24
Third Person Pov
The morning was quiet. Too quiet.
Jungkook stood before the mirror, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the pristine white of his shirt glowing faintly in the pale dawn light. He adjusted his collar with slow precision, letting his fingers smooth over the stiff fabric until not a crease remained.
Then he stilled.
There it was.
A faint mark barely ther÷, trailing down the column of his neck. A scratch. Thin, curved. Slowly fading.
The kind of mark that didn’t belong to him.
His gaze darkened slightly, though his face remained composed. He lifted his fingers, grazing the scratch with the barest touch, almost thoughtful. It didn’t hurt anymore, not really. But the ghost of it was still there, a reminder that Taehyung had left it, not in heat, but in defiance.
Defiance didn’t fade as quickly as marks did.
Without breaking his gaze from the mirror, Jungkook turned away, walking with measured steps toward his desk. He pulled open the drawer, reached inside, and closed his hand around something familiar, something cold and heavy.
A lighter. Brushed steel. Smooth under his fingers.
He came back to the mirror, holding it loosely at his side. He stared at the faint mark again, eyes scanning it like one would study a flaw in an otherwise perfect painting. His thumb flicked the wheel, the sharp click breaking the silence.
A flame bloomed, blue at the heart, orange licking at the edges.
He tilted it slightly, watching the way the light danced in his dark eyes. Then, without any urgency, he brought it up close enough for the warmth to kiss his skin.
The heat curled along his neck, making the skin prickle. Still, he didn’t move.
Slowly, deliberately, he angled it closer until the fading scratch met the heart of the flame. The sizzle was quiet, but it was there the faintest hiss of skin yielding to heat. His scent rich cologne mixed with the faint burn, rose in the air.
His expression didn’t change.
The skin flushed, red deepening into something darker, deliberate. A mark of his own making.
When he was satisfied, he snapped the lighter shut with a soft click and set it down on the desk. The faint metallic sound lingered in the air like punctuation.
Only then did he reach for a small jar of cooling gel, twisting the lid off with a single hand.
He dipped his fingers inside, the cool slickness coating his skin.
When he touched it to the burn, the sharp sting pulled at the corner of his mouth, not a smile, not quite. Just an acknowledgment of sensation.
He smoothed the gel in with slow, circular motions, massaging it until the sheen caught the light. The red mark stood out boldly now, no longer fading a fresh, controlled scar where a petty scratch had once been.
Sliding his watch onto his wrist, he adjusted the strap with practiced ease, the subtle weight grounding him. His blazer followed, settling perfectly over his broad shoulders.
One last glance in the mirror his hair immaculate, his collar straight, the burn stark against pale skin and he turned away.
The faint scent of smoke and cologne lingered in the air long after he’d left the room.
.
.
The weight of the box nearly tipped Taehyung forward as he crossed the living room, his view obscured by the bulky cardboard pressed against his chest. He didn’t see him there not until it was too late.
The solid impact jolted him, sending him stumbling a step back. “What the—” Taehyung breathed, struggling to keep the box from slipping out of his arms. He managed to steady it against his hip before setting it carefully on the polished floor.
When he looked up, Jungkook was standing just a few feet away.
The CEO’s stance was still, but there was something unnervingly deliberate in the way his eyes swept over the box, then back to Taehyung’s face. Blank. Assessing.
“What is this?” Jungkook’s voice was low flat enough to sound almost disinterested, but the weight behind it said otherwise.
Taehyung’s first instinct was to deflect, to keep moving and avoid the inevitable because Jungkook never asked without expecting an answer, and silence was rarely forgiven.
But the memory of being backed into walls, into corners, into situations he couldn’t wriggle out of, made his throat tighten.
So he bowed his head slightly, fingers curling at his sides. “It’s… Mrs. Kim’s birthday tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I just ordered some things.”
Jungkook’s brow lifted a fraction. “How do you know?”
Taehyung swallowed, glancing briefly toward the box before forcing himself to meet Jungkook’s gaze again. “We… exchanged numbers. She told me. And she insisted I come.” His voice was careful soft enough to sound polite, not defensive.
The silence that followed was heavier than any reprimand.
Jungkook didn’t move at first, his dark eyes lingering on Taehyung as though weighing whether the explanation was sufficient or whether it even mattered. Then his gaze flicked to the box again, scanning it as though it might reveal something more than just birthday supplies.
And that was when Taehyung saw it.
