The Steward of his Heart

by sugarcookiesss

Summary:

1960s Edinburgh—where Old Town’s forgotten children and New Town’s aristocrats never meet.

Blind orphan Taehyung gains sight through a donor’s eyes, but with vision comes strange dreams—moments of a love once admired by Jeon Jungkook, a powerful young master whose wife now lies dead.

When Taehyung finally crosses Jungkook’s path, he finds himself caught between fate’s cruel trick, the weight of class, and a man who cannot return his love.

A story of loss, longing, and the invisible threads that bind two souls.

Notes:

Hi, dear reader 💌
Thank you for giving this story a chance. This is a Taekook fanfiction set in 1960s Edinburgh—a world of cobblestones, quiet charity houses, and grand Georgian townhouses.

It’s a story about love and loss, about two souls connected by fate in the most unexpected way. It’s not always happy, but it’s written with a lot of heart.

I hope as you read, you’ll feel the emotions I poured into these pages the ache, the longing, and the quiet hope that even in tragedy, love still leaves its mark.

Thank you for being here. Your support means the world to me. 🌹

Chapter 1: A wound that just won't heal

A wound that just won't heal

 

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

— William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)

 

The key of the grand Georgian townhouse turned with a solid, satisfying click. Jungkook stepped over the threshold into the hushed warmth of the entrance hall, the damp Edinburgh chill still clinging to the wool of his overcoat. The silence of the home was a familiar comfort, broken only by the soft, distant sound of a melody he couldn’t quite place.

 

He shrugged off his coat and gloves, handing them absently to the waiting stand, his attention already drawn upward towards the source of the music. A smile, automatic and effortless, touched his lips. He knew that tune. It was the one she always hummed when she was content.

 

He found her in their bedroom, bathed in the soft, late-afternoon light that streamed through the tall windows. Hikari was seated at her vanity, a beautiful, lacquered piece she’d brought from Kyoto. Her head was tilted to the side, and her focus was entirely on the task at hand: drawing a silver-backed brush through the length of her hair. It fell like a cascade of raven silk, so dark and straight and shiny it seemed to swallow the light, a stark, beautiful contrast against the pale peach of her dressing gown.

 

Jungkook leaned against the doorframe, content for a moment just to watch her, this private ritual of hers that he loved. She caught his movement in the mirror’s reflection, and her dark eyes—always so full of gentle light—crinkled at the corners as her smile bloomed.

 

“So, tell me, Mr. Jeon,” she began, her voice a soft, melodic tease that held a note of playful accusation. “Were you so very busy today that you forgot your way home again? If you keep on gifting all your precious hours to your work, who, pray tell, is going to look after me?”

 

Jungkook’s chuckle was a low, warm sound in the quiet room. He pushed himself off the doorframe and crossed the space between them in a few brisk strides. He didn’t answer immediately, instead placing his hands gently on her shoulders, feeling the delicate bones beneath the silk. He leaned down until his face was beside hers in the mirror, his own reflection a contrast of sharp, tailored lines against her softness.

 

“You know I am a fool for you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into an intimate register meant only for her. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. “Every ledger I balance, every ship I schedule, it’s all for this. For us. I promise, my love, just a little while longer. Then you will have my every hour, and you will grow tired of me.”

 

He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead, inhaling the subtle scent of jasmine that always seemed to linger on her skin.

 

Hikari was, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever known. It was a fact he had accepted as simple truth since they were children running through the gardens of her family’s estate in Japan. A childhood friend, the daughter of his father’s most esteemed business partner. They had been inseparable until his family’s move to Edinburgh had forced a continent between them. Years later, when she had arrived in Scotland to study, the gawky girl had vanished, replaced by this poised, breathtaking woman. He, too, had changed from a boy into the man they now called ‘Sire Jungkook’ in the business pages, a title born of old family wealth and his own relentless ambition.

 

But here, in this room, he was just Jungkook. And he was hers.

