12
Third Person Pov
The morning air was crisp the kind that wrapped itself around the skin like a thin shawl, not too cold, but enough to make Taehyung breathe a little deeper.
He sat in the corner of the yard, his body tucked low near the patch of soil Gyubin had claimed for himself.
The peony seeds had begun to sprout timid, green shoots breaking through the earth like they were learning how to breathe.
They were delicate but persistent, and Taehyung watched them with a quiet focus that hadn’t shifted in minutes.
His black shirt fluttered faintly with the breeze.
The sleeves were rolled high on his forearms, revealing faint bruises and a few marks from the rough night.
His beige pants were streaked with brown soil clinging to the knees and cuffs.
A smudge lined the curve of his cheek, too, from when Gyubin had insisted they pat the dirt “just right,” and Taehyung hadn’t had the heart to say no.
His hands, though clean now, bore the scent of earth and roots. And the skin just under his shirt, right above his waist, throbbed faintly the swollen tattoo left uncleaned since last night, the fabric chafing lightly with each movement. But Taehyung didn’t touch it.
He could’ve gone inside. He could’ve washed up, rested, sat somewhere soft.
But his son was here.
So he stayed.
Across from him, a few feet away, Gyubin sat on a small wooden stool, swinging his legs as the nurse gently disinfected the inside of his arm. His sleeves were rolled up, little fists clenched at his sides, bunny plush tucked under one elbow.
The nurse murmured something soothing as she checked the IV port. Gyubin nodded slowly, brave, his eyes flitting to Taehyung every now and then.
Taehyung offered a small, patient smile each time.
“I’m here,” it said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The boy relaxed after the third glance.
Taehyung leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his palms, the sunlight pooling in golden circles around him. The wind picked up again, brushing through the strands of his brown hair, tugging them across his forehead. He didn’t push them away.
He just kept watching Gyubin the way he listened carefully, how he didn’t flinch, how he gave the nurse a quiet thank-you after she taped the gauze down.
Taehyung didn’t pity his son. Nor did he fear for him every second. He’d grown out of the panic stage months ago. This was different now a deep kind of watchfulness. Not born from anxiety, but from instinct.
His son was fighting.
And Taehyung… he would be his anchor.
He didn’t cry when Gyubin looked tired. He didn’t soften into helplessness when the boy asked questions that hurt to answer. He didn’t collapse every time Jungkook’s coldness reminded him how small he was in this house.
Because Gyubin needed someone solid.
So Taehyung became that.
He turned his gaze back to the soil. One of the shoots had bent slightly to the side wind maybe, or the pressure of the water Gyubin had overenthusiastically poured the day before.
Taehyung reached over, gently patting the soil around it again, steadying it.
“Stay upright, little one,” he murmured under his breath. “You’ve got a long way to go.”
Behind him, the door to the yard opened, but he didn’t turn.
He recognized the nurse’s soft footsteps retreating. Then silence again. Just the wind, the garden, and the occasional rustle of Gyubin shifting slightly as he observed his plants.
There was peace here, beneath the chaos. A slice of stillness in a world that refused to slow down.
Taehyung rested his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined. The ache in his waist hadn’t eased if anything, the raw burn of the ink was sharper today but he didn’t reach for it. Didn’t flinch. It wasn’t weakness. It was ownership, yes, but it didn’t define him.
Let Jungkook think it did.
Let him believe his name was enough to control Taehyung’s spirit.
But Taehyung had something Jungkook would never possess.
He had Gyubin.
And he had love.
Not the hollow, twisted version someone tried to cage him with but the kind that grew like roots beneath your ribs, quiet and unwavering.
So he sat.
In dirty pants, with wind in his hair, hands in the soil and eyes on his son a boy with too much courage in his little chest and a peony garden blooming beneath his feet.
“Appa…”
The small voice pulled him from the haze.
Taehyung turned slowly, blinking as he came face-to-face with Gyubin, who looked up at him with soft, hopeful eyes.
He had a small sunflower clip messily pinned into his hair...courtesy of the nurse who had just finished checking his vitals.