A slow exhale left his chest, controlled and measured. Without a word, he stepped past Taehyung, his shoulder brushing ever so slightly as he went. Not an accident. Never an accident.
The faint scent of his cologne followed him, sharp against the muted air of the living room.
Taehyung stayed still for a moment, his pulse unsteady, watching the broad line of Jungkook’s back retreat toward the hall. The CEO didn’t look back, didn’t ask more, didn’t need to because somehow, that single glance and the quiet pass-by felt like a decision had already been made.
Taehyung hooked his arms under the box again, letting out a small breath as he lifted it. He gave one last glance over his shoulder empty. The echo of Jungkook’s presence still clung faintly to the space, but he forced himself to shake it off and kept walking.
Inside his room, the air was warm and quiet. Gyubin was sprawled on the bed, bunny plushie tucked against his side, his small face bent over a book. The moment his eyes flicked up and spotted his appa, curiosity replaced concentration.
“Appa…” he said softly, setting the book aside.
Taehyung’s smile was instant, warm in a way it rarely was outside these walls. He set the box down on the floor and lowered himself beside it, stretching his legs out.
Gyubin climbed down from the bed and padded over, dropping onto the floor next to him. His small hands immediately went to the cardboard flaps. “What’s this, appa?”
Taehyung brushed a hand through his son’s hair. “Some stuff,” he said, a quiet playfulness in his tone. “It’s Mrs. Kim’s birthday tomorrow… remember that really nice lady?”
Gyubin’s eyes lit up, the memory clicking instantly. “Yeah!” he said with a wide smile.
Taehyung nodded. “We’re gonna DIY something for her. Something special, from us.”
Gyubin grinned, already tugging at the box edges with impatient excitement. Taehyung let him, the sound of cardboard rustling filling the room. The moment felt simple untouched by anything that happened outside.
But in the back of Taehyung’s mind, the image of Jungkook’s neck, that dark, deliberate mark, lingered stubbornly.
Gyubin’s knees were tucked under him as he peered into the box, eyes growing wide when he spotted the packets of colored clay and the set of small glass jars.
“Oooh, clay!” he exclaimed, instantly reaching for a bright yellow packet.
Taehyung smiled, pulling the box closer. “Careful, we’ll make a mess if we open them all at once.”
“What are we making?” Gyubin asked, tilting his head, already kneading the packet through the plastic.
“Something she can keep,” Taehyung said, glancing at the jars. “We’ll make little clay flowers and put them inside with a note. She can keep it on her desk.”
Gyubin’s eyes lit up. “Like a tiny garden in a jar.”
“Exactly,” Taehyung chuckled, grabbing the scissors to cut the first packet open. The faint smell of fresh clay drifted up, and Gyubin dug his fingers in, molding a ball between his palms.
The low table between them quickly filled with little petals, some perfect, some a bit lopsided. Taehyung shaped one carefully, smoothing the edges before handing it to Gyubin, who pressed it gently against a clay stem.
“Appa, yours looks… better,” Gyubin admitted with a pout.
“That’s because I’m old,” Taehyung teased. “You’ll be even better than me when you’re older.”
The boy grinned, then bent over his work again. They made flowers in different colors, arranging them carefully before placing each one into a jar, the glass catching the soft afternoon light.
Taehyung pulled out a roll of twine and began tying a neat bow around one jar’s neck. Gyubin’s small fingers fumbled with his, and Taehyung leaned over to help, guiding his hands patiently.
“There,” Taehyung said softly. “Perfect.”
They sat back to admire their work, two jars, each holding a tiny bouquet of clay flowers, the colors bright and cheerful against the glass. Gyubin’s eyes shone with pride.
“She’s gonna be really happy,” he said.
“She will,” Taehyung murmured, his voice gentler than before. For a moment, the heaviness from earlier eased, replaced by the simple warmth of creating something together.
Still, when Gyubin got up to wash his hands, Taehyung’s gaze drifted toward the door. Empty. Silent. No sign of Jungkook’s tall frame or those coldeyes.
He exhaled slowly and went back to tying the last bow.
“Appa, the peonies are growing well,” Gyubin said softly.
Taehyung hummed in approval, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"You did a great job with them,” he said, ruffling the boy’s curls affectionately.
Gyubin grinned, pride shining in his seven-year-old eyes.
Taehyung carefully placed the jars on the table, making sure they were steady. He glanced down at Gyubin, who plopped back onto the bed, clearly exhausted from hours of crafting.
“Here,” Taehyung said, taking out the small bottle of medicine and a glass of water. “Time for these.”
