TABLE 3 | JJK ch 21
“For good service, and cute waitresses.”
pairing: pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc
warnings: SMUTTTT, ANGST. but fluffy at the end!! nari “smacks” jungkook. profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idol!jungkook , mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity.
smut warnings: explicit smut! they take it out on eachother. its not healthy lol. grinding, oral f + m recieving, theyre basically crying the whole time they fuck lol, they use eachother, she rides his face, throatfucking, mating press?!? idk its filthy tho ngl. rough jk near the end. oc smacks jk during sex HAHAA. protected sex
this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!
a/n: sorry for the delays on this chapter guys honestly enjoy I had like make up sex where they figured it out through sex at first, but I figured that was just not them so I decided to just make it make the smut scene one where they take out their frustration on each other in an unhealthy way to show that they’re both super lost rather than having them fix things through sex so as always, enjoy mwahhhghgg
The second the door slams shut, you squeeze your eyes shut, fighting the sudden wave of emotions crashing over you.
Jungkook is right fucking there.
Your heart pounds so hard that it hurts. You don’t dare look at him, but you feel his presence—heavy, hesitant, and so familiar that it makes your chest ache.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, awkward, like he hasn’t been here a million times before, like your apartment is suddenly foreign to him. He clutches the slightly crushed flowers and the bag of snacks like they’re a peace offering—like they’re enough.
Your fingers dig into your palms as you force the words out. “Get out.”
For a second, you think he’s going to listen. His grip on the flowers loosens, and his shoulders shift like he’s preparing to turn around.
Instead, his jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. “No.”
“No?” you echo, blinking at him in disbelief.
“No,” he says again, firmer this time. “I—I’m not leaving, not until we talk. Please”
You hate the way his voice cracks on that last word. Hate the way it makes something shatter inside of you.
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “There’s nothing to fucking talk about,” you snap.
“Please, just—just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking,” he pleads, voice raw, eyes desperate. “Please.”
Jungkook takes a step forward.
The flowers and snacks slip from his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud, but he doesn’t seem to care. His hand lifts—slow, hesitant, reaching for you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he touches you.
But you don’t move, either.
And he notices. His hand falters, then slowly lowers back to his side, his fingers curling into a fist. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his breathing uneven. “Please,” he murmurs again, softer this time, his voice on the verge of breaking. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else to make this right. Just—just let me talk to you. Please.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out.
Your breath catches, your body locking in place. Something inside you shifts, something you don’t understand but feel deeply. He sees it. Sees the hesitation flicker across your face. And that’s all it takes. The cracks in him finally give way.
A broken sound escapes his lips as his eyes squeeze shut, and then—he breaks. Tears spill over, his breath hitching violently before he lunges forward, arms wrapping around you tight as he pulls you into his chest.
He’s warm. He’s solid. He’s here.
After all this time, after everything—Jungkook is right here, holding onto you like you’re his last tether to reality.
And you don’t know what to do.
Jungkook clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his arms locked around you in a desperate, trembling hold. His breath is ragged against your neck, warm and uneven, and then—
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice raw, “please—please let me explain—I’m sorry, please—”
Again and again, the words spill from his lips, a choked, endless mantra. His grip tightens like he’s trying to mold himself to you, like if he holds on tight enough, he can keep you from slipping away.
You don’t move. Your arms stay at your sides, stiff and unmoving, not pushing him away but not pulling him closer either. You’re just—frozen. Stunned. Because for the first time in a week, you’re touching him again.
And it feels like your heart is stopping.
The familiar scent of him crashes into you—fabric softener, musk, him. Everything floods back at once, memories slamming into your chest like a physical force.
And then, suddenly—his knees buckle.
Without thinking, your hands shoot out, catching him before he collapses to the floor completely. His weight slumps into you, but you manage to steady him, breath caught in your throat.
“Come on,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, and you don’t even know why you’re doing it—why you’re helping him when every part of you should be throwing him out.
Somehow, you guide him to the couch.
The second he sits down, you let go.
A small time skip, just a handful of minutes, but it feels like an eternity. You’re in opposite sides of the couch. The space between you huge.
You scroll through your phone, aimlessly, pretending not to notice the way Jungkook sits hunched over, staring blankly at the floor, his breath still uneven. His cheeks are damp, eyes red-rimmed, but he’s quiet now, just there.
The snacks he brought—the ones you reluctantly took—are in your lap, half-eaten. You pop another into your mouth, chewing slowly, fingers mindlessly swiping over your screen.
They’re still on the floor.
The sniffling is getting to you.
You try to ignore it, you really do—keep scrolling, keep chewing, keep pretending he isn’t sat there looking like the world’s most miserable kicked puppy. But you’ve finished your snacks, your phone isn’t that interesting, and more than anything—
It just hurts to see him like this.
With a sharp sigh, you put your phone down. “Okay.”
Jungkook blinks, startled.
“You’re here to talk,” you say, voice even, controlled. “Then talk.”
His eyes widen. He flinches like he wasn’t expecting you to actually let him speak. “Come on,” you press.
For a second, he just sits there, lips parted, hands clenched into fists against his knees. He takes too long.
“Why?” The word escapes before you can stop it, raw and sharp. “Why did you lie to me? Why did you make me think we had time? Why did you wait until now for me to find out?” Your voice gains momentum, frustration spilling out, “Why in front of my parents too? Seriously, Jungkook, why? How could you even do this?”
His throat bobs, a thick swallow. His fingers dig harder into his jeans. “I was scared,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Scared of what, Jungkook?”
His breath stutters. “Of losing you.”
That makes something in you snap.
You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “You were scared to lose me? Well, guess what? You fucking did.”
Jungkook flinches again, shoulders curling inward. More tears slip down his face, but he doesn’t sob this time, doesn’t make a sound. He just sits there, taking it, like he knows—
Like he knows he deserves it.
Jungkook tries to explain.
He tries, but his voice keeps breaking, stuttering through fragmented thoughts, like he can’t get them out fast enough. “I didn’t—I didn’t tell you because I—” he exhales shakily, rubbing his face with both hands before gripping his knees again. “I didn’t want to accept it. I just—” He shakes his head. “I wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening. I was selfish.”
Then you laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Selfish?” you echo, tilting your head at him. “You think selfish is a good enough excuse for what you did?”
So you push forward, voice rising. “You let me fall for you, knowing you were leaving—” Your voice wavers, just slightly, but you push through. “You let me—”
You hesitate, chest tightening, because you don’t want to say it. You don’t.
“You let me love you,” you say, the words out before you can stop them.
The moment they hit the air, Jungkook’s entire body locks up. His eyes go wide, his grip on his knees turning white-knuckled, like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it. He stares at you, breath quick and uneven, like he wants to say something, but he—
And you’re staring at him, waiting, waiting—
Until he forces himself to speak. “I didn’t want to lose what we had.” His voice is hoarse, barely holding together.