Without a word, Gyubin climbed into his lap. Taehyung shifted, instinctively cradling his son against him, arms coming around like habit.
Gyubin leaned forward, his cheek pressing to Taehyung’s chest.
“Appa,” he murmured again, eyes still on the garden. “Can we go out today?”
The question landed like a stone in Taehyung’s chest.
Go out.
Which meant… asking for permission. Which meant seeing him.
Taehyung’s jaw tightened. He looked away, gaze returning to the half-bloomed peonies. Even their beauty felt dim under the weight in his heart.
He didn’t want to see Jungkook.
Not today.
Not after last night. Not after the ink still burning into his skin.
Not after sitting on the cold floor of the shower for an hour that morning, trying to pretend he hadn’t cried.
“Binnie…” he started, brushing a hand over his son’s curls, trying to buy time with touch. “You just got your injection Your body’s still tired. Maybe not today.”
“But the nurse said I can,” Gyubin said, lifting his head and tilting it slightly, the way he always did when he knew he was right but didn’t want to sound like it. “She said after a few hours, I can go out for a little.”
His small hands played with the buttons on Taehyung’s shirt, not forcefully, not pleadingly just absentmindedly, softly, like he was talking about the weather. As if he didn’t know how much this meant.
That was what made it harder.
Because Gyubin didn’t ask for much. Not even when he was hurting. Not even when he had to get poked with needles or take the bitter medicine or be told he couldn’t go to school yet.
He accepted things too easily. Too kindly.
So when he asked when he actually asked it cracked something in Taehyung that had already been chipped raw.
Taehyung looked at him again.
His son’s cheeks were flushed from the warmth, lips slightly parted, hair curling at the edges like wild grass. There was a soft shine in his eyes a flicker of happiness at the idea of just… going out. Breathing fresh air. Living like a kid, even for a moment.
Taehyung exhaled quietly, defeated not by the request but by love.
“Alright,” he said finally, his voice a whisper meant only for the boy in his arms. “We’ll go in the evening.”
Gyubin’s face broke into a small smile not loud or dramatic, just gentle, sincere.
Taehyung reached up and brushed the sunflower clip back into place, his fingers combing through the soft strands.
In that moment, the pain dulled.
The ink stopped burning.
And everything Jungkook, the humiliation, the ache buried deep in his ribs faded into the background.
For just that second, it was only the two of them. Appa and Binnie. Wrapped in quiet sunlight and small joys.
And Taehyung let himself breathe.
After a while, the breeze began to cool, and the sun that once bathed the yard in soft warmth was now climbing higher harsher. Taehyung blinked up at the sky, shielding his eyes for a second before looking down at Gyubin, still curled slightly in his lap, fiddling with a leaf.
“We should go in,” Taehyung murmured gently, brushing a hand through his son’s hair. “You need to eat something.”
Gyubin nodded, obedient as always, and allowed his father to help him up.
Taehyung held his small hand in his own, their fingers naturally intertwining.
He gave one last glance at the garden bed at the fragile peony sprouts now dusted with dirt and sunlight before turning and walking inside with his son.
The moment the door closed behind them, the hush of the yard was replaced by the subtle hum of the house footsteps of workers, distant murmurs, and the occasional soft clang from the kitchen.
Taehyung led Gyubin to the small breakfast corner and guided him onto the chair. Without a word, he reached into the fruit basket on the counter and grabbed a ripe banana.
Gyubin accepted it with a sleepy smile and quietly began to eat, feet swinging off the edge of the chair.
Taehyung leaned against the counter, letting his fingers drum softly against the marble surface. His eyes darted to the tall wall clock hung near the hallway. The long hand ticked forward 9:30 a.m.
He inhaled slowly.
That meant he was most likely getting ready to leave. If there was ever a moment to speak this was it.
Jungkook was never warm in the mornings, but he was, at the very least, swift. Precise. And if you caught him in the right moment, he wouldn’t say much just nod, or hum, or maybe wave a hand.
That’s all Taehyung needed today.
Just a nod.
Just one sign of approval to take Gyubin outside the gates.