Gyubin obediently took the medicine, swallowing it quickly with a gulp of water.
“You should take a nap now,” Taehyung murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his son’s forehead.
Gyubin nodded, already leaning back against the cushions, eyelids growing heavy.
Taehyung moved over to the curtains, drawing them gently to block out the afternoon light.
The room grew soft and dim, the golden glow fading to a calm, restful shade. Gyubin’s breathing slowed as he drifted into sleep, his small chest rising and falling steadily.
Taehyung crouched beside him for a moment, stroking his hair gently, feeling the weight of quiet contentment settle over him.
Finally, he rose, giving one last glance at his sleeping son before walking out of the room, careful not to disturb the peace.
The jars on the table caught the faint sunlight slipping in from the edges of the curtains, their little clay blooms standing proudly, a reminder of a quiet, perfect moment shared between Appa and his Binnie.
.
.
.
Seokjin was in his study, eyes scanning the pages of a thick report. The soft light of the afternoon filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the desk. He didn’t look up when his mother entered; he already knew her presence by the measured tap of her heels on the wooden floor.
His mother stepped in, her posture elegant but her eyes carrying that familiar weight of expectation. She didn’t speak right away, simply stood there with her arms folded, letting the silence stretch.
“You’re forty-four now, Jin,” she finally said, her tone calm but edged with meaning.
Seokjin didn’t look up. “I’m aware,” he murmured, flipping to the next page.
“How long do you plan to stay single?” she asked, her voice firmer this time, like a tap on a locked door.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes still fixed on the paper. “I’m not avoiding it,” he replied evenly.
“Don’t shrug it off,” she countered. “Even Jungkook—no better than you
got married at thirty-seven. At least he’s married.”
At that, Seokjin’s eyes paused mid-line. His hand stilled, but he didn’t turn his head.
“You two are brothers,” she went on, stepping closer. “He’s settled. And he married… such a gentle, good person. Taehyung is…” She trailed off, a faint smile crossing her face. “I don’t expect miracles. I just want my son to have someone. To build something with.”
Her words landed heavier than she probably meant. Seokjin leaned back in his chair at last, meeting her gaze, though his own expression was unreadable.
“Forty-four is not an age to wait forever,” she said softly, though there was a firmness under her gentleness. “Think about your life. Think about what you want.”
He let the silence swallow her words. On the surface, he seemed indifferent returning his gaze to the open report but his mind wasn’t on the numbers anymore. It lingered on a certain name, a certain face.
Taehyung.
The way the younger man’s smile never reached his eyes lately. The subtle tension in his shoulders whenever Jungkook was near. Seokjin pushed the thoughts away before they could settle too deeply, turning another page as if nothing had shifted inside him at all.
His mother sighed quietly, knowing the conversation had ended for now. But when she left, Seokjin found himself staring at the same paragraph for far too long. Taehyung's.
Seokjin sank into the chair for a moment longer, letting the quiet of the study settle around him. Jungkook and he both ruthless in business, both disciplined, both carrying an air of untouchable coldness.
But there was a difference. Seokjin had tried. Social events, dates set up at his mother’s insistence. Dinners, gifts, polite conversation. Each encounter ended the same way: a single dinner, a smile, a polite goodbye, and nothing else.
None of it had ever sparked anything. No electricity, no pull, no stirring in his chest. Nothing that made him want to linger a second longer than he had to. None of them had made him pause, had made him question or crave.
Until now.
Until Taehyung.
The thought alone made his pulse thrum a fraction faster, a sensation he hadn’t felt in years.
Not a vulgar longing, but a raw, unfiltered curiosity.
A spark that made the world quiet around him, that made him want to reach out and trace the contours of someone’s presence, not to possess, but to know they were real. That they existed.
Seokjin rose slowly, deliberately, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down like a tangible thing.
Shirt after shirt hung in perfect order, but he didn’t care. He removed his crisp black shirt, letting the fabric slide from his shoulders. His skin was pale under the soft study light, the muscles lean and defined from hours of training, disciplined routines, and careful control.
He paused for a moment, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror.
The man staring back was composed, immaculate, cold.and yet inside, something unfamiliar and restless was stirring.
Thoughts of Taehyung lingered at the edge of his mind, pulling at him in ways no date, no polite conversation, no fleeting spark with another woman ever had.
For the first time in a long time, Seokjin felt that he was aware of more than just appearances. He was aware of the pull, the curiosity, the tiny thrum of a heartbeat that wasn’t his own, echoing in his chest.