Hikari was everything a man could want in a wife. She was not only wise, pretty, and elegant, but also deeply kind. To Jungkook, she was the kindest person he had ever known. Her heart was gentle and soft.

 

She was also incredibly understanding. She never complained about his busy schedule or asked him for expensive gifts. She never started arguments, choosing instead to be a supportive and caring partner. She was a wonderful wife, and Jungkook loved her more than anything.

 

"You always promise and promise," she murmured, her smile softening the gentle tease in her words. She rose from the vanity and turned into his embrace, her fingers finding the crisp lapels of his suit jacket, holding him close.

 

Jungkook’s arms instinctively encircled her waist, drawing her against him. The scent of her jasmine perfume was a balm after the long day.

 

"Well, this time, I mean to fulfill it," he said, his voice low. A sigh, heavy with a weariness that went beyond business, escaped him. "I know, Hikari. I know you deserve so much more than the fragments of time I can give you. It… it hurts me, too. There are days I am tempted to throw all of this away," he confessed, his gaze sweeping around the grand, silent room, "and take you back to Kyoto. Just the two of us, away from all of this."

 

He left the "certain reasons" unspoken—the weight of family expectation, the legacy he was bound to, the countless employees who relied on him. The chains of his duty were invisible but strong.

 

Hikari gently cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his temples. Her touch was cool and calming. "Shhh, don't think too much, Jungkook," she whispered, her dark eyes holding his with unwavering love and understanding. "I am not going anywhere. We have time."

 

He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers, allowing her quiet certainty to soothe the restless guilt in his heart. For a moment, in the warm sanctuary of their room, with the evening light fading to dusk outside their window, he almost believed her.

 

The moment was shattered by the sharp, insistent ring of the telephone downstairs. The spell was broken. Duty called, its sound a cold intrusion into their warmth.

 

Jungkook sighed, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. He gave her one last, tight squeeze before reluctantly letting go. "I should get that," he said, his voice already shifting back into the tone of the man who had responsibilities to manage.

 

Hikari simply smiled, that same understanding smile that both sustained him and filled him with a profound sense of longing. "Go," she said softly. "I'll be here when you're done."

 

He turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood hallway, growing fainter as he descended the stairs to answer the call.

 

Alone in the quiet room, Hikari turned back to the mirror. She picked up her brush, but her hand stilled. Her reflection showed a faint trace of the loneliness she would never speak aloud, a quiet sigh lost in the settling silence of the large, empty house.

 

The air in the common room was thick with the scent of damp wool and old wood. Outside, a sombre, chilling rain fell steadily over Edinburgh, tapping a rhythm against the windowpanes.

 

Taehyung stood motionless before one of the tall windows, his form a silhouette against the dull, charcoal-grey light. His hand was stretched out through the slightly opened window, slender fingers extended to feel the drizzle wet his skin. His eyes, a deep and warm brown, were fixed on a void, seeing nothing in particular, yet seemingly attuned to a world only he could perceive.

 

"What are you doing here, Tae?" a soft voice inquired.

 

Jimin settled on the worn windowsill beside him, following his friend's gaze out into the misty morning. The sky was a blanket of leaden grey, typical for late October. Fall had settled deeply into the city, painting the cobblestone pathways with a mosaic of orange and yellow leaves, their vibrant colors a stark, beautiful contrast to the haunting Gothic architecture—a sight Taehyung had only ever known through description.

 

"It has been raining all morning now," Taehyung remarked, his voice a deep velvet murmur that seemed to absorb the room's quiet stillness.

 

"It has," Jimin agreed softly, his eyes tracing the water droplets as they trailed crooked paths down the glass.

 

A long moment of comfortable silence passed between them, filled only by the sound of the rain and the distant echoes of the orphanage around them.

 

"Jimin," Tae continued, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost secretive tone.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"I wish I could see the rain," he whispered, the words hanging in the air, heavy with a lifetime of longing. "And not just feel it."