His stomach turned slightly at the thought of having to ask.
The man hadn’t said a word to him since that night.
No glances. No orders. Just a silence so sharp it had turned into something worse than cruelty—indifference.
And yet here he was still needing to ask for permission.
Still needing to knock on the same door.
He turned to Gyubin, who was halfway through his banana now, content in his quiet world.
“I’ll be back,” Taehyung said softly, kneeling beside him to wipe a bit of banana from his chin.
Gyubin gave a distracted nod, too focused on his breakfast to question where his father was going.
Taehyung stood again, smoothing his shirt down and exhaling slowly.
Each step toward the staircase felt like it weighed more than the last. Like his feet knew what kind of presence waited for him at the top cold, distant, immovable.
He wasn’t afraid of Jungkook.
He was just… tired.
Tired of playing the role.
Tired of standing in hallways rehearsing how to ask for the bare minimum.
But still he began climbing the stairs, each step clicking beneath his feet like a countdown.
All for a simple request: Can we go out today?
Taehyung stood before the large oak door, the polished surface reflecting a faint, ghosted image of himself. His knuckles hovered for a second too long before he finally tapped twice firm, but hesitant.
Silence.
Then, after a pause long enough to make him question knocking at all
“Come in.” A low voice. Rough with disinterest.
He exhaled once and turned the knob, stepping in slowly, shoulders tense.
The room greeted him the same way it always did sterile, orderly, and colder than it looked. Soft morning light filtered through the tall windows, brushing faint shadows against marble flooring.
The scent of cedar and some cologne lingered faintly in the air, still fresh from the man who lived inside it.
And there he was.
Jungkook.
Standing beside the long mirror, dressed in dark trouser. The top three buttons of his black shirt were undone, exposing a smooth line of collarbone and ink.
His damp hair clung slightly to his forehead a strand dripping down the side of his temple. In one hand, his phone, brows furrowed as he read something on-screen, the morning light catching on the sharp cut of his jaw.
He hadn’t seen Taehyung enter.
But when he finally did, his eyes lifted narrow, disapproving.
Taehyung’s feet threatened to halt.
He shouldn’t have come now not when Jungkook looked like that. Not when memories of last night still clung to the walls like smoke.
Because he remembered.
He remembered the broken vase that had once stood beside the bed. The way his rage had boiled over, fingers tightening around it, flinging it.
But Jungkook hadn’t even blinked.
He’d simply caught Taehyung’s wrist mid-motion. One effortless twist. And then he was pinned.
Face to mattress. Arm behind his back. Jungkook hadn’t even raised his voice. Hadn’t spoken.
Just silence and the full weight of control.
Now a new vase stood there.
Glass. Elegant. Empty.
Taehyung quickly tore his gaze away from it.
“Good morning,” he said, clearing his throat. His voice was light. Too light. It didn’t sound like him.
Jungkook didn’t answer.
Didn’t even glance at him.
He just set his phone down on the desk with a soft clack, moved to the tall walk-in closet, and pulled it open. One hand reached inside, brushing across tailored suits and pressed shirts until he settled on a black blazer. Sharp-cut. Expensive.
Taehyung stood there, waiting.
Awkward.
He fidgeted with his sleeves, the silence digging under his skin like pins.
“I… I wanted to ask something.”
Still, no response.
Jungkook moved with purpose sliding the blazer off the hanger, flicking invisible lint off the shoulder.
Taehyung hesitated.
“It’s just… Gyubin’s been indoors for so long, and the nurse said he’s stable today. He asked if we could step outside for a while. Just… go out for an hour or two.”
No answer.
Jungkook walked to the mirror, sliding the blazer onto his shoulders. Adjusted it. Checked the fit.
Still silent.
Taehyung swallowed, nerves beginning to fray at the edges.
“It won’t be far. I thought maybe the nearby flower park or the sea cliffs. He’s—he’s been doing better lately, and—”
“Did I say you could speak?”
The voice cut clean through the air soft, but glacial.
Taehyung froze.
Jungkook finally looked up at him through the mirror. His gaze wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was worse.
