Chapter Text
Seoul’s evening symphony washes over you - the racket of car horns, the melodic hum of conversations, the rhythmic click of your heels against the pavement. Your reflection catches in darkened shop windows as you rush past: disheveled hair, smudged eyeliner, the embodiment of exactly what your mother dreads seeing at her precious family reunion.
Thirty minutes late.
Your phone screen mocks you with its glowing numbers. You tried everything to escape work early - the pointed sighs, the meaningful glances at the clock - but your boss had been oblivious and relentless. “Just these last few pages,” he’d said, three separate times. Now your stomach churns at the thought of your mother’s reaction. She won’t hesitate to skin you alive, audience be damned—aunts, uncles, cousins…
The restaurant’s warm glow spills onto the sidewalk, and the rich aroma of grilled meat and kimchi makes your stomach clench. You pause outside, smoothing down your hair and taking one last, steadying breath. Through the window, you can already see them: the annual gathering of the family circus, complete with nosy aunties, judgmental uncles, and your mother holding court at the center table.
Ten years of these reunions. Ten years of your mother insisting on this elaborate display of family unity, as if perfectly plated japchae could fill the void of your father’s passing left behind. You understand her need to keep everyone close - you do - but tonight feels particularly unbearable.
Your hand hovers over the door handle as you tick off the reasons: First, there’s the U-jin situation. Six years together, one broken engagement, and a betrayal of you’re still trying to swallow. Everyone will have their theories, whispered speculations passed around like banchan. But they won’t get the real story - how you found the messages, how young she was, how he tried to explain it away as a mistake. Some things deserved to be buried.
Second, the charade of potential suitors will begin. Aunties showing off their long lost cousin’s son. “Oh, have you met so-and-so’s son? He’s a doctor/lawyer/CEO.”
The corner of your mouth twitches as you remember last week’s attempted setup. The man had spent forty-five minutes explaining his cryptocurrency investments, which sounded more like a pyramid scheme than anything. You’d never been more grateful for your friend Hyunie to fake an emergency work call.
And third - your fingers drum against your bag - the inevitable interrogation about your biological clock. At thirty-three, you’re practically ancient by your society’s standards. Never mind that half your friends are just starting to think about marriage, or that your career is finally taking off. In your mother’s eyes, every passing month is another grandchild she’s been denied. You’d almost count your break-up with U-jin as a blessing because you couldn’t imagine being tied down and having a child with him.
The door chime betrays you before you can finish composing yourself. A familiar head pops up from behind the partition, and your mother’s wave manages to be both welcoming and accusatory. You take one last breath of freedom before stepping into the warm, noisy embrace of family obligation.
The scent of sizzling samgyeopsal and bulgogi hits you as conversations ebb and flow around the long table. You bow, murmuring apologies - a well-practiced dance at this point. The only empty chairs sit at the far end, next to - your heart sinks - Sung-ho, whose rock collection continues to grow less interesting with each passing year.
A strand of hair sticks to your lip gloss as you settle in, and you fight the urge to scream about having to sit next to Sung-ho and this reunion. Your mother’s eyes haven’t left you since you sat down, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against her teacup. You know that look. It’s the same one she wore when you announced you were going to film school instead of law school.
“What?” you mouth, knowing full well what’s coming.
Her whisper carries across the table like a perfectly aimed arrow: “What took you so long?!” The words ride on vapors of soju and barley tea, her anger barely concealed behind a tight smile as nearby relatives pretend not to listen.
You paste on your own smile, the one reserved for difficult directors and your mother’s moods. “I was stuck at work,” you explain through gritted teeth, watching her face darken like storm clouds gathering. “And there was traffic—” It’s not like you can control sensor streetlights or crowds.
“Then you should’ve known to get out of whatever it was and to leave earlier,” she scoffs, each word precisely chosen to maximize guilt. “You know how important this dinner is.”
Important to whom? You want to ask. Important to her carefully curated image of the perfect family? Important to her endless quest to fill the silence your father left behind? But you swallow the words with a sip of barley tea, letting its warmth chase away the bitterness on your tongue, along with the words of spite you want to spew, because your family has never once been perfect.
The night continues and like you expected, the conversations you played in your head are spot on. “What happened with U-jin”, “Have you met Dae-ho? He’s a doctor”, and “You could’ve given your mother at least one grandchild.” Your nods and fake smiles hold up for now, and you’re hoping no one orders another round of galbi or bulgogi to continue the endless merry-go-round of chatter.