“That’s bullshit,” you snap.
His head jerks up, startled—then his face hardens.
“Yeah?” he bites out suddenly, defensive. “Well, you let yourself get into this just as much as I did.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he looks like he wants to swallow them back down. But it’s too late.
Your entire body locks up.
The silence is suffocating.
Jungkook’s eyes widen, frantic. “Wait, I didn’t mean that—”
“Say that again.”Your voice shakes with restrained fury.
“I’m sorry—” He’s crying again, harder, reaching for you. “No, don’t—don’t— I didn’t—”
“No,” you cut him off, laughing, but there’s nothing funny about it. It’s hollow, bitter. Your chest aches, stomach twisting as it all sinks in.
“I never stood a fucking chance, did I?”
Jungkook’s breath hitches. “No, no, I—” His voice is frantic, unraveling, “I love you.” He blurts.
You ignore him. Ignore how those three fucking words make your heart pound even in a moment like this.
“You fucking lied to me,” you snap, voice raw with anger. “You let me sit there thinking we had so much time, thinking we were going somewhere, when the whole time—you knew.”
Jungkook’s hands fly to his hair, gripping, yanking, rubbing his face frantically like he’s trying to wake himself up from this. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, congratulations,” you seethe, “because you did.”
You get right up in his face, shoving against his chest, voice breaking as you hiss, “Get the fuck out.”
Then you turn on your heel and storm into your room.
You sink onto your bed, fists clenched in your lap, staring at nothing. Your breath is shaky, your chest tight, your vision blurring.
Outside, you hear him breathing hard, unmoving, lingering. And then— Then, Jungkook follows you.
Even though he knows it’s not the right thing to do. Even though he knows he should respect your space.
He steps inside, slow but determined, and without hesitation, he sits on your bed.
Your eyes snap wide. “Get off,” you bark. “Go away.”
“Jungkook, don’t sit there,” you say again, voice sharper this time, because seeing him there—seeing him on your bed—it feels wrong.
Like something that doesn’t belong anymore.
You shove his shoulder, harder than intended.
He stumbles, tripping onto the floor with a sharp thud.
Your breath catches. But you don’t say anything.
Jungkook stares at the ground, breath uneven, before looking up at you, eyes wide and wrecked. “I—I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You swallow hard, nails digging into your palms.
“Don’t sit there,” you bite out.
“Don’t fucking sit there acting like this can be fixed.”*
Jungkook gets up. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he starts looking around your room.
You see it happen—you watch his eyes scan everything, the soft pastel yellow sheets, the stuffed animals that still drown your bed, the fairy lights twinkling softly against your bookshelf.
But you don’t care enough to stop him.
And then—then he sees it.
The little pegboard on your wall.
The first Polaroid you ever took of him, a long time ago.
That night, you were both tipsy, giggling, and he was buried in your plushies, grinning like a little kid, cheeks flushed. You’d teased him, called him cute, and he groaned but let you take the picture anyway.
It’s still there. Untouched.
And next to it—some daisies. Some he brought you once, taped onto your wall. He doesn’t even remember when he gave them to you.
One is falling off slightly. His body moves on instinct—he reaches out, fingers trembling, and he presses the tape back down carefully.
For a moment, everything feels normal.
His large hand shakes as he fixes the flower. It feels like muscle memory—like all the times he’s fixed your fairy lights when they came loose, or adjusted the books on your shelf when they tilted too much.
Like a rubber band pulled too tight for too long. You get up. And with shaking hands, you rip the daisies off the wall.
“Stop—” Jungkook stammers, his eyes widening as petals fall between you like pieces of something broken.
“Get the fuck out,” you spit. “Get— get out!”
He moves before he thinks—before he can stop himself—grabbing your wrists, pulling you against him.
“Don’t touch me!” You thrash against him, fists pounding against his chest. “How—How could you do this to me?!”
You shove him. You hit him. And Jungkook lets you.
He lets you punch and shove and scream, his arms dropping to his sides, his face crumbling.
Because what is there to say?
What can he possibly say that would fix this?
“Do you not see it?!” you sob. “Do you fucking see how much i’m hurting?”
Your fists keep coming. They don’t hurt him. They never could. But they don’t stop, either. Each one lands like a reminder—like a scream without sound—over and over, and Jungkook doesn’t stop you.
Not at first. Not until something inside him cracks.
“Stop,” he pleads, voice raw.
But another hit comes. And then—
“Stop!” His hands close over your wrists, firm but not rough, his chest heaving, his eyes desperate.
“You fucking knew!” you scream, yanking against his grip. “You knew the whole time! You knew you were leaving!” Something in him breaks.
He lunges. His arms wrap around you tight, caging you in, refusing to let you go.
And this time—this time—you don’t fight it. Your body gives out, fists curling into his t-shirt, fingers clutching at the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. And you sob.
Right into his neck, right against the thin silver chain around it, the metal pressing uncomfortably into your nose—but you don’t care. Jungkook grips the back of your head like he’s holding you together, his breath shuddering against your hair, voice breaking.
“I love you,” he chokes out. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he swears, pulling you closer. “I promise—that’s not what I wanted to do.”
But you don’t listen. You don’t care. Your fists curl tighter into his shirt, your voice wrecked, exhausted, breaking.
“Why?” you whisper. “Why?”
Jungkook keeps whispering, “I love you” like saying it enough times will undo everything.
And you keep whispering, “Why?”
Like it ever really mattered.
Jungkook’s hands find your face. Gently—so gently—like he’s scared you’ll slip right through his fingers if he isn’t careful. His palms rest against your cheeks, thumbs trembling as they brush against your damp skin, and you scoff—God, how can he even—
But you don’t push him away. You don’t fight his touch anymore. And when he leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead, your eyes flutter shut against the warmth, against the ache, against the way your whole body betrays you by leaning into it instead of away.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin.
A fresh wave of tears burns at your eyes.
Your voice is hoarse when you whisper, “Why are you telling me this now?”
No more shouting. No more fighting. Just—giving up.
Jungkook exhales, his breath shaky, his forehead dropping against yours.
“I don’t know,” he admits, and his voice is so small, so lost. “I don’t know anymore.”
And so you cry. Because there’s nothing else left to do. Jungkook just watches, his own face crumbling as he lets you break apart in front of him, and he stays. His lips press against your forehead again, again, again—lulling you, holding you—like maybe, just maybe, he can keep you from slipping away.
Your breath shudders as you pull back just enough to look at him—really look at him.
His eyes are still wet, still glassy, still begging. But there’s something else there too. Something desperate. Something wrecked. And it infuriates you.
Because he has no right to look at you like that.
Not when he’s the reason for all of this.
So before he can say anything, before you can talk yourself out of it, you crash your lips against his.
Jungkook’s whole body jerks in shock, his breath catching in his throat as his hands instinctively come up to cup your face.