 

A pang of sorrow tightened Jimin's chest. "Oh, dear," he breathed out, his own voice thick with emotion. He shifted to look at his friend's profile—the strong nose, the soft lips, the elegant slope of his jaw. "Taehyung, you're the strongest and bravest person I know. You've lived your entire life like this, and you never complain. And that... that breaks my heart more than anything." He reached out, placing a comforting hand on Taehyung's arm. "I wish you could see it. But more than that, I wish you could see how beautiful you are."

 

Taehyung’s entire universe was mapped in the long, cold hallways of St. Margaret’s. As far back as his memory could reach, there was only the echo of his own footsteps on stone floors, the chill of the damp air, and the endless, unwavering dark.

 

His world had never known light or color. He had been born blind, his tragedy waiting for him at the very beginning. He was told that Sister Alicia had found him on the orphanage’s steps, a silent infant swaddled in a thin blanket, left in the crisp Edinburgh dawn. He was a child of the threshold, belonging nowhere.

 

His life was a study in silence and absence, yet he never voiced a complaint. He became the intelligent, calm boy in the corner who asked for nothing and caused no trouble. He learned the geography of St. Margaret’s by touch and sound—the number of steps from the dormitory to the dining hall, the specific groan of the third stair on the main flight, the feel of sun-warmed glass in the common room window on a rare bright day.

 

In that world of echoing isolation, he had one single, steadfast point of light: Park Jimin.

 

They had met when Taehyung was nine, a quiet ghost of a boy already adept at making himself small. Jimin, a year older and brimming with a warmth that seemed to defy the institution’s chill, had simply decided Taehyung would be his friend. He had walked over, taken his hand, and started talking, and he had never really stopped.

 

From that day forward, they were joined at the hip. Jimin became his guide, his protector, and his window to the world outside the darkness. He was the only person Taehyung could truly look up to, the only connection that made the vast nothingness feel a little less empty.

 

It wasn't as if they hadn't tried. Over the years, various doctors had been consulted about Taehyung's condition. The diagnosis was always the same, delivered with a mix of clinical pity and finality: the only chance for sight would be a corneal transplant.

 

That single sentence contained two impossible hurdles. The first was a donor—a rare and tragic gift that seemed like a fantasy. The second was a sum of money so vast it was incomprehensible within the walls of St. Margaret's. The kind of money that belonged to men in fine coats who lived in the New Town, not to forgotten orphans in the Old.

 

Slowly, that small, fragile hope had wandered into the abyss, forgotten by everyone but perhaps Jimin, who still sometimes dared to dream of miracles.

 

Yet, Taehyung was, in his own way, content. He was not a boy given to self-pity or ingratitude. If the world had denied him sight, it had compensated him with another gift: a voice.

 

He sang with a beauty that could still the entire dormitory. It was a deep, velvety instrument, capable of conveying a profound melancholy one moment and a surprising, soaring joy the next. When he sang, the long, cold hallways of St. Margaret's felt a little less bleak, and for a few moments, he could paint pictures with sound that were more vivid than anything he could ever have seen.

 

The steady rhythm of the rain against the windowpanes was a soothing backdrop to their quiet companionship. Jimin watched his friend for a long moment, the sight of him standing so still and solitary tugging at his heart.

 

"You'll catch a cold standing there like that," he said, his tone soft and laced with a concern that went deeper than just the chill.

 

Taehyung didn't turn, but a faint smile

touched his lips. "It's just water, Min. It doesn't feel cold to me. It just feels... alive."

With a sigh that was more affection than exasperation, Jimin replied, "Only you could find a way to romanticize an Edinburgh downpour. Come on, away from the draft. I nicked a few biscuits from the kitchen. They're the digestives you like." He gently placed a hand on Taehyung's arm, guiding him from the window.

 

A grateful smile warmed Taehyung's features as he turned toward Jimin's voice. "You'll get in trouble because of me one day," he murmured.

 

"And it will be worth it if I get to see you smile like that," Jimin countered, his voice warm. "Besides, someone has to keep you from becoming a complete statue in the window." He led Taehyung to a worn bench, pressing a biscuit into his waiting hand.