Every word coming out of Sung-ho’s mouth goes in one ear and out the other as you’re focused on the black pepper stuck between his teeth. You’ve given him several hints of your indifference to the conversation, but he’s inept to social cues.
The scent of soju already clung to his breath as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, a habit you’d observed at countless family gatherings over the years. Your mother had once cornered you in the kitchen during Chuseok, whispering about his recent promotion at Samsung. “Such a stable career,” she’d said, her fingers lingering on your shoulder. You’d pulled away, busying yourself with the dishes.
“Hey…so, how are you, really?” His voice cracked on the last word, fingers tapping against his empty shot glass. The overhead light caught the sheen of sweat on his temple.
“I’m okay…” You traced the condensation on your water glass, studying the growing puddle beneath it. The buzz of conversation around you offered plenty of escape routes, but years of your mother’s scolding about manners kept you rooted in place.
“I heard about U-jin. I’m sorry about that,” he stuttered. The soju bottle clinked against his glass as he attempted to pour, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Your chest tightened at U-jin’s name. Four weeks since the breakup, and still everyone walked on eggshells around you.
As you watched Sung-ho’s trembling hands, remembering how he’d brought your mother’s favorite honey citron tea when she was sick last winter. The gesture softened your irritation, but didn’t change the complete absence of attraction you felt toward him.
A burst of cold air swept through the restaurant as the door opened. Your mother’s chopsticks clattered against her bowl.
“Look who it is! Our successful and handsome Jungkookie!” The pitch of her voice shifted up an octave – the tone she reserved for her favorite customers and Yuna’s family. You pressed your lips together, remembering how she’d barely glanced up from her phone when you’d announced your film school acceptance.
The figure in the doorway shrugged off a hounds tooth coat, revealing broad shoulders that hadn’t existed in your memories of Yuna’s kid brother. Jungkook’s blonde-highlighted hair caught the light, artfully tousled by the winter wind. His dress shirt was wrinkled at the collar, his tie slightly askew – small imperfections that only seemed to enhance the overall effect.
“Forgive me, I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, catching his breath. That shy head tilt was achingly familiar – the same one you’d seen countless times when he’d hide behind Yuna during family dinners, speaking only when directly addressed.
“Aigoo, that’s okay!” Your mother was already on her feet, bustling around the table, shooing him to the seat next to Sung-ho. “The traffic is terrible this time of day. Here, sit, sit! You must be hungry after work.” She reached across you for the teapot, her elbow jabbing your shoulder as she poured.
“Mom – I told you the exact same thing about traffic when I got here,” you said, rubbing your shoulder. The words came out sharper than intended, carrying years of collected grievances.
She clicked her tongue, not even sparing you a glance. “Jungkookie, I packed some of your favorite banchan to bring home. The kind you liked when you were little. You’re too skinny! All you young people working such long hours…Remind me to give it to you before you leave.”
Jungkook lowered himself into the chair across from you, his ears tinging red at the attention. Those doe eyes hadn’t changed, still carrying that hint of innocence despite the mature, sharp angles of his face. He caught your gaze and mouthed a silent “Hi,” the corner of his mouth lifting in a tentative smile.
You returned the greeting, watching your mother fuss over his place setting. The weight of Sung-ho’s unfinished conversation pressed against your back, but he had already retreated to a different conversation, forgotten in Jungkook’s wake.
Dinner is accompanied by laughter and clinking glasses that seemed to mock your solitude. You pushed the japchae around your plate, letting the sweet and smoky scent of sesame oil drift up without tempting your appetite. The bottle of grapefruit soju beside you was proving to be your only reliable companion, each shot burning away a whispered comment or pitying glance from the relatives around you.
Sung-ho, emboldened by alcohol, had abandoned his earlier nervousness. “Are you working on any new projects?” The words tumbled out with newfound confidence, his previous stutter nowhere to be found.
“Oh, yep. Currently filming a new show, with another project lined up after.” You kept your tone flat, noncommittal, while your fingers traced the condensation on your shot glass. Your soul screamed for rescue from this conversation, but Sung-ho remained oblivious to your crossed arms and wandering gaze.
He launched into an enthusiastic monologue about his rock collection (you figured it was only a matter of time) – something about rare minerals and weekend expeditions – while you fought the urge to bang your head against the table.