And he didn’t know how to stop it.
.
.
.
Jungkook strode through the sleek, polished corridors of the Jeon Corporation building, his steps measured and precise. The faint echo of his shoes on the marble floor was the only sound, as employees instinctively bowed and murmured greetings in his direction.
He didn’t spare a glance. Not a single nod. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. His eyes remained fixed ahead, sharp, cold, and unwavering.
Unseen to him, two pairs of curious eyes lingered near the lobby.
“Don’t,” a woman hissed, gripping her friend’s arm as she shook her head.
“Why not? I just want to try my luck,” the other whispered back, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face and adjusting her fitted blazer. Her tone was playful, flirtatious, but cautious.
“You’re new here. That’s why I’m warning you. He’s not like the others,” her friend said, voice low, almost fearful.
She let out a soft laugh, brushing off the caution. “Pfft, no one’s ever ignored my charms before. I think I can handle it.”
Her friend’s eyes narrowed. “He’s married. Do you even—?”
“So what?” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Rich people are rarely loyal anyway. I’m not here to fall in love. I just… want to see what the fuss is about.”
She stepped forward, a hint of excitement flickering across her face. Her heels clicked against the marble as she approached the elevator and pressed the button for the 50th floor. The doors slid open with a muted chime, and she stepped inside, ignoring her friend’s urgent calls to reconsider.
The woman pressed the button again, just as the elevator began its quiet ascent. She exhaled, leaning slightly against the mirrored wall, stealing a glance at her reflection.
“Okay, let’s see if the rumors are true…” she murmured under her breath, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.
From across the lobby, her friend watched with a mix of concern and exasperation, muttering under her breath, “Good luck… you’re going to need it.”
Finally, the 50th floor approached. The soft chime of the elevator doors opening made her stomach flip. She stepped out cautiously, adjusting her posture again, pretending she belonged there even as her eyes scanned the sleek office corridor ahead.
She caught a glimpse of movement near one of the offices and froze. Even from this distance, she could feel his presence, like a silent gravity drawing her in, demanding attention without speaking. Every instinct screamed that he was untouchable, yet her curiosity burned hotter than caution.
Pressing forward, she let her fingers graze the smooth rail along the wall, guiding herself through the quiet corridor.
Her friend’s warning still rang in her ears. Don’t. He’s not like others.
She smirked to herself, lips curling in quiet defiance. Men are men. They all break somewhere. The trick is knowing where to push.
“Come in.”
Low. Calm. Unhurried. There was no raise in tone, no impatience yet the weight in that voice prickled along her skin like a cold draft.
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. The scent hit her first: leather, expensive cologne, and something faintly metallic, like rain on steel.
Jungkook sat behind an expansive desk, the kind carved from money and power.
His posture was almost casual, but not lazy shoulders straight, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk, the other moving the trackpad with precise, minimal flicks of his fingers.
His eyes stayed on the screen, the glow reflecting faintly in them.
He didn’t glance at her. Not once.
“Mr. Jeon,” she began, her tone measured, letting that playful, confident lilt lace her words, the same one that had undone men twice her age, three times her wealth.
“Report to my secretary.” His voice cut through hers like a blade, sharp and clipped, not a second wasted. His gaze remained fixed on the laptop.
She let a small smile linger, feigning unfazed charm. “I thought this might be important enough for your attention.”
Silence. Nothing moved but the slow, deliberate movement of his hand across the trackpad.
She stepped closer. One… two… three measured strides, letting the soft tap of her heels punctuate the stillness. She stopped just at the corner of his desk, leaning forward slightly.
“It’s only a minute of your time,” she said smoothly.
Still nothing.
The pen in her hand slipped from her fingers, the small clink as it hit the polished floor breaking the heavy quiet. It rolled slowly—right toward the tip of his black leather shoe.
She crouched down deliberately, knees bending with an unhurried grace, letting her blouse loosen so the neckline gaped just enough to reveal the soft swell of her chest.
When she straightened, she expected him to look startled. Maybe intrigued. Maybe even caught off guard.
Instead he was looking right at her.
It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t interest.
It was a calm, steady stare, cool as winter glass. The kind that stripped you bare without touching you, that made your skin feel too tight.
“Get up.”
The words weren’t loud, but they carried the weight of an order you obeyed before your brain caught up.
She straightened automatically, forcing a laugh to lighten the sudden tightness in her throat. “I just dropped—”
“Don’t.”