“Shut up,” you cut him off, voice shaking, lips brushing against his as you murmur, “Just—just, I don’t know.” And then you’re kissing him again, harder this time, pouring every ounce of anger, betrayal, heartbreak—everything—into it.
It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s nothing like the way you used to kiss him. Jungkook groans against your lips, struggling to keep up, his hands tightening their hold on you as you push forward, pushing him back—
Until the backs of his knees hit the bed. His balance falters, and he falls onto the mattress with a startled gasp, wide eyes flicking up to yours. You hover over him, chest heaving, hands gripping onto his shirt, and the tension between you is so thick, so suffocating, it feels like it might devour you both whole.
“Baby…,” he breathes, voice raspy, almost pleading.
But there’s no turning back now.
Your fingers tighten around his throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold him there, to make him feel trapped the way you did.
Jungkook’s eyes widen, lips parted, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he doesn’t know what to do with you like this—furious, heartbroken, desperate, and still, still wanting him.
And you hate that you do.
“How could you?” you bite out between kisses, voice shaking, lips crashing back down onto his before he can even think about answering.
Jungkook groans into your mouth, his hands hesitating for a moment before finally gripping your waist, holding onto you like he might fall apart if he doesn’t. But he doesn’t answer.
Maybe because he doesn’t even know how.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s because right now, with you on top of him, with your anger spilling out of you in the form of bruising kisses and desperate touches, he knows there’s nothing he can say to make this better.
Nothing except letting you take exactly what you want from him. Right now, it feels like you want to ruin him.
It’s in the way your fingers tighten around his throat—not enough to choke, but enough to make him feel it, enough to make him pay for what he’s done. And still, despite everything, despite the pain and betrayal still lingering between you, he can’t think about anything except the fact that you’re here. Kissing him. Touching him.
Because this isn’t love, not really. It’s frustration and grief and something ugly spilling out of you in the way you grind down against the bulge in his pants. Every unspoken word, every ounce of pain he’s caused, it’s pressing into him, dragging desperate moans from his throat even as his stomach twists with something heavier.
Then your teeth sink into his lip—hard, sharp.
It hurts. But the pain is nothing compared to the ache in his chest.
Before he can think too hard, you pull back and yank your shorts down, your movements rushed, frantic. His breath catches at the sight of your bare cunt, slick and glistening, at the way your hands tremble as you kick your shorts aside. His heart stutters because you’re still crying, silent tears streaking down your cheeks, and he reaches out without thinking.
“Don’t.” Your voice is tight as you slap his hand away.
His stomach churns. He should stop this. Ask if you’re okay.
But then you’re crawling back into his lap, pressing into him, kissing him like you can steal the air from his lungs. And he lets you.
Because despite knowing this won’t fix anything, despite knowing that fucking each other like this—like it’s punishment, like it’s proof of something neither of you can name—will only leave you both more broken in the end.
You kiss him for a bit longer, your tears spilling onto his face, and he lets them. What else can he do? If this is what you need—if this is how you’re going to take your pain out on him—then so be it. If this is the last time he’ll have you like this, breaking and desperate, then so be it.
Even if it destroys him all over again.
Suddenly, you sit up, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging sharply. His breath stutters, but he doesn’t resist—not when you move, not when you shift onto your knees and hover over his face.
You press your folds against his mouth, trembling hands gripping onto his hair as you force him to take it, to feel you, to be trapped beneath the weight of everything you’re feeling. The same way he trapped you.
“You hurt me—” your voice breaks, a breathless stutter as your hips move against him.
His chest tightens. His hands twitch against your thighs. He should stop this. He should say something.
But then your slick drags over his tongue, and he can’t do anything except give in.
Not because he deserves this. But because he fucking misses it. Misses you. Misses the way you used to come to him with love instead of anger, how this used to be about something more than grief.
And yet, he still parts his lips, still licks into you, still takes everything you give him. Because despite the pain in your voice, the scowl on your face, the sadness twisting your expression, you don’t stop. You just keep grinding against his mouth, pleasure and agony bleeding into one.
“You hurt me so much,” you whisper, voice thick with something ruined. And all he can do is keep going, hoping his tongue can somehow lessen the pain.
You grind against him harder, and when you glance down, his eyes are brimming with tears. But it’s not just sadness—it’s mixed with that same look he’s always had when he’s had his mouth on you, brows furrowed with focus, with desperation.
Like he needs this. Like he needs you.
And that’s when you break.
A sob rips through you, your body trembling as you collapse forward into the pillows. You press your face into them, trying to muffle the sounds, trying to breathe past the ache clawing at your chest. But your hips don’t stop moving. You press yourself down against his tongue, grinding your clit over his mouth like it’ll somehow dull the pain, like it’ll fill the emptiness in your ribs.
Physically—it’s good. Of course it is. It’s Jungkook. He’s always known how to touch you, how to pull pleasure from you like it’s second nature.
But emotionally? You’re a fucking wreck.
You choke on another sob, feeling the way his lips close around your clit, the way he sucks, the way his grip on your thighs tightens like he doesn’t want to let go. And then you feel it—his own tears, hot and wet against your skin, smearing against your mound as he trembles beneath you.
And then, as you press yourself even harder against his mouth, you feel it—him sobbing into your pussy.
Like he knows exactly what this is.
Like he knows this isn’t fixing anything.
And still—neither of you stop.
Your fingers clutch the pillows, nails digging in as you press down against him. You need him to stop crying. The sound of it—his quiet, broken sobs against your skin—makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure. You want to comfort him. God, you want to.
Before you can decide, before you can do anything, the pleasure crashes over you too fast, too strong. Your body seizes, your hips jerking against his mouth as you come, gasping into the sheets, riding the waves of it even as your throat tightens with the threat of another sob.
Jungkook sobs harder beneath you.
His hands grip your hips, pulling you down, grinding you harder onto his tongue like it’s the only thing he can do. Like it’s his own way of apologizing. His own way of telling you to just take it—just take him.
He’ll let you do whatever you want.
You shift off him, moving lower, and his hands find your waist, holding you like he’s scared you’ll disappear. His fingers tremble as they reach for the hem of your shirt, peeling it from your body with a hesitance that feels foreign to him. “Baby…” His voice is wrecked, unsure.
You pretend you don’t like it. Pretend his pet names don’t affect you. But the flush rising on your cheeks betrays you, and you both know it.
Not after what he did to you.
Your fingers dig into his shirt, clawing at the fabric like you’re trying to take something from him—maybe his warmth, maybe his control. He doesn’t resist when you tug it over his head, baring him to you. Both of you are covered in tears, and they don’t stop. They drip from his lashes, from your chin, staining the spaces between you.
It looks ridiculous. Pitiful.
There’s no love here. Not right now.
Just ugly, desperate need.