From across the wooden expanse, you caught Jungkook watching the exchange, amusement dancing in his eyes as he lifted his own shot glass to his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he observed your suffering, clearly enjoying the show before deciding to intervene.
Just as you reached for the last bottle of soju, his hand got there first. He caught your eye, tilting the bottle in silent offering. You pushed your glass forward, gratitude flooding your chest as the clear liquid splashed into it. The gentle clink of your glasses meeting felt like a small conspiracy between you.
“Noona, how are you? I heard you’re engaged. Congratulations.” His smile was genuine, if cautious. Something in his tone suggested he knew he was stepping onto fragile ground.
Your relief at escaping Sung-ho’s geological discourse evaporated. If you had a shot for every time someone mentioned the engagement tonight, you’d be passed out under the table instead of merely wishing you could crawl beneath it.
“WAS. WAS engaged.” Your mother’s voice cut through the ambient chatter like a knife, though she sat halfway down the table. The soju had painted her cheeks red, loosening both her tongue and her volume control.
A familiar weight settled in your stomach. “Mom…” You pressed your fingers against your temples. “Can we not do this right now? There are too many people around.” The last thing you needed was your private life becoming dinner entertainment.
But alcohol had stripped away your mother’s filters, leaving behind that raw honesty you’d grown to dread. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I’m sure you could get him back.” She hiccuped, waving her chopsticks for emphasis. “Yah! You should try. I’ll call him now.”
The sight of her reaching for her phone sent you lunging across the table and three or four relatives, dignity forgotten. Glasses rattled, and someone gasped. You felt the weight of every eye at the table, your cheeks burning as you tried to play off the desperate move with a wooden smile.
The familiar questions crept back in, unwanted guests in your mind: Was it your fault he strayed? Had you been too absorbed in the new show, too focused on your career? The long hours in production, the missed calls, the late-night “meetings” that, in hindsight, carried the perfume of betrayal. It took two people to build a relationship – and apparently, one other woman to break it.
Your mother brushed off your intervention, already deep into another tangent about U-jin’s virtues. You sat back, fingers rubbing your temples in an attempt to hide your face, and your smile stretched so thin it threatened to crack. Across the table, Jungkook’s expression had shifted from amusement to concern, his eyes catching the tension in your shoulders, the slight tremor in your hands as you reached for another shot. His earlier teasing faded, replaced by a quiet watchfulness that suggested he’d shelve his questions about U-jin for another time.
The dinner finally wound down, relief flooding through you as you made your escape toward the door, dodging last-minute conversations like landmines. Outside, the neon signs of the restaurant cast colored shadows across the sidewalk as your phone buzzed.
Yuna 9:30 PM
I hope you had fun tonight and weren’t too bombarded with questions about U-jin.
Your best friend had the perfect excuse to miss this disaster – getting engaged to Namjoon, who’d been planning the proposal for months. Your mother, usually relentless about attendance, had given her a pass. You didn’t bother responding. Of course you were happy for her, but the memories of late-night talks about double weddings and synchronized pregnancies now felt like cruel jokes.
“I hate it here,” you muttered, stuffing your phone into your bag.
“It can’t be that bad, can it?” The familiar voice behind you made you jump, hand flying to your chest.
“Oh shi—you scared me.”
Jungkook stepped into the glow of the street lamp, and you couldn’t help but notice how time had refined him. He’d grown taller, broader, his once-teenage frame now solid with muscle. The scar on his cheek caught the light, a familiar landmark on new territory. Tattoos peeked from beneath his rolled sleeves – a detail he’d tried and failed to hide during dinner.
His smirk carried a confidence that suited him. “Noona, are you checking me out?”
You rolled your eyes, landing a playful smack against his arm – and immediately regretted it. “Damn, how often do you work out?” The words slipped out before you could catch them.
“Want to feel?” He shrugged off his jacket sleeve, flexing with exaggerated flair. “Here.”
You lifted your bag in mock threat, but he dodged, cackling. “Oh, shut up. You’re so annoying.”
“I’m kidding…” One of his hands found his pocket as a chilly wind swept through the street, the other gripping the bag of banchan your mother brought for him. “Dinner wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Easy for you to say. Your whole life isn’t being dissected for family entertainment.”
Jungkook’s life could be perfect for all you know—probably has the perfect girlfriend, apartment, and job.