Her smile faltered. “…Don’t what?”
“Embarrass yourself further.”
It was so smooth, so low, yet each word felt like it had edges. He leaned back in his chair slowly—fingers steepling lightly, his gaze locked to hers as if she were pinned to the spot.
“If you thought that would work,” he said, voice silk over steel, “then you’re even less useful here than I already believed.”
Heat rushed to her face, though she tried to hold his gaze. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His eyes flicked down once before returning to her face, his stare heavier now. “And if that’s the best you can offer…”
He let the rest hang in the air, his silence making it sting sharper than anything else he could have said. “…you don’t belong in this building.”
Her chest tightened. “Are you—”
“You’ll have your termination papers within the hour,” he said flatly, already glancing back at the laptop. His tone made it sound like a decision he’d reached before she even walked in. “Leave your ID with security.”
She stood there for a beat too long, waiting for a smirk, a flicker of humor something to suggest this wasn’t the cold end it sounded like.
“Get out.” he added, not even looking at her now, his voice distant as his fingers resumed their quiet tapping over the keys.
Her heels clicked sharply against the floor as she left, each step echoing the humiliation clawing at her chest.
The door shut behind her with a muted thud.
Inside, Jungkook didn’t spare her a backward glance. The faint tap-tap of keys continued, steady and indifferent, as though she had never been there at all.
Seokjin was halfway down the hall when a woman brushed past him.
Her perfume lingered faintly, sweet and too heavy, but it was the redness around her eyes that caught his attention.
She kept her head down, one hand clutching her bag as if it were a shield.
Not even a glance back.
Seokjin didn’t stop walking.
The double doors to Jungkook’s cabin swung open with a muted creak.
Jungkook sat behind his desk, a wall of glass behind him flooding the room with pale daylight. He didn’t speak right away, his eyes following Seokjin from the moment he entered until he sat in the chair opposite.
Seokjin set a file on the desk. “Quarterly—”
“Yesterday.” Jungkook’s voice cut across his words, calm but direct.
Seokjin leaned back in the chair, his tone light. “What about yesterday?”
“The elevator.” Jungkook didn’t blink. “Was it really an accident?”
“Of course.” Seokjin’s answer came without pause, the picture of composure.
Jungkook hummed a sound that carried no agreement, only quiet disbelief. He reached for his desk drawer, pulling it open with deliberate slowness.
From inside, he lifted a new handgun, matte black, its weight balanced perfectly in his palm.
“Picked this up last week,” he said, turning it so the light ran over the smooth metal. His thumb traced the edge near the slide. “It’s sharp… for a gun.”
Seokjin’s brows knit faintly. “Guns aren’t meant to be sharp.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jungkook murmured, standing.
He didn’t circle the desk quickly. Each step was measured, his polished shoes almost silent against the floor.
When he stopped beside Seokjin’s chair, he rested the barrel lightly against Seokjin’s shoulder. Not hard enough to threaten. Just… present.
Jungkook’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Don’t try that ever again... hyung.”
Hyung... The word was quiet, almost an afterthought, but it landed like a blade. Jungkook didn’t use it unless he wanted the other person to understand exactly how serious he was.
He tapped the barrel once against Seokjin’s shoulder a light, almost polite gesture before setting the gun down on the desk.
The click of metal on wood seemed louder than it should have been.
Seokjin met his gaze, searching for even the faintest hint of playfulness. There was none.
Jungkook returned to his seat without another word, his attention dropping back to his laptop as though the conversation had never happened.
But the warning hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.
.
.
.
It was late at night. Taehyung had finished eating but lingered by the window, staring at the moon. His mind wandered, reflecting on how far his life had come the unexpected twists, the hardships, the little moments that had shaped him.
A faint, pitiful noise pulled him from his thoughts. His brow furrowed. It came from the other side of the wall. Taehyung rose, moving softly toward the gate.
“Please… can you open this?” he called to the guard, his voice gentle but firm.
The guard hesitated for a moment. “Just five minutes, sir,” he replied.
Taehyung nodded and stepped outside, following the sound. It grew clearer a soft, whimpering cry. His eyes widened as he spotted the source: a small, injured cat pressed against the wall, her fur matted and trembling.
“Oh, sweetie…” he whispered, crouching slowly. “Hey there… it’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”
The cat flinched at his voice, but Taehyung’s hands moved slowly and reassuringly. He stroked her fur gently. “Shh… it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Her golden eyes met his, and she let out a tiny, contented purr. Taehyung’s chest warmed at the sound. Carefully, he lifted her into his arms. “Let’s get you patched up, huh, my little one?”