 

"Thank you," Taehyung said, his fingers tracing the familiar shape.

 

"Don't mention it," Jimin said, a playful warning in his tone. "Seriously, don't. Or Sister Agnes will have my hide."

 

A rich, warm chuckle escaped Taehyung, a sound that seemed to push back the room's inherent gloom. He took a small bite, content to simply listen as Jimin launched into a story about the morning's minor dramas, his voice a comfortable and steady presence.

 

For a while, the world outside with its impossible dreams faded away. Here, in this dusty room with the rain as their soundtrack and a stolen biscuit, things were simple. They had each other, and for now, in the long, cold hallway of their lives, that was enough to keep the darkness at bay.

 

Jimin watched his friend, his heart aching with a familiar blend of love and sorrow, and made a silent promise, as he had a thousand times before, to always be the one to pull Taehyung back from the window and give him something real to hold onto.

 

The polished glass of the vanity reflected a image that brought a soft, contented smile to Hikari’s lips. With a final, satisfied pat to her perfectly styled hair, she felt a familiar pang of longing. She missed him. The large, elegant house felt emptier with each passing hour he spent at his firm.

 

Decisively, she stood and smoothed the lines of her tailored dress. Just as she turned to leave, the door opened to reveal Miss Edith, the housekeeper, her arms laden with fresh linens.

 

"Miss Edith," Hikari said, her voice bright with purpose, "could you please see to the dinner while I am gone? I will be back with Mr. Jeon soon. I am going to his firm."

 

Edith, a gentle woman whose kind eyes and capable hands had been a constant in the Jeon household since before Hikari had even arrived from Japan, offered a warm, knowing smile. She had watched the young mistress blossom here and cherished her gentle nature.

 

"Yes, my lady," she replied, her voice a comfortable, familiar sound. "Of course. Shall I have Cook prepare something special for your return?"

 

"Perhaps. Thank you, Edith."

 

With a final, grateful smile, Hikari swept from the room. Stepping outside, she was met with an unseasonable chill that bit through her coat. The sun, a rare and fading burnt orange disc in the thick, foggy sky, was nearly set, casting long, eerie shadows across the cobblestones. The Edinburgh evening was settling in, a damp and gloomy shroud.

 

She quickly descended the steps and slipped into the waiting car, the familiar scent of polished leather enveloping her.

 

"To Mr. Jeon's firm, please," she instructed the driver.

 

The engine purred to life, and the car pulled away from the curb, carrying her and her hopeful surprise into the deepening twilight.

 

The polished black motorcar crunched to a halt on the gravel drive, and Jungkook alighted, the weight of the day already beginning to lift from his shoulders. The silent, grand house was his sanctuary, and she was its heart. He pushed the heavy door open, expecting to be met with the soft sound of her humming or the gentle rustle of her turning a page in the library.

 

Instead, the entrance hall was silent, illuminated by a single lamp. The emptiness felt… wrong.

 

“Hikari?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. He shrugged off his overcoat, his movements brisk with sudden, low-grade concern. “Darling?”

 

It was Miss Edith who appeared from the shadowy corridor, her usual calm demeanor touched with a flicker of surprise at the sight of him. “Sir? You’re home.”

 

“Where is Hikari?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

 

“Why, she left for your firm hours ago, sir,” Edith explained, her brow furrowing slightly. “She said she was going to surprise you and that you would both return together for dinner.”

 

A coldness that had nothing to do with the Edinburgh evening seeped into Jungkook’s veins. The firm. He had been there all afternoon, buried in ledgers until well past seven. No one had announced her. No message had been brought to him.

 

“She never arrived,” he said, the words feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue. A prickle of unease, sharp and cold, traced its way down his spine. Hikari was punctual. She was predictable. If she said she was coming, she would have come. Unless…

 

The shrill, sudden ring of the telephone shattered the silence like a gunshot. Jungkook jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. Edith moved to answer it, but he was closer, his hand closing around the cold Bakelite receiver.