You tug at his sweats, dragging them down with his boxers in one sharp pull, and his cock springs free, thick and flushed, standing stiff in front of you. He groans at the familiar sight, propping himself up on his elbows like he refuses to miss a second of this.
And, God, you missed this.
His cock, yes—but more than that, him. Having him right here, raw and bare, close enough to touch.
Your lips part on a quiet moan as you press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip, and his breath stutters. He watches you with wide, glossy eyes as you nuzzle against him, rubbing your nose along the length of his shaft like it’s instinct, like it’s muscle memory. The way his cock twitches with every touch makes you press closer, inhaling him like you could drown yourself in the feeling instead of the pain.
Jungkook whimpers, his head tipping back slightly. “Baby please…” he repeats, voice breathy, breaking.
It happens so suddenly that it catches him completely off guard—your lips part, and you take him in. All of him.
Your nose presses into the soft, unshaven curls at his base, and he shudders, breath stalling as your throat clenches around him. You gag immediately, eyes flicking up, searching for something—approval, reassurance, maybe even comfort. His brows knit together, and a broken “Fuck,” slips past his lips when your tongue presses against the underside of his cock, tucked so deep in your throat that your whole body trembles.
Tears spill over, hot against your cheeks, mixing with the ones that never really stopped.
His hands fly to your hair, gentle despite the ache in his chest, his thumbs wiping at your wet skin. You start moving before he can think—bobbing your head up and down, a punishing rhythm, like you’re trying to force his hands away. But he doesn’t take the hint. Doesn’t want to.
Then you sob against his cock.
It wrecks him. The way your throat convulses, the way you choke around him, ignoring the sharp burn because it’s nothing compared to what’s really hurting.
Notices how you’re using this—using him. How you’re trying to punish yourself. Punish him.
So he moves. His grip on your head tightens just enough to pull you off carefully, firmly, giving you room to breathe. But you don’t take it.
You shove his hands away, pinning them to his sides against the bed.
His eyes widen. “Baby, don’t—”
But you ignore him. Your mouth is already back on him, lips sealing around his swollen tip, and then you go harder. Suck harder.
Not about the way your throat aches, not about the way he twitches under you, not even about the way his breath stutters, eyes welling up like he’s about to break.
You just want to take and take and take until something inside of you feels full again.
Even though you know it won’t.
And he knows it’s wrong. Knows this isn’t how you fix things. But at this point, you’re both too far gone to stop.
He pulls away abruptly, his cock slipping from your mouth, leaving your lips wet and swollen. You whimper at the loss, the sound almost desperate, but before you can move, he’s standing in front of you, grabbing your face in both hands.
He doesn’t dare look down.
Doesn’t want to see it. The sight of you like this—on your knees, eyes ruined with tears, lips parted, waiting for him—would break him in a way he’s not ready to handle.
So instead, he shoves his cock back in.
One swift thrust past your lips, pushing deep, and he doesn’t relent.
His hips move fast, sharp, a bruising pace. He’s fucking your mouth now, no restraint, no softness. Just pure desperation, tangled up with the mess of emotions that neither of you know how to handle.
A punishment—though he doesn’t know if it’s for you or himself.
His fingers twist tighter in your hair, guiding you back and forth, making sure you take all of him, feel all of him. The wet sound of it echoes between you, and he groans, guttural and raw, when you suck harder in response.
Then—your tears spill onto his thighs.
And he should stop. Should care.
Not when his head is too clouded, not when he’s too far gone, not when his cock is buried so deep that the only thing anchoring him is the way your fingers dig into his thighs, clutching, clawing, holding on like this is all that’s left.
Then suddenly—it hits him. A realization, a moment of clarity, a sharp, gut-wrenching ache that nearly sends him to his knees.
Your coughs and gags fill the air, your body trembling, and when he finally looks down, his stomach drops.
You’re crying harder now. Whimpering. One hand rubbing at your throat, as if it could soothe the raw ache there. As if you knew exactly what he was doing.
And fuck—he feels so fucking guilty.
So guilty that his hands are moving before he can think, running through your hair, forcing your gaze back to his even though you keep trying to look away.
His cock aches, twitching in front of your face, but for the first time tonight, he doesn’t care.
Because none of this is right.
So he kneels. Lowers himself until he’s face to face with you, until he can see every tear-streaked inch of you, and leans in.
Presses a kiss to your forehead.
It’s soft. Gentle. So heartbreakingly tender that your body jolts—like the intimacy of it makes you sick.
Because this was never supposed to feel gentle.
Never supposed to feel like love.
Then—you stand up. Ignoring the horrible feeling in your chest. Like you’ve been doing all night.
You push him onto the bed, fingers trembling, but you don’t give yourself time to hesitate. You scramble for a condom in your drawer, tearing it open with urgency, barely looking at him as you roll it down his cock. You don’t tease. Don’t touch him the way you used to.
A sharp gasp punches out of you, and he groans beneath you, but you don’t wait. Don’t let yourself think. Just start moving—bouncing on his cock, taking what you need, chasing something you’re not sure you’ll find.
You’re desperate for it. Desperate to come.
Nothing about this feels right.
Jungkook grips your hips, thrusting up to meet you, but your body isn’t reacting like it should. No warmth curling in your stomach, no heat pooling at the base of your spine. Just pressure. Just frustration.
You let out a noise—half sob, half moan—and suddenly, he’s flipping you over, pushing inside you from behind. His fingers dig into your waist, his thrusts deep, relentless, and for a moment, you think this will do it.
So he switches again. Pulls you beneath him, presses your thighs open, grinds against your clit while he fucks you missionary.
He pinches your nipples, squeezes your breasts, moves his hips in that way that always had you shaking before—but still, nothing.
And it hits you then. The way his breathing is off. The way his rhythm keeps faltering.
Because this—this isn’t what you need.
And the realization sinks like a stone in your gut.
This isn’t going to fix anything.
Desperation laces every thrust, his hips snapping against yours with brutal force. His fingers work your clit, rubbing fast, messy, relentless—but it’s all wrong. Your body jerks beneath him, but there’s no build-up, no spark catching into something more.
Just movement. Just friction.
Tears spill down your cheeks. Your teeth grit. You can feel his frustration in the way he grips you, the way he groans against your mouth like he’s begging for this to work.
“B-baby, I can’t—” he gasps, breathless, his pace frantic, desperate.
But it’s not taking you anywhere.
You swallow down the frustration clawing at your throat and tug him down by the hair, slamming his lips onto yours.
“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.
His breath stutters. He fucks into you harder. You squeeze your eyes shut and clench around him, like maybe—maybe—that will make this feel real again.
But deep down, you both already know the truth.
His thrusts slow. Something flickers in his eyes, raw and unguarded.
The words feel wrong here. Too soft, too fragile for the way he’s holding you down, the way his body trembles above yours.
Your brows furrow. Your chest tightens. Without thinking, you shift back, his cock slipping out of you—but he growls, hands gripping your waist as he yanks you back onto him.