He edged closer, arm brushing yours as he whispered, “You’re right. It was awful – but mildly entertaining to watch.”
The bratty kid still lived in there somewhere, wrapped in muscle and tattoos. “So…did he dump you?” he asked, the question landing with surprising gentleness despite its directness.
Going abroad had clearly given him courage. You fought the urge to kick his shin. “Bold of you to assume I got dumped.”
You stood there, arms crossed tight like armor, while his question hung in the air like stale smoke. What was it - did heartbreak have its own neon sign above your head? Was “Just got dumped” branded across your forehead in flashing letters for everyone to see? Hell, you might as well rent a billboard or walk around with one of those sandwich boards: “Now available! One slightly used heart, comes with emotional baggage and trust issues!” Maybe that would speed up the whole finding-a-new-boyfriend process. At least then you’d be honest about your advertising. his shin. “Bold of you to assume I got dumped.”
You stood there, arms crossed tight like armor, while his question hung in the air like stale smoke. What was it - did heartbreak have its own neon sign above your head? Was “Just got dumped” branded across your forehead in flashing letters for everyone to see? Hell, you might as well rent a billboard or walk around with one of those sandwich boards: “Now available! One slightly used heart, comes with emotional baggage and trust issues!” Maybe that would speed up the whole finding-a-new-boyfriend process. At least then you’d be honest about your advertising.
“I suppose I’m getting feisty Noona tonight.” He made a playful growling sound, pawing at the air.
A laugh escaped despite yourself. This familiar banter felt like stepping into an old photograph – the countless afternoons of witty exchanges at his house, the comfortable push-and-pull of your relationship.
“I’m never not feisty…” You paused, the weight of truth pressing against your chest. “And you know what, no—I’m done protecting his image. He cheated on me.”
“The same guy who missed your anniversary trip? I’m surprised you stayed with him after that.”
Your eyebrows shot up because that happened seven years ago. “You remember that?”
“Hard to forget.” His expression darkened. “Thought you would’ve dumped his ass after that.”
You shrugged, shoulders heavy with six years of wasted time. The romance had fizzled out so gradually you barely noticed it dying, like a plant you forgot to water. “I don’t know. Maybe I was dumb or desperate, or both.”
He shook his head, that familiar protective look crossing his features. “I wouldn’t say you’re any of that.”
“Thanks Kookie.” The nickname slipped out easily - your perpetual sweet dongsaeng, always trying to patch up your broken pieces even when you were being a mess of a Noona.
His face lit up at the nickname - funny how something he once rolled his eyes at had become his favorite sound. Every time you said ‘your Kookie,’ it felt like a secret shared between just the two of you.
“I should have known or maybe I just didn’t want to see it. Now that I look back, he was clearly doing sneaky shit.” The signs had been there, neon-bright and blinking: the suspicious late nights at work, the convenient weekend “business trips,” his phone buzzing like an angry hornet with texts. Maybe you’d been willfully blind, or maybe a part of you had already checked out, waiting for him to pull the trigger so you wouldn’t have to. The comfort of routine was a hell of a drug.
You stood there looking like a deflated balloon, and his face crumpled at the sight. It wasn’t the first time he’d watched disappointment carve its way across your features - he’d had a front-row seat to this show before.
“Can I give you a hug?” He opened his arms like parentheses, already bracing for rejection. Always shooting his shot, this kid.
“Why? Do I look desperate and sad?” You probably did - a walking billboard for ‘Recently Dumped and Attending Family Dinners: A Tragedy.’
“Kinda…” His laugh bubbled up, gentle and warm. “No, you don’t…I can’t give my Noona a hug? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
My Noona. Ha. You rolled your eyes so hard they might get stuck.
“Yeah I guess.” The side-hug was awkward, more like a careful game of Tetris than embrace, but somehow exactly what you needed after this dumpster fire of a dinner and relationship post-mortem.
“Just…don’t cry though because I don’t know what to do when you cry.”
“Why’d you have to ruin the moment for?…Dummy.” You chuckled, smacking him upside the head as you extracted yourself from the hug. Classic Kookie, emotional intimacy sending him into panic mode.
“I don’t understand why someone would cheat. Especially with someone like you, you’re perfect.”
You barked out a laugh. “Perfect?” Perfect was the last thing you felt - more like a jigsaw puzzle someone had thrown against a wall.
He turned to catch your eyes, flashing that signature bunny smile that made him look about twelve years old. “Mm.”