 

“Jeon residence,” he barked into the mouthpiece.

 

The voice on the other end was formal, laced with a practiced, grave courtesy. It was a voice that belonged in hospitals and official buildings. It asked if he was Mr. Jeon, husband of Hikari Jeon.

 

‘No,’ his mind screamed, a silent, instinctual denial. ‘This is not happening. This is a wrong number. A mistake.’

 

But his voice, flat and numb, replied, “Yes. This is he.”

 

The voice continued, its words precise and devastating, each one a hammer blow to his soul. There had been an accident. A motorcar collision on the North Bridge. The conditions… the rain-slicked cobbles… a skid…

 

The world did not so much shatter as it simply… vanished. The ornate wallpaper, the polished floor, the worried face of Miss Edith—it all receded into a muffled, grey haze. The only thing that existed was the voice detailing the injuries. Critical condition. Severe head trauma. The Royal Infirmary.

 

‘No. No. No.’ The word was a mantra of pure, unadulterated agony in his mind. ‘This is my fault. I was working. She was coming to me. She was coming to me and I wasn’t there. I was buried in stupid, worthless papers while she was—’

 

He didn’t remember dropping the receiver. He didn’t remember the clatter as it swung from its cord, hitting the wall. He only knew a pain so absolute, so physical, that it felt as if his chest had been ripped open. A raw, soundless scream locked itself in his throat, choking him. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his mouth as if to physically hold the horror inside.

 

Every promise he had ever made to her, every time he had chosen work over her, flashed before his eyes, now transformed into instruments of exquisite torture. The image of her, smiling in the mirror just that afternoon, was replaced by a vision of glass and twisted metal and rain.

 

His Hikari. His light. His love.

 

Gone.

 

And in that moment, standing in the silent hall of the home they had built together, Jungkook felt his entire world fracture into a million irreparable pieces.

 

Chapter 2: A tragic gift

Notes:

Hiii<3 I am back with another chapter. I hope you like it.

“They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies.”

— William Penn

 

The world had narrowed to the harsh, fluorescent-lit hallway of the Hospital. The air hung heavy with the astringent scent of phenol and the underlying, sweetly metallic odor of medicine—a smell that would forever after be synonymous with pure despair for Jeon Jungkook. He stood frozen, his broad shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of the entire, crumbling building. His usually sharp eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, staring unseeingly at the scuffed linoleum floor.

 

"I apologize, Mr. Jeon, to be the one to break this news to you," the doctor's voice was a low, practiced monotone, a dam against the flood of emotion it was designed to hold back. "But your wife has been declared brain dead."

 

A sharp, involuntary jerk ran through Jungkook’s body. His head snapped up, brows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and raw denial. The words seemed to bounce off him, refusing to find purchase in a mind that was already shutting down.

 

"What?" The word was a hoarse, broken thing, ripped from a throat raw with unshed tears.

 

The doctor’s expression remained a mask of professional sympathy, which felt crueler than outright coldness. "Your wife's heart is beating," he explained, his voice gentle but relentlessly clear, "but she can no longer gain consciousness. She cannot breathe on her own. In the eyes of medicine and the law, brain death is… it is death. The person is no more."

 

No. No. This can’t be. This is a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. Jungkook’s mind screamed, a feral, internal roar that drowned out the hospital’s ambient noise. It was a vortex of endless, treading thoughts.

 

The clinical finality of the doctor’s words finally shattered the last of his defenses. "That can't be," he voiced out, the protest a hushed, shattered whisper. And then the tears came, not a gentle flow but an uncontrollable torrent, streaming down his face as his body began to tremble.

 

The stoic, powerful "Sire Jungkook" vanished, leaving only a shattered man. "Do something," he pleaded, his voice cracking under the strain of a hope that was being systematically annihilated. He grasped at the doctor's white coat, his knees buckling as he nearly sank to the floor. "Anything. Please. You have to."