“I said I fucking love you.” His voice cracks. And then—he slams back in.
It’s too much. Too hard. Too desperate.
He’s fucking you like he’s punishing himself. Like if he fucks you deep enough, hard enough, he can shove the words back down his own throat. The same way he fucked your mouth earlier, that same reckless anger drives his movements now.
And maybe—maybe that’s what pushes you closer. The three words you never wanted to hear. The three words that ruin everything.
He groans against your face, voice breaking. Then suddenly—he hooks his arms under your legs, pushing your thighs all the way back. You squeal, gripping at his arms, but he just plants his feet against the bed.
Up and down, deep and sharp, hitting places inside you that have your breath catching in your throat.
“I—fuck—I love you so much,” he pants, voice strained, eyes squeezed shut like he hates himself for saying it. “This is so wrong—but I love you—”
Your palm flies across his face before you can even think. His head snaps to the side. He groans, eyes fluttering shut—and then he thrusts harder.
His hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you whimper. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged.
“Take it,” he growls. “Take my love. Fucking take it. Take my cock. Take anything. I don’t care.”
The tears have stopped, but his forehead stays pressed to yours, breaths mingling, damp skin sticking together. Every deep thrust drives his cock against that spot inside you, the one that makes your stomach tighten, your nails dig into his arms.
“You love me?” You let out a breathless, humorless laugh against his lips.
His brows furrow. His grip around your throat tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold you there, force you to see him.
“Can you not—fuck—can you really not see it?” he growls, voice breaking. His hips snap into you harder, deeper, making your breath catch. “You can’t see how much I fucking love you?”
His words shake with frustration. His fingers press into your throat like he wants to push the truth into you, make you feel it the way he does.
“I love you so much it hurts.” His voice is ragged, eyes wild, body trembling as he fucks you harder, chasing something neither of you can quite grasp. “Every day—My love for you fucking kills me. And now?—“
Then he pulls back, keeping his grip firm on your neck, eyes locked on yours. And somehow—somehow—that’s what sends you over the edge.
Your body seizes, a choked sound escaping your lips as you tighten around him. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He groans when he feels you clench, but his thrusts stay relentless, fucking you through it, rubbing your clit to drag it out.
He doesn’t care that you’re sensitive. Doesn’t care that your body trembles under him.
A few more deep, ragged thrusts—and then he’s spilling into the condom with a sharp groan, hips stuttering, body tensing before he finally collapses against you, forehead pressing to yours again.
And just like that—everything falls into silence.
He pulls out, breath still ragged, hands shaking as he slips the condom off. His cock is still slick, still sensitive, but he brings it to your lips anyway, nudging against them. A quiet demand. A habit.
But you just stare at the ceiling. Blank. Unmoving.
He drags himself against your lips anyway, groaning at the contact, chasing the last remnants of pleasure. But you don’t react. Don’t part your lips. Don’t do anything.
A sick feeling curls in your stomach. The warmth between your legs has already faded into something hollow, something bitter. The cum smeared on your mouth doesn’t faze you, not anymore.
When he tucks himself back into his briefs, after giving your cheek a soft slap with his cock—something playful, something that once would’ve made you giggle—you don’t react.
You just slip off the bed, the warmth of your body vanishing so abruptly it makes his skin prickle. His head lulls back against the pillow, chest heaving, hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead.
He’s about to reach for you—because he always does—but before he can, you’re yanking the blanket over yourself, shielding yourself from his gaze in a way you never used to. It throws him off completely.
And he doesn’t have time to process what just happened—what you just did to each other—before the cold air creeps in where your body had just been. It makes everything settle in, and fuck, it doesn’t feel good.
Jungkook stares at the ceiling, lips parted, mind racing.
This was supposed to fix something, wasn’t it?
But all it’s done is leave him feeling emptier.
He sighs, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to sit up, pushing his damp hair back. He decides to just get changed, brushing off the fact that you usually let him take care of you afterward. That you usually stay curled into his side, limbs tangled together, like you never want to leave.
The door clicks shut behind you, and you barely make it to the sink before your legs feel like they might give out. Your hands tremble as they grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
When you lift your gaze, the mirror reflects back a version of yourself you don’t recognize—wide, glossy eyes, lips swollen, breath shallow and uneven. And there, smeared on your lips, the proof of everything that just happened.
Your stomach twists violently.
A choked noise escapes your throat as you snatch a tissue, hands shaking so badly that you almost drop it. You rub at your lips, desperate, frantic, like if you wipe hard enough, it’ll all just disappear. But it doesn’t. It just smears, and it makes you want to scream.
A sob rips out of you instead. You slap a hand over your mouth, shoulders trembling as your body caves in on itself. It won’t stop—your chest heaves, your breath stutters, the tears come faster than you can stop them. It feels like something inside you just cracked wide open, and you can’t shove it back together.
What the fuck did you just do?
Your reflection blurs as tears pool in your lashes, and you shake your head, gripping at your own arms like you can anchor yourself. But you can’t. You feel like you’re floating, untethered, drowning in something too thick to wade through.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You press your forehead to the mirror, squeezing your eyes shut, but the ache in your chest only deepens. And still, the sobs won’t stop.
You squeeze your eyes shut, but it does nothing to stop the flood of memories.
And you—God, you just let him back in. Just like that.
Another sharp sob rips through you, and you press your palm over your mouth harder to stifle it. The realization sinks in, heavy and suffocating—you used him. You let him use you, too, but you used him right back. You let the need, the anger, the sadness morph into something physical, let it consume you because it was easier than facing the truth.
Your body trembles as you reach for the faucet, twisting it on with unsteady fingers. The water is too cold at first, but you don’t care. You scrub at your face, wiping at the tear tracks, washing away every trace of him, of what just happened. You move quickly, mechanically, but when you reach between your legs to clean yourself, you flinch.
A quiet whimper escapes you as you continue anyway, forcing yourself to just get it over with. It’s too rough, too rushed, a stark contrast to how he used to do it—how he used to take his time, warm cloth against your skin, soft words murmured against your temple. You used to feel so cared for. Now you just feel… raw.
You force yourself to take a steadying breath. Get it together.
It takes everything in you to turn off the water, to straighten up, to press your hands to your cheeks and whisper a weak, It’s fine. You’re fine.
You’re not, but you have to be.
And when you come back, fresh clothes clinging to you, skin still damp from the washcloth you used, you don’t meet his eyes.
You just sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from him.
And then, after a long stretch of silence, you mutter, “What did we just do?”
Jungkook exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck.
And you both realize it at the same time—this didn’t fix anything.
If anything, it made everything so much worse.
Because now you’re stuck in this loophole—one where you keep falling back into each other, keep touching, keep breaking, without ever truly knowing how to stop.
You slip back into bed next to him, your back facing him, the space between you a quiet void.