It was disinterested.
Like he wasn’t even speaking to a person.
Just something standing in the way.
“You barge into my room,” Jungkook said, smoothing his collar. “And ramble about flower parks and walks.”
“You think I care what the nurse says?”
Taehyung blinked. His throat tightened, but he held his ground.
“You brought us here,” Taehyung began, voice soft but weighted. His feet remained rooted just past the threshold of the room, arms crossed like a defense. “You should care.”
Jungkook didn’t respond immediately. He had his back turned, fingers adjusting the cuffs of his black dress shirt, damp hair still slightly tousled from the shower, strands falling across his forehead in uneven shadows. He paused.
Then, slowly, he turned.
One brow raised lazily, his expression unreadable.
“I should care?”
He said it like he was being asked to taste something bitter. As if the very idea was offensive.
Taehyung met his gaze barely his breath shallow but even. He hated how small he felt in this room, how the man across from him could make him question everything with two words and a look.
“I mean,” Taehyung faltered, “we didn’t come here on our own.”
Jungkook stepped forward.
One step was enough to make Taehyung instinctively shift back.
“You want me to care?” Jungkook asked, voice flat, almost amused.
Taehyung’s lips parted, unsure if the trap was already laid. But still
“…Yeah.”
That single syllable hung heavy in the air.
For a second, silence followed. Then, Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward the closet.
Taehyung stood there, confused. Hope tangled inside him fragile, unsure.
But then Jungkook returned.
And there was nothing gentle in his hands.
A small folded hand cloth white, clean, deliberate rested between his fingers.
He walked back, slow and calm. As if this meant nothing. As if Taehyung was nothing.
“What’s that—?” Taehyung started.
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Because before the words could even settle in the air, Jungkook stepped up and shoved the cloth into his mouth.
Not violently. Just firmly. With a sickening calm.
Taehyung’s eyes widened in shock.
Jungkook tilted his head slightly, finally speaking again. His voice was as sharp as it was casual.
“You talk a lot.”
He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves again, now slipping a sleek silver-metal watch onto his wrist.
“Keep quiet,” he said, still not looking at him. “It’s better for your tongue.”
Taehyung stood frozen, the taste of cotton bitter on his tongue, humiliation burning in his throat.
Jungkook moved around him like he was an object a chair to walk around, a lamp to ignore. He fastened the loose watch carefully, the metal gleaming under the light, precise and cool against his wrist.
Taehyung removed the cloth from his mouth slowly. His fingers were steady, but his jaw was tight.
The fabric was soft, but it felt like sandpaper dragging against his pride. He didn’t look at Jungkook not at first. He just stood there, one fist clenched by his side, the other holding that stupid white cloth.
He slowly let it fall onto the nearby table, his fingers brushing it off like something unclean.
There was no apology from that man. No glance. Not even a flicker of guilt in that sculpted face.
Taehyung swallowed hard, then stepped forward. Because Taehyung couldn't back off without atleast trying his best.
“Mr. Jeon…”
Jungkook didn’t look at him. He was already moving, heading past him toward the bedroom door.
Taehyung turned slightly, voice quieter now. “It’s just that… Gyubin really wanted to go out today. He asked so sweetly and—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Jungkook walked right past him.
No pause. No response.
It was like walking through mist except this mist had weight. Cold, suffocating weight that left Taehyung stunned where he stood, breath caught halfway through his sentence.
His lips parted, but nothing came out.
His fingers curled slightly at his side.
The door clicked shut behind the CEO’s departure.
A soft gust from the hallway swept into the room for a second, fluttering the edge of the curtain. The silence that followed was crushing the kind that rang loud in your ears.
Taehyung blinked slowly and exhaled not broken, but trying not to be.
A shaky breath. That’s all it was.
A single breath to remind himself not to let it show.
He glanced at the small cloth still lying on the table and pushed it aside with his knuckles before turning around and walking out of the room quiet, straight-backed, jaw set.
He’d keep his composure. He always did.
Even when the silence left deeper bruises than the words ever could.
.
.
The heavy sound of polished shoes echoed faintly against the marble stairs.