 

His words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, painted with the memories of their last conversation. "She can't just leave me… We were supposed to spend so much time together. I promised her. She said we had all the time in the world. Hikari… Hikari can't do this to me. She can't…"

 

He was breaking apart, right there in the sterile hallway, his grief a tangible force that seemed to warp the very air around him.

 

The doctor placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, the gesture meant to be comforting but feeling like an anchor trying to hold down a storm. "Mr. Jeon," he said, his voice firm yet not unkind. "You need to calm down. Please. Try to breathe."

 

 

The doctor’s words hung in the antiseptic air, not as sentences but as brutal, final facts that dismantled the world. Jungkook stood there, hollowed out, the sterile hospital light bleaching all color from his face.

 

Just a day ago.

 

The thought was a fresh, searing wound. Just a day ago, she had been in his arms, the warmth of her seeping through the wool of his suit. Just a day ago, her laughter had been a real, tangible sound in their sun-drenched bedroom, not a ghost of a memory. He could still feel the imprint of her hands on his cheeks, could see the exact way her beautiful, big hazel eyes had crinkled at the corners when she smiled up at him, looking at him with a love so pure and a kindness so profound it had felt like absolution.

 

“We have all the time in the world,” she had said.

 

It had been a promise. A certainty. The foundation upon which he was building their future.

 

And now, in the span of a single rain-slicked evening, it had all vanished. That vibrant, living, breathing love had been extinguished, leaving nothing in its wake but the bitter, cold silence of death. The hollow beep of a machine where her heartbeat should be. The chemical smell of a hospital where her jasmine perfume should linger.

 

A raw, silent scream built in his chest, choking him.

 

Why? The question was a torrent in his mind, a furious, desperate prayer to a universe that had suddenly become cruel and senseless. Why did people have to die? Why did moments of perfect happiness have to exist only to become weapons of eternal torture? Why did their beloveds have to suffer, left behind to navigate a world bleached of all its color and meaning?

 

He had no answers. There were only the cold, hard surfaces of the hospital, the pitying look in the doctor’s eyes, and the devastating, absolute truth that the other half of his soul was gone.

 

The doctor’s words did not simply deliver news—they performed a final, brutal severance. As the meaning carved through him, something in Jungkook fractured irreparably. It was more than grief; it was an amputation of the soul.

 

With Hikari something in Jungkook died. Perhaps it was his heart.

 

Not the physical muscle beating uselessly in his chest—that stubborn, mechanical thing would go on pounding—but the essence of it. The part that knew how to love without fear, that trusted in the future, that felt warmth instead of this perpetual, encroaching cold. That heart had been hers entirely, and now it lay silent alongside her, leaving behind only a hollow, architectural shell of the man he used to be. Where there had once been melody—her laughter, the song he wrote for her, the rhythm of their life together—there was now only a silence so profound it felt like a sound in itself. He was a grand house, still standing, but emptied of all light and life, every room dark, every echo a reminder of what was lost.

 

The days bled into one another, a grey, monotonous stream of anguish. Jungkook became a ghost in his own life, a specter haunting the sterile halls of the Hospital. His world, once expansive and filled with the light of his ambitions, had shrunk to the four walls of a silent room where his wife lay trapped between life and death.

 

Every day, he came. He would enter the room, his footsteps unnaturally loud on the quiet ward, and the sight would hit him with the same fresh wave of nauseating disbelief. There she was. Hikari. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, artificial rhythm dictated by the ventilator. Her skin was still warm to the touch. She looked as if she were merely sleeping, a beautiful princess under a spell.

 

But the machines told the truth. Their constant, low beeping was a cruel mantra of reality.

 

He would pull the stiff visitor's chair close to her bedside, the sound of its legs scraping the floor a familiar part of his new ritual. He would take her limp hand in his, tracing the lines of her palm, trying to will some warmth, some life, back into her.

 

And then he would talk.