Jungkook is still staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling, the air thick with everything left unsaid. Neither of you move, and eventually, exhaustion tugs you under.
When you wake up, it’s still dark outside. The room is cold.
Your chest tightens instinctively, but you force yourself to shake it off. Of course, he left. You felt like he would. You should’ve expected it.
You push your covers off and step out of your room, already trying to convince yourself that you don’t care, that this is just what he’ll do now—shows up, fucks you, and then disappears.
But when you reach the living room, your breath catches in your throat.
He’s sitting on the couch, unmoving, staring into nothing, eyes bloodshot. His hair is a mess—like he’s been running his hands through it over and over again. His fingers twitch against his knees, clenching and unclenching, and when he finally registers your presence, his head lifts slightly.
His lips part the second he sees you.
But he doesn’t say anything.
His hands curl into fists, like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out, and his gaze flickers downward—just for a split second—before he blinks rapidly and yanks it back up.
And for some reason, you smile.
It’s barely there, so fleeting you almost don’t register it yourself.
He makes a tiny choked noise, like he wasn’t prepared for it—like he physically has to stop himself from saying oh out loud.
You don’t say anything at first.
You just move to the kitchen, grab a cup, fill it with water, and walk over to the couch, handing it to him a bit sheepishly as you sit down beside him.
He takes it hesitantly, fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment, still looking at you like he doesn’t understand what the fuck just changed.
And, honestly, neither do you.
Jungkook hands the glass back to you after taking a sip, and you do the same before letting out a humorless laugh.
He exhales, barely a whisper. “We are.”
And then, finally, you turn to him fully.
Because this needs to end.
There’s no point in sitting here doing this—circling around each other, skirting the inevitable, pretending like any of this makes sense. So you just go for it.
He looks at you instantly, tense, shoulders locked up to his ears.
His whole body goes still.
He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
It’s like the words physically knock the air out of his lungs, like he wasn’t expecting them, like he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with them. His lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.
“No,” you cut him off, your voice sharp. “Please. Not now. Don’t do this. Let me talk.”
Jungkook’s mouth snaps shut.
You breathe in, exhale shakily.
“I do. I love you. I love you so fucking much, and I can’t believe I do. I hate that I do. I can’t believe I let myself love you.”
Jungkook flinches, like your words sting. You swallow thickly, your hands running down your thighs, trying to keep them from shaking.
“I told myself at the start I wouldn’t,” you whisper, voice wavering. “I told myself I’d keep my distance. But I fell so fucking fast. I think I fell faster than you.”
Jungkook’s brows furrow, his fingers curling into his jeans, knuckles white.
“Getting jealous two days in, looking at stupid rumors online. I told myself I wouldn’t be stupid, that I wouldn’t be her, that I wouldn’t be another one of those girls who fall for Jungkook. Who falls for that stupid fantasy. Because that’s not real.”
Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, his head tilting forward, a deep crease between his brows.
“But I did.” You laugh, but it’s bitter.
“I fell for you. The real you. The guy who sneaks food off my plate. Who pouts when I make a stupid joke. I hate that I fell for everything about you, and now we’re fucking here. Now you’re leaving me. And I can’t believe it.”
Neither do you. Your throat tightens, and you drop your gaze, staring at your hands as you swallow past the lump forming there.
“But I think I deserve to know this, after all that.”
You look up, eyes pleading.
Jungkook’s lips part slightly, but nothing comes out.
“I won’t be mad,” you whisper. “Just… why?”
Jungkook opens his mouth—
But you cut him off before he can even start.
“Because I just don’t understand.”
Your voice wavers, but your stare is sharp, unwavering.
“The same person who let my best friend threaten him with bare fists and didn’t even argue. The guy who looked at me like I hung the fucking moon—” your voice catches, but you keep going, pushing through it, ”—even though he knew he was gonna leave. That’s what I can’t get over, Jungkook. You knew. This whole time, you knew. And you still—you let me love you anyway.”
Jungkook is staring at you like you’re physically tearing him apart. His fingers are digging into his thighs, trembling.
And then, softer this time—
Still, he says nothing. You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “I don’t even know what hurts more,” you admit, shaking your head. “The fact that you didn’t tell me. Or the fact that if you did—” your breath shudders, “I still would’ve fallen for you.”
And then Jungkook breaks.
For the millionth time tonight.
His shoulders shake, and a sharp breath leaves his lips before he’s pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. His chest rises and falls erratically, and then the tears start falling again.
And this time, he doesn’t even try to stop them. You sit there, staring at him, your own heart breaking all over again. And you realize—this is his turn now.
You have nothing left to say.
Jungkook swallows hard, his hands rubbing over his face as if he’s trying to physically keep himself together. His breath shudders as he exhales, and when he finally looks up at you, he forces himself to get it the fuck together.
His voice is rough, wrecked. His eyes are bloodshot as fuck.
You don’t say anything. You just stare at him.
“I knew from the beginning,” he continues.
You don’t react, don’t blink—just let him keep going.
“I told myself it was just a little thing. Something casual.” He laughs again, but it’s humorless. “That I was just intrigued. That it would pass, and I’d get bored.”
His breath leaves him in a broken laugh, his head shaking, like he can’t believe himself. “That was a stupid idea from the start.”
His gaze flickers to yours, but you don’t give him anything.
“But then you smiled at me and gave me that fucking menu. Ignored me.” His voice cracks slightly, and he fists his hands. “And I fucking knew.”
His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for something. For you.
“I should have told you. I know I should have. I should have told you the second I knew it was getting deep, but I didn’t want to.” His head dips forward, jaw clenching. “I was so fucking selfish. I thought—maybe if I just pretended it wasn’t happening, then it wouldn’t.”
His head lifts again, and when he meets your eyes this time, you almost flinch at the way his gaze burns.
“But it did.” His voice is thick with emotion, his breathing uneven.
“Every time I saw you, I just kept falling harder and harder, and I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t let myself stop. And then I kept pushing it back, over and over—”
Jungkook lets out an exasperated laugh, like he’s mocking himself.
“Oh, wait. I’ll tell her tomorrow. I’ll tell her next week. I tried, I swear I did. That day I came over before your parents’ dinner—I tried. But you—” His lips press together, like he’s holding something back, before he exhales sharply. “You kept interrupting me.”
He shakes his head again, that same bitter, humorless laugh slipping past his lips. “And I let you. Because I was a fucking coward.”
Jungkook exhales shakily, his voice growing weaker with every word.
“At that dinner… I forced myself to go because I couldn’t say no to you. I knew it was a shit move. There’s no excuse for it.”
His voice wobbles now, breaking just slightly, and he shakes his head like he hates himself.
“When your dad told me to treat you right, I thought I was gonna throw up. I wanted to grab your hand and tell you. I wanted to tell you so fucking bad—but it was too late.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening.