Jungkook descended slowly, his eyes sharp, face unreadable the kind of face sculpted for silence, for authority, for being watched and never questioned.
But just as he reached the mid-landing, his gaze swept across the lower hall and halted.
There, seated on a too-high dining chair with his tiny legs dangling, was Gyubin.
The little boy had his brows furrowed, his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth as he tried, with great determination, to open a juice can.
His small hands struggled with the metal tab, trying to pry it open with strength he didn’t quite have.
Jungkook stopped.
Then, almost mechanically, he resumed walking but his path curved.
Gyubin, too focused on the stubborn can, didn’t notice until a tall shadow fell over the table. He looked up and his body went stiff the moment he saw him.
The can was gently taken from his hands.
Gyubin gasped softly, eyes widening. He scrambled back in his seat instinctively, his tiny palms going behind his back as if caught doing something wrong. His wide eyes darted toward the hallway, searching for his appa.
He didn’t dare speak.
Jungkook, without a word, casually popped the tab open. The faint fizz broke the silence.
He placed the now-open can back on the table quiet, precise and stood still for a moment, gaze lowered onto the child.
Gyubin looked at the can.
Then up at the man.
Their eyes met for the briefest second.
There was no warmth in Jungkook’s expression. No softness. No smile. Just… stillness.
But something in that stillness was different. A pause. A decision.
Gyubin reached out slowly, hesitantly, and wrapped his fingers around the can.
He looked up again, uncertain. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“...Thank you.”
He bowed his head slightly, the way his appa taught him polite, respectful, small.
Jungkook didn’t respond.
Not a nod. Not a hum.
He just turned and walked away his gait as even as ever, his shoulders squared, as though nothing had happened at all.
But his steps were quieter.
And behind him, the little boy stared at his back, eyes following until the man disappeared down the corridor.
Then Gyubin looked at the can again.
His hands warmed around it.
From upstairs, Taehyung had seen everything.
Now, he just stood there, hand resting on the railing, eyes distant.
A quiet sigh slipped from his lips as he shook his head, expression unreadable not surprised, not moved. Just... tired.
He could never understand that man.
Not his cruelty. Not his silence.
And definitely not whatever that just was downstairs.
So he turned, walked away from the staircase, and headed back to his room without a word.
Because whatever game Jungkook was playing Taehyung was done trying to decode it.
.
.
An hour passed in stillness.
Then, the heavy front doors creaked open again, and a tall figure stepped inside.
Kim Seokjin.
The guards near the entrance immediately straightened and bowed in greeting, but he didn’t spare them a glance. His gaze was already drifting across the open hall calm, searching until it stopped on the small boy curled up on the couch.
Gyubin. Seokjin’s eyes softened.
The boy was hunched slightly, a coloring book spread across his lap, brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully filled in a five-pointed star with a wax crayon. His little fingers smudged faint streaks of yellow across the paper. He looked peaceful. Quiet.
Seokjin took a step forward.
Gyubin looked up and his face lit up.
A soft, genuine smile that made something in Seokjin’s chest briefly stutter.
"Good morning!" the boy greeted, voice light and bright.
Seokjin blinked. He hadn’t expected that.
"Morning," he replied, his tone much gentler than usual.
He looked down at the coloring book. “Coloring, I see.”
Gyubin nodded with another smile, eyes crinkling. “It’s a star. Like in the sky.”
Seokjin hummed, watching as the boy colored another section. His movements were careful, almost meditative. “Where’s your father?” he asked quietly, as if not wanting to break the peace.
“Upstairs,” Gyubin said without looking up, switching to a blue crayon.
Seokjin gave a small nod, his eyes following the curve of the staircase above.
He didn’t know why he was here, really. He hadn’t planned to drop by his morning had been filled with briefings, and his schedule was unforgiving. But something had drawn him here. Maybe the quiet. Maybe the boy. Maybe...
Just then, footsteps echoed from the stairs.
Taehyung appeared, walking slowly in his thoughts, a hand lightly gripping the railing as he descended.
Seokjin’s gaze shifted immediately.