“If I’m so perfect then he wouldn’t have cheated. He would have kept his dick in his pants. The girl he was with was five years younger. We were together for six years, Kook. Six years.” Your voice cracked like thin ice, that familiar ache blooming in your gut as your throat threatened to close up. You whipped your head away as tears started their betrayal march down your cheeks.
U-jin wasn’t perfect and neither were you, but there had been magic once - real, fizzy, champagne-bubble magic. You just couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it all went flat.
Jungkook gnawed his bottom lip, regret painted across his face for opening this particular Pandora’s box. He pinched your arm - his go-to move since you were kids - trying to coax you back. Your eyes skated anywhere but his face as you swiped angrily at the tear making a break for it down your cheek.
He leaned in, his hands warming your arms like space heaters. “Yah—I told you not to cry.” His joke wobbled on shaky legs. Poor guy looked like someone had handed him a live grenade - crying women were definitely not in his comfort zone.
You sniffled, maintaining your steadfast eye-contact embargo. “I’m not crying. I don’t know how water got in my eyes.” You managed a watery laugh. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“Maybe you should be with a younger guy. I don’t know…have some fun.” The words tumbled out of his mouth like he’d been holding them hostage, and you could see the instant regret flash across his face.
“Me? With a younger guy? Nah, they’re so immature these days. Could you imagine me dating someone who’s barely old enough to drink?” The idea pulled a genuine laugh from you, but seriously - dating someone that young? Maybe a year or two younger, but where would you even find a younger guy interested in dating up? Was this what your life had come to - contemplating Tinder and Bumble like some kind of digital dating survivor? Who knows, maybe you’ll just end up on the ‘Golden Bachelorette’ at this rate.
“Noona, there’s nothing wrong with dating someone younger than you.”
“I know…but there’s such a stigma around women dating younger men. If it was an older man dating a younger woman, no one would bat an eye. And where would I even meet someone? It’s not like I go out to bars or use dating apps.” The thought of diving back into the dating pool made your stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics. The whole ‘getting to know someone’ dance felt exhausting just thinking about it.
He shrugged with the casual confidence of someone who hadn’t had their heart put through a paper shredder. “Who cares what people think? You can’t help who you like and there are plenty of ways to meet someone.”
Maybe he had a point about the casual fun thing, but your heart needed to heal first. The thought of dating again could wait - preferably for a very, very long time. Some wounds needed more than just a band-aid and a bunny smile to heal.
“So….want me to key his car? Spread rumors about STDs? Could even make a website dedicated to how much of an ass he is.”
The laughter bubbled up, genuine this time. “All fantastic ideas, but we can’t do that.”
“What? Why not? Revenge doesn’t have an age limit.” Jungkook playfully nudged your shoulder.
“It feels petty and I’m old. I’m supposed to have my shit together, but here I am, having a pity party with my best friend’s little brother.”
He set the bag of banchan down and gripped your shoulders, turning you to face him. “Quit it with the ‘being old’ bit.”
“It’s true! I eat dinner at five, I’m in bed by nine, my back hurts all the time—”
“Noona, repeat after me.” His eyes locked onto yours, intense despite the playful tone.
“Do I have to?” You stomped your foot childishly, drawing another laugh from him.
What followed was a ridiculous call-and-response that had you both giggling like teenagers, his hands rubbing warmth into your arms as you repeated his words about self-worth and comparing yourself to others.
“Now that’s the spirit!” His grin was infectious. “Don’t you feel better now?”
For a moment you did feel good, but moments are fleeting and you’re back to unshakable thoughts about next steps, especially at the ripe old age of thirty-three.
You wave him off with a tut. “You’re still young and handsome with a full life ahead of you, so of course you can say that without any weight behind it.” Your expression sullen as you begin to walk away.
Everything he made you repeat is easier said than done. It’s what you say when someone is in a rut, when you want to hype them up, get them out of their slump. You say things without meaning.
“Hey!” He calls out, catching up to you. “No wallowing, okay? Breaking up sucks, but it just means you have more freedom now,” Jungkook reassured, his eyes drop down to his feet before he catches your gaze, flashing you a bittersweet smile.”
You sense his earnest attempts to comfort you, but there are times when sitting with your own disappointment serves a purpose - it becomes the mirror that reflects your missteps and illuminates the path to avoid repeating them.