“And then you looked at me, and I saw it. I felt it.”
His breath stutters, and suddenly, he’s choking on a sob.
“I’ve never hated myself more than in that moment. Than I have in these past few days.”
You don’t even realize you’re crying until a tear slips down your cheek. You blink rapidly, sniffing, but you don’t wipe it away.
Jungkook swallows thickly, exhaling through his nose. “After that, I don’t even know what I was thinking anymore. I was just so fucking lost.”
You stare at him, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you for a second before darting away, like he’s ashamed.
“And then the next day…” He pauses, rubbing his face before huffing out a humorless laugh. “I went to the diner. And you and Nari pulled that little stunt—pretending you just got fucked in the bathroom.”
For a split second, you almost laugh from the memory. But nothing’s funny. Not this.
Jungkook leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I knew it was fake.” He sniffs, shaking his head. “And I still just—fuck, I don’t even know. I left. Drove around for hours. And then, I don’t know—I went to the convenience store across the diner and got myself a bottle of whiskey.”
Jungkook keeps going, casual as ever. “Yeah, no, don’t worry. Nari saw me, though. She gave me a lecture and drove me home.”
He lets out a small, humorless laugh, like it’s just some passing comment.
But your blood runs cold. “Jungkook, are you serious?”
He blinks at you, still not really seeing the weight of it. You get up, storming over to him.
“Are you fucking serious?”
His expression shifts slightly—confusion, then realization, then something that almost looks like guilt. Like he’s just now realizing oh, shit.
You’re in front of him now, standing over him, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Jungkook tilts his head up to look at you, and something in his face shifts—his brows draw together, his lips part just slightly, and his whole body tenses like it’s only just now hitting him.
Like this wasn’t just some reckless, passing mistake.
“Are you fucking insane?” Your voice is shaking, your hands gripping his shoulders before you shake him once—hard.
Jungkook’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just a small stutter of breath.
“You could have—died,” you choke, stepping back, running a hand through your hair like you can’t even process it. “That is not—are you—like—” The words keep slipping away, too many thoughts colliding at once. “What? What the fuck?”
Jungkook’s eyes are wide now, like a child caught doing something they can’t take back. “I—” He stammers. “I, I—”
“No,” you cut him off, voice cracking. “No, don’t—just—no.” You’re shaking, head pounding. “Do you even—do you have any fucking idea what could have happened?!”
He flinches at the sharpness of your voice.
“Do you know how stupid that is?” You’re furious. But more than that, you’re scared. Your hands are trembling, your chest is tight, and you don’t know if you want to scream or cry or both.
“You could have died, Jungkook,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper now. “You could have fucking died.”
You step forward again, voice rising with each word. “And then what?!” Your hands shake at your sides. “And then what, Jungkook?!”
His breath stutters. His whole face crumples.
A choked, broken sound leaves him.
It’s almost a sob, almost a gasp, but it guts you. His hands shoot up to cover his face, shoulders curling in on themselves like he’s trying to make himself small. And you don’t know if you want to hold him or hit him. Obviously not the latter. But—
Your breath is still heavy, chest tight, but when Jungkook lets out another broken sound, something inside you snaps.
Before you can think, you’re reaching for him. Your hands land on his arms, gripping lightly, but the guilt creeps in so fast it nearly suffocates you.
What if this was your fault?
“No,” Jungkook says immediately, voice thick and raw. His hands drop from his face, catching yours before you can pull away. His eyes are bloodshot, desperate. “No, don’t—don’t ever think that. This was never your fault.”
Your throat tightens, and before you can stop yourself, you sink down next to him on the couch, arms wrapping around his shoulders.
Jungkook folds into you instantly. His hands fist into your hoodie, gripping so tightly it almost hurts, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His face is pressed into your shoulder, and you feel the way his breath stutters, his body shaking as he cries into you.
“As much as I want to hate you right now,” you whisper, brushing your fingers through his hair, “I don’t.”
Jungkook lets out a choked, muffled sound, fingers tightening in the fabric of your hoodie.
You wipe at his damp cheek with your thumb, and he blinks up at you, swallowing hard. His lips are still parted, breath shaky.
“But this,” you start, shaking your head, “this shit, Jungkook. I just—” You inhale sharply, frustrated, overwhelmed. “I can’t.”
His hands tremble where they clutch at you. “No, don’t do that. Don’t feel bad,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “This is on me. This was me.”
You exhale harshly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. No shit.”
A long, heavy silence, both of you just breathing, still pressed against each other, the weight of everything suffocating and inescapable.
Then— “I can’t believe Nari had to babysit your dumb ass.”
Jungkook lets out a breathy, broken laugh, shoulders relaxing—just barely. His grip on you doesn’t ease, but the smallest sliver of tension slips from his body at your words.
“Yeah, I know,” he mutters. “She was banging on my window, I thought she was gonna break it.”
You shake your head, biting back a small, humorless smile. “I can imagine. I’m surprised she didn’t murder you.”
Jungkook sniffs, scrubbing at his face, and exhales. “Me too, honestly.”
Everything is still heavy. Still fragile.
But for the first time tonight, you both just breathe.
Your tears have dried now. Your face still feels sticky with them, the weight in your chest hasn’t exactly lifted—but it’s settled. No longer clawing its way up your throat, no longer threatening to shatter you completely like it has for the past few days.
And then, before you can stop yourself, the words just slip out.
“How long do you have again?”
Jungkook shifts beside you, blinking a little, like he wasn’t expecting the question. His breath catches for a second, and then, quietly— “A week.”
You nod, staring ahead. And then—again, without thinking— “Alright. Enough of this.”
Jungkook tilts his head, brow furrowing. “Huh?”
You turn to him fully, taking in his messy hair, his puffy, bloodshot eyes, the way his lips are still damp from where he’s been biting them all night. You inhale, steady.
“We have one week,” you declare, matter-of-fact.
“And we’re making it worth it,” you add, voice unwavering. “Worth its while.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then—Jungkook’s lips twitch. Just slightly at first, almost uncertain, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. But then—then the corners lift higher, and suddenly he’s grinning. Grinning like a fucking idiot, wide and disbelieving, his eyes crinkling at the corners like he can’t help it.
“You’re serious?” he asks, voice almost breathless, like he’s scared to believe you.
You roll your eyes, looking away. “What? Don’t get too excited.”
A real, genuine laugh. Head shaking, teeth sinking into his lip like he’s physically trying to contain his smile but failing miserably. And god, it’s the first time he’s laughed in days.
The sound of it makes your stomach ache.
And that’s when you know. That you were really going to forgive him either way. That you knew it before he even walked through the door. That you knew it the second he touched you.
The second you let yourself feel again.
Because despite everything. Despite the hurt, despite the mess, despite the absolute fucking disaster—
And there’s just no point wasting a single second of this last week pretending otherwise.