And when Taehyung looked up and saw him, something in his expression shifted his tense brows relaxed just a little, the corners of his lips softening. There was no smile. But there was recognition. Familiarity.
Taehyung stopped at the foot of the stairs, gently straightening his shirt, and approached.
“Director Kim,” he greeted, bowing slightly.
Seokjin gave a soft hum, acknowledging him. “Taehyung” he replied the name formal, but the tone warm.
Taehyung smiled lightly.
He stood there a little awkwardly, hands folded in front of him, unsure whether to sit or not. It still felt strange, having someone like Seokjin in his home. Well, not his home. Jungkook’s. But still.
Seokjin finally took a seat on the couch beside Gyubin.
The boy instinctively shifted to make space and nudged the coloring book slightly toward Seokjin, proud of his work.
“These are peonies,” Gyubin said, flipping to a different page with careful fingers. “Like the ones I planted.”
Seokjin looked down, eyes scanning the messy but heartfelt strokes. “You have a good eye for color,” he murmured, then glanced up at Taehyung who stood near the back of the couch.
Taehyung nodded faintly, a small smile brushing his lips. “He’s really been enjoying here.”
Seokjin tilted his head slightly, watching Taehyung a moment too long. The way the light from the window caught in the strands of his soft brown hair, the tiredness behind his eyes that no amount of morning sunlight could disguise. He looked better today. But still... dulled at the edges.
“You look tired.”
Taehyung paused.
A beat passed before he turned his head back. “I’m fine.”
Seokjin didn’t push.
Taehyung lingered near the edge of the couch, watching Gyubin carefully fill in the outline of a butterfly now soft shades of purple and yellow blending beneath his small hands.
For a moment, Taehyung let the silence settle, hesitant.
But the thought wouldn’t leave him. Maybe… just maybe, if Seokjin allowed it, they could finally go out today. Jungkook might not interfere not if it came from Seokjin.
After all, everyone knew Seokjin wasn’t just a director in the company… he was Jungkook’s older brother.
So Taehyung finally cleared his throat.
“Mr. Kim,” he said gently.
Seokjin looked up at once, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Yes?”
Taehyung hesitated. His fingers toyed with the edge of his beige pants, twisting the fabric quietly as he struggled to find the right words.
“I… was thinking of taking Binie out today,” he said, eyes flickering to Gyubin, then back to Seokjin. “Even if it’s just for a little while. I thought... it might be good for him.”
His voice was cautious, like someone asking for too much even when it was so little. Seokjin studied him for a moment.
He noticed the small details the way Taehyung avoided his gaze even as he tried to sound brave, how his voice dropped with uncertainty, how his knuckles tightened with nerves. He looked tired. Hopeful, but careful. Like he was always bracing for someone to say no.
“That’s good,” Seokjin said simply. “You should.”
Taehyung blinked.
“Just take the driver with you,” Seokjin added, reaching over to gently adjust Gyubin’s collar, brushing a strand of hair from the boy’s forehead. “In case he gets tired.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Taehyung’s face broke into something soft something rare. His dull eyes lit up, just slightly, and the smile that formed on his lips was small but sincere.
“Really?” he asked, like he needed to confirm it wasn’t a mistake.
Seokjin nodded once, brief but firm.
Taehyung exhaled, relief melting across his face. “Thank you,” he said, smiling brighter now, eyes briefly closing. “Thank you so much.”
He tried not to show how much it meant. But Seokjin saw it anyway in the way Taehyung ducked his head shyly, trying to hide the glow that had returned to his eyes, even for a fleeting moment.
And for reasons Seokjin couldn’t explain, he felt something stir in his chest. Quiet. Oddly warm.
As Taehyung turned to crouch next to Gyubin, whispering the plan softly, Seokjin looked away eyes drifting toward the tall windows that caught the early afternoon sun.
He didn’t know why he said yes so easily. Maybe it was the boy’s polite “good morning.”
Maybe it was Taehyung’s hesitant hope.
Or maybe it was because, for once, someone in this cold house had looked at him not with fear or formality but with trust.