“Noona…is ice cream and Netflix still your thing? I’m in if you’ll have company tonight.”
“You’re always invited, you know that.” The familiar comfort of his presence felt like solace after the chaos of dinner. “Can we take a rain check?”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
He stops and holds out his arm in front of you, gasping dramatically. “Wait, Noona…you think I’m handsome?” He puffed up his chest ridiculously, referring to your earlier comment.
A chuckle leaves your lips. Of course that’s the only sentence he chose to retain. “Really? That’s what you’re dwelling on?” You shake your head. “Well, the rest of your body finally caught up to your nose.” You booped it playfully.
“Yah! I forgot how annoying you are.”
“Me? I’m annoying?! What about you?”
“Noona, you’re lucky, you’re older. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise what?” You taunted, wiggling free from his embrace and sticking out your tongue like a five-year-old on a sugar rush.
His face went eerily blank, like a predator sizing up its prey. The way he slowly rolled up his coat sleeves and cracked his neck and knuckles made him look like some mafia boss about to collect a debt. “I’m going to count to three.”
Your cocky smile started to fade faster than your dating profile confidence. “What? Why?”
“So that you can run for your life. I’m giving you a head start, go ahead.”
You bolted like your life depended on it, but these stupid heels might as well have been ankle weights. Of course he caught up - damn those long legs and his daily gym sessions.
“No one gets to make fun of my nose. So prepare to die.” His Satoori accent came out thick and menacing, though you could hear the laughter he was trying to swallow.
You backed up, hopping around like a flamingo as you yanked off your torture devices masquerading as shoes. Through your peripheral vision, you watched him dramatically loosen his tie like he was about to film some action movie scene. The moment he lunged, you let out a squeal that probably woke half the neighborhood and made a break for the nearby park. Your strategic master plan involved using the playground as your fortress - shoving swings in his path and zigzagging around the slides like some deranged game of tag. But apparently being twenty-four meant having the stamina of a caffeinated cheetah. These kids these days, honestly.
“Okay Jungkook, I give up. I’m waving my white flag.” You wheezed like an asthmatic chipmunk, clutching the boulder that was your temporary sanctuary. The water bottle felt like contraband in your sweaty palm - your secret weapon for round two of ‘Let’s Make the Bunny Wet.’
From his hiding spot, his voice carried across the playground battlefield. “Noona, are you lying? You were always a bad liar.”
“I promise I’m giving up. See, I’m raising my hands in the air right now!” Your Oscar-worthy performance would’ve made Leonardo DiCaprio proud.
He poked his head up from behind the slide like a suspicious meerkat. “Okay, I’ll come out on the count of three.”
“Okay!” Your voice probably went up three octaves with poorly contained glee.
Jungkook’s countdown echoed through the park. “One….two….three—”
You leaped out like a ninja with arthritis, water bottle locked and loaded, only to find empty space where your target should’ve been. “Jungkook?”
“I told you, you were a bad liar.” His voice materialized behind you like some horror movie jump-scare. Suddenly you were both wrestling for the bottle like it contained the last drop of water on Earth, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter as you each tried to gain the upper hand.
“Ah! Okay okay. I’m done! Here. See the bottle? I’m putting it down and stepping away from it.”
You backed away like you were defusing a bomb, both of you eyeing the water bottle like it might sprout legs and run. The tension crackled as you faced each other, two gunslingers at high noon in some bizarre water-fight showdown. Your eyes met his across the playground - his twitching with barely contained mischief, yours probably broadcasting your terrible poker face to the entire neighborhood.
Then he lunged for the bottle like an Olympic sprinter, and you took off in the opposite direction so fast you probably left skid marks.
Jungkook’s outraged “YAH!!” echoed through the park like thunder, and you couldn’t help but wonder if this was how you’d die - death by angry bunny with a water bottle.
Maybe dumping water on Jeon Jungkook wasn’t your smartest move, but hey - his scandalized shriek was Oscar-worthy. Sometimes being a bad Noona had its perks, even if those perks came with a side of getting chased around a public park like a scene from some B-grade rom-com. At least no one was around to witness your dignity going up in flames - just you, your terrible life choices, and one very wet, very determined dongsaeng hot on your heels.
The night air carried your laughter, a welcome replacement for dinner’s tension. For a moment, you weren’t the jilted ex-fiance or the disappointed daughter – just yourself, playing chase with the boy who’d grown into someone both familiar and new.