The comfortable silence stretches between you, warm and easy. The weight in your chest isn’t quite gone, but it’s bearable. Jungkook’s fingers graze yours absentmindedly, and you ignore the way it makes your heart stutter just a little.
Then, breaking the quiet, you stretch out on the couch. “So, where should we start?”
Jungkook hums in thought, fingers still ghosting over yours. “Definitely the field.”
You nod. “Maybe the diner, too.”
“And that barbecue place,” he adds, glancing at you. “The one we went to the first time. Where you made fun of me for eating too much meat.”
You smirk. “I will make fun of you again.”
He nudges you playfully, grinning, just about to suggest something else—when the door creaks open.
Both of your heads snap toward it.
And in stumbles a very drunken Nari.
Jungkook stiffens slightly beside you, but you just watch in amusement as she shuffles inside, completely oblivious to your presence. Her dress is a wrinkled mess, her hair is disheveled, her lipstick smudged. One heel dangles precariously from her foot, the other is… missing.
She mumbles something unintelligible while beelining straight for the kitchen.
Then, she raids your snack cupboard.
Chips. Cookies. Even your emergency food stash—nothing is safe. She plops onto the floor with her hoard, munching like a damn goblin, grumbling to herself, “This bitch never has pickles in her house.”
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh.
Jungkook is frozen beside you, clearly unsure what to do with this… situation. Then, suddenly, Nari looks up.
Her chewing slows. She sees both of you staring.
You lift a brow. “Nari. Where the hell did you just come from?”
She shrugs, completely unfazed. “The club.” She grabs a bag of chips, cookie crumbs spilling all over her dress, and wobbles to her feet. You wince, already dreading the mess you’ll have to clean up later, but mostly—you’re just amused.
Then, her gaze shifts. She notices Jungkook on the couch. She notices your fingers still barely touching.
“Oh, shit—WAIT. Did you guys fucking make up? Are you guys okay now?”
You open your mouth, but before you can even respond, Jungkook turns to you, waiting, almost anticipating your answer. You hesitate for half a second—then shrug.
She shamelessly smacks Jungkook across the cheek.
It wasn’t hard. It only really sounded like it because of the dramatic “Pow” sound she decided to make while doing it. But it mostly missed his cheek entirely. Finger tips barely skimming over his skin.
“What the—?!” he yelps, eyes wide.
You gasp, trying so hard not to laugh.
“Sorry,” Nari says breezily, shaking her hand out. “I’ve been wanting to do that all week.”
Jungkook looks beyond bewildered. “What the hell?” And he cant even say what was that for? Because well…he knows exactly what.
She huffs, crossing her arms. “Well done lover boy. But don’t pull that shit again.”
You do laugh this time, quickly covering your mouth when Jungkook glares at you.
“Okay, okay,” you say, biting back a grin. “Are you driving?”
Nari scoffs. “Obviously not. I got an Uber. But I needed food first.” She gestures at her snack haul like it’s obvious. “My fridge is empty.”
You smile. “Take as much as you want.”
“Yeah, I will,” she says, stuffing more cookies into her mouth. Then, to your horror, she picks up a cookie that’s been resting in a pile of dust—and eats it.
She blinks at you, clueless. “What?”
You shake your head. “Stay safe, okay? I love you.”
She winks, then—trying (and failing) to whisper—she leans in, “Did you guys fuck?”
Jungkook chokes. His ears immediately go red.
“Nari,” you hiss, horrified.
“Wait,” she pauses, eyes widening. “Was I saying that out loud?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. Jungkook buries his face in his hands.
“Oh, sorry,” she mumbles, then perks up. “Oh! My Uber’s here.”
She grabs her things, stuffing as many snacks into her bag as she can, then stumbles toward the door. You follow her, wrapping her in a quick hug.
“Love you,” she mumbles, squeezing you back.
“Love you too. Text me when you get home, okay?”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, waving over her shoulder as she disappears down the hall.
You stand in the doorway for a moment, watching her wobble toward the street in disbelief.
Then, you turn back to Jungkook.
He’s still sitting there, still red-faced, lips parted like he’s processing.
Just as you think the chaos has finally settled, the door creaks open again.
Then—without warning—she hurls the same half eaten cookie straight at Jungkook’s head.
It bounces off with a soft thud.
“Ew,” she deadpans. “That one was in the dust.”
Jungkook stares at her, offended. “Oh my god, why am I being abused?”
Nari just smirks, slamming the door shut before he can retaliate.
Jungkook groans, rubbing both his cheek and now his head with a lingering pout. “I can’t believe she just slapped me. And then threw a cookie at me. This is abuse.”
You snort. “C’mon— slap? she basically tickled you. Be grateful she didn’t punch you.”
“She might as well have,” he mutters, shaking his head. But there’s amusement in his eyes, that soft, lingering crinkle at the corners. He looks at you, tilting his head. “What’s with you two and violence?”
You roll your eyes, stretching your arms. “Survival instincts.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
Then, softly— “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
You don’t miss the way he falters slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to let him back in so easily. As if he’s still holding his breath, still bracing himself for rejection.
But you just look at him, then reach for his hand.
His fingers slip into yours, and you tug him forward.
Not to the bedroom, though.
And you don’t even know why you shower with him. Maybe its because you need something that feels familiar to you otherwise you’ll go insane tonight. Maybe it’s because you just miss it. Maybe both. You don’t know.
No teasing, no playful flicks of water, no jokes about how you always take too long. Just the soft patter of water against tile, the occasional shift of your feet.
Jungkook hesitates before following you into the shower, lingering at the edge like he’s unsure if he should. But when you glance over your shoulder and pass him the rag—just like always—he takes it without a word.
And then, the space between you is just gone.
The steam thickens in the air. His hands are slow, careful, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. The quiet intimacy of it makes your breath catch, but you let him.
He runs his fingers through your hair, rinsing out the shampoo, watching the suds disappear down the drain. His touch is tender, reverent. And when you step out, wrapping yourself in a towel, his eyes linger.
At the way droplets cling to your skin. The way your lashes flutter with the weight of water.
But mostly, he just looks guilty.
You notice. Of course, you do. But neither of you say anything. You just take each other in.
Later, when you offer him a shirt like always, he shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says softly. Even though he always says yes. Even though you don’t know why he doesn’t tonight.
Even though he doesn’t know why himself.
And then, you lead him back to the bedroom. By the time you make it to the bed, you’re both so exhausted you can barely keep your eyes open.
You don’t think twice before aggressively shoving all of your plushies off the bed, clearing space like you always do. It’s clockwork at this point. Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh at the familiar sight, but he doesn’t say anything—just slips under the covers right after you.
His arms wrap around you without hesitation, his chin resting against the top of your head. Your legs tangle together naturally, bodies molding into each other like they always have.
Neither of you say good night.
The exhaustion—physical, emotional—finally taking over.
You decide to deal with the consequences tomorrow.
