wave after wave pulsing from him, each twitch of his cock spilling more heat into your already-soaked core, every sound he makes a mixture of release and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like the feeling of your body wrapped around him is too much to survive.

And through all of it, he doesn’t pull away.

Not from your mouth. Not from your skin. Not from the chain still caught between your fingers, your knuckles pale from how tightly you’re holding it, as if the tension in that single piece of metal is the only thing keeping you from falling apart with him.

When he finally stills — his hips softening, breath stuttering out in a slow collapse — he doesn’t lift his head right away. He just breathes against your throat, his body trembling with the last aftershocks, arms tightening around your waist as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together before the world can find a way to separate you again.

You lie there for a moment, in that impossible stillness, his cock still nestled deep inside you, both of you flushed and tangled and soaked in sweat, your limbs loose and aching and marked.

And when he finally lifts his head, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted like he’s about to say something too fragile to hold, you can only stare up at him — chest to chest, heart to heart — with your breath caught halfway between exhaustion and wonder.

He doesn't smile.

He just leans in, voice low and certain, a whisper meant only for your ears.

“This isn’t over.”

And the way he says it — not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a truth — makes you feel like he’s not talking about tonight.

He’s talking about you.

About this.

About everything you’ve tried to run from and everything you’ve become in the space of his hands.

✓

The morning begins without rest.

You barely have time to blink yourself awake before the call comes in — not a question, not a suggestion, just a notification from your manager’s assistant letting you know that you’ve been assigned to assist with the company’s most significant investor gala of the season. No option to decline. No time to process. Just a simple line in bold: “Dress code: black tie. You’re on-site support.”

You move quickly, running on autopilot, still aching between your legs from the night before, every movement a silent echo of the way he held you, the way he moved inside you, the way his voice sounded when he promised — promised — that it wasn’t over. But now it’s morning, and there’s no message from him. No trace of last night but the marks on your hips and the silence in your phone.

By the time you arrive at the venue, your hair is slicked back into a low bun, your clipboard tucked tightly under your arm, your lips painted in a shade that says control and nothing else. The black dress they told you to wear is clean-lined and elegant, sleeveless, cinched at the waist, the hem brushing the floor just above your heels. It’s professional. Unassuming. Forgettable.

You are trying to be forgettable.

And yet, beneath the fabric, your body won’t let you forget — not the way he felt, not the way he looked at you, not the sound of his breath when he fell apart.

You’re everywhere and nowhere at once, moving through the ballroom like a ghost in velvet, checking that the name cards are aligned, the wine has been properly decanted, the floral arrangements are centered on the tables that cost more than your rent. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t make eye contact unless you must. You are busy. You are useful. You are trying so hard to stay invisible.

And then — just after seven — it happens.

The lights shift subtly. The music softens beneath the hum of quiet conversation. Somewhere across the room, a photographer raises a camera.

And the atmosphere stills.

It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. It’s just… felt.

You look up only because everyone else does — the entire room turning, posture tightening, glasses half-lowered, smiles freezing in place as the CEO makes his entrance.

He walks in with the kind of confidence only inherited power can afford — sleek, controlled, his suit crisp, his presence magnetic. And beside him, her.

You don’t know her name.

Not yet.

But she’s young. Polished. Dressed in an ivory silk gown that clings like it was made for her, one hand delicately resting on the crook of the CEO’s son’s arm — Jeon Jungkook, who stands beside her without a single trace of hesitation. His expression is calm. Unmoved. Practiced. The same lips that kissed your neck last night are curled ever so slightly in a formal smile.

You blink once, trying to recalibrate the image in your mind.

And then the voice comes — soft, close, like a secret someone forgot to hide.

“That’s Jungkook’s fiancée,” says one of the senior managers beside you, a woman whose eyes haven’t left the couple at the entrance. Her tone isn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact. “Her family owns half the company in London.”

You turn slowly, shoulders stiff, chest rising just a little too fast as your gaze catches his from across the room — and he sees you. Instantly. Without surprise. Without alarm.

Just sees you.

And doesn’t move.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t gesture. Doesn’t pull away from the woman on his arm. He doesn’t mouth a word. Doesn’t offer you anything.

No lie. No excuse. No explanation.

Only that same stillness. That unbearable calm.

Like he’s looking at a stranger.

Your fingers close tighter around the stem of the wine glass in your hand — tighter, tighter — and before you can stop it, before you even feel it, the glass snaps in your palm, crystal shattering in your grip with a sound that doesn’t match the music, wine spilling in slow rivulets down your wrist and onto the floor.

Someone gasps softly behind you.

But you don’t flinch.

You just keep standing there — hand bleeding, vision stinging, heart clenched around something you should’ve seen coming.

And across the crowd, he turns away.

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