He walked back through the gate, the cat nestling against him. The guards glanced up, surprised, but Taehyung didn’t notice.
Inside the mansion, he called softly, “Mr. Haenam, could you bring me a first aid kit, please?”
Moments later, the kit was handed to him. Taehyung smiled down at the tiny creature in his arms. “Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with…”
He cleaned a small scratch along her paw, murmuring words as if she could understand. “There you go… all better soon. You’re safe now. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The cat purred softly, nuzzling his chest. Taehyung couldn’t help but smile, his heart full.
In her fragile little life, he found a quiet sense of peace, a reminder of why he protected those he loved so fiercely.
He carefully wrapped her in a small blanket, holding her close to his chest. “Alright, time to get you warmed up and fed. You’ve had a rough night… but we’ll fix that together.”
Suddenly, a faint echo of footsteps reached his ears. Taehyung froze, his heart skipping a beat. He turned slightly, ears straining. The steps were deliberate… steady. Too familiar.
His stomach sank.
The CEO.
Taehyung’s eyes widened, and his hold on the cat tightened instinctively. He stood slowly, trying to make himself appear calm, but his chest tightened with every measured step the CEO took.
Jungkook’s gaze swept the room, landing on the cat cradled in Taehyung’s arms. His dark eyes flicked to Taehyung, lingering with a cold, assessing sharpness.
The cat mewed softly, sensing his tension, but stayed nestled against him.
Jungkook’s eyes flicked down to the cat once more, and for a fraction of a second, Taehyung thought he saw the faintest glimmer of something… interest, curiosity, maybe even amusement. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by that cold, calculating gaze that made Taehyung’s gulp.
“I—I found her outside… she was injured and I just…” Taehyung’s voice trembled, faltering mid-sentence as he cradled the small, trembling cat against his chest.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each breath shallow and uneven. The tiny creature’s soft mews stabbed at him, a sharp pang of helplessness twisting in his chest.
“Throw it out.” Jungkook’s words cut through the air like a knife, deliberate and cold. There was no inflection, no hesitation, only command.
“Huh?” Taehyung’s whisper was almost lost under the pounding of his own pulse. The cat wriggled faintly in his arms, its tiny claws pressing against his palms.
“Throw. It. Out.” Each word was precise, slicing the space between them.
Taehyung’s chest constricted. He glanced at the guard behind Jungkook broad, imposing, every step deliberate. Taehyung instinctively took a step back, holding the cat closer, as if his warmth alone could shield her from the cold command.
“No…” His voice cracked, almost a whisper. “Please… it won’t be trouble… I promise. I just…” His words caught in his throat, and a strangled mew from the cat pierced the tense air. Taehyung’s eyes filled with tears he didn’t try to hide.
The cat pressed its injured leg against his hand, tiny claws scratching lightly. Taehyung’s chest tightened painfully, every nerve on fire.
Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver, sharp and unflinching. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a hand, his fingers curling in a subtle gesture toward the guard. The movement was minimal, almost casual but it carried absolute authority.
Taehyung’s fingers trembled as they unclenched. He lowered the cat gently, whispering, “Please…” His voice broke completely now, raw and fragile.
The guard’s hands closed around the tiny creature, lifting her with careful but firm grip. The soft cries echoed through the hall, leaving a hollow ache in Taehyung’s chest as they receded.
“I… I hate you.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, carried on a broken, trembling breath. They weren’t just words, they were the jagged edges of every suppressed fear, every frustration, every helpless moment he had endured under Jungkook’s icy stare.
He spun on his heel and strode toward the mansion’s interior, each step heavy, deliberate, yet desperate for distance. Tears spilled freely, sliding down his cheeks, and he wiped them away hastily, hating the vulnerability. Hating the ache that refused to fade.
Behind him, Jungkook remained in the doorway, unmoving, his shadow stretching long across the marble floor. He watched silently, every detail etched in his eyes, cold and calculating.
Taehyung swallowed hard, forcing his legs to carry him faster, needing distance, needing the sting of that frozen gaze to disappear.
But he knew, with a sinking certainty, that it wouldn’t leave him.
That it would cling to him, sharp and persistent, just like the ache that still throbbed in his chest.
Even as the distance grew, even as the footsteps of the guard faded from hearing, the memory of that cold command, and the helplessness it left behind, settled deep into him, heavy as stone.