 

He talked until his voice grew hoarse. He told her about his day, the meaningless meetings, the stock prices that no longer mattered. He recounted old stories, their stories—the first time he saw her after she arrived in Edinburgh, how the rain had been falling then, too. He whispered promises he could no longer keep and apologies for a future they would never share.

 

"I brought daisies for you , you love them don't you. It was hard to find them but I did it anyways for my pretty lady." He'd squeeze her hand, waiting for a squeeze back that never came. "Hikari?... Can you hear me?"

 

The silence that followed was his only answer, a void that swallowed his words and his hope whole.

 

Each visit ended the same way: with his forehead resting on the edge of her bed, his shoulders shaking with silent, wretched sobs that he would never allow anyone else to see. He was a man disintegrating, clinging to the ghost of a feeling.

 

Outside that room, he had become cold and empty. The vibrant, passionate man known as "Sire Jungkook" was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out statue. He spoke only when necessary, his words clipped and devoid of emotion. His eyes, once bright with intensity, were now flat and distant, seeing a world that had lost all its color. He was a walking wound, and everyone who looked at him—the nurses, his staff, Miss Edith—could see the profound and terrible absence where his heart used to be. He was living in a nightmare, visiting his wife every day to confirm she was never, ever coming home.

The familiar, rhythmic silence of the common room was broken only by the whisper-soft glide of Taehyung’s fingertips over the raised dots of his braille book. It was a sound so ingrained in his daily life that it was a part of the stillness itself.

 

The bench beside him creaked as Jimin sat down. For a long moment, there was only the sound of his friend’s slightly unsteady breathing. Then, words came in a hushed, almost apologetic whisper.

 

“Tae… Yoongi asked me to move in with him today.”

 

Taehyung’s fingers stilled instantly, pausing over a cluster of dots that suddenly meant nothing. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and final.

 

He had always known this day would come. It was an inevitability he had quietly braced himself for, a truth as certain as the changing seasons. Jimin’s world was not like his. Jimin’s world had color in every sense of the word—not just because he possessed the gift of sight, but because he had found love. He had met Min Yoongi at the little café where he worked part-time. Yoongi was a music professor, a man in his late twenties whose calm, poised nature was the perfect anchor for Jimin’s bright energy. Jimin would often whisper to Taehyung in the dark of their dormitory about how it felt to hold Yoongi’s hand—a warmth that could chase away the deepest Edinburgh chill. He spoke of the simple excitement of just sitting with him in comfortable silence, and of how Yoongi noticed and cared for his every little need with a quiet, unwavering devotion.

 

Taehyung had always listened, happy for his friend, yet storing away each happy detail with a quiet ache of knowing that their joined-at-the-hip existence had an expiration date. That date had just been announced.

 

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with the weight of the unspoken. Taehyung’s warm, unseeing eyes remained fixed on the middle distance, as if he could find the answer in the nothingness.

 

“What would you think?” he asked softly, his voice a low hum in the quiet room.

 

Jimin let out a shaky breath, the sound loud in the stillness. “I don’t know,” he confessed, his own voice thin with conflict. “I didn’t answer him yet. But he was… quite insistent.”

 

He shifted on the bench, the old wood groaning under his weight. “Somewhere, I think it’s good. It’s what’s supposed to happen, right?” he reasoned, though his tone lacked conviction. “We’ve grown to be twenty and nineteen. We can’t stay here forever, just… being a burden. I want to see the world. I want to explore it, and I want to do it with Yoongi beside me.”

 

He painted the picture of a future he desperately wanted, but his words began to falter. The excitement drained from his voice, replaced by a raw, aching sorrow.

 

“But then…” he whispered, his voice cracking on the two words. “My heart just… it drops right into my stomach when I think about you.” A tear finally escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. “I don’t want to leave you, Tae. I can’t. It feels like I’m tearing my own heart in two.”

 

The admission hung in the air, a testament to a bond that had been the only constant in both their lives. The promise of a bright future was inextricably tangled with the pain of a devastating goodbye.

 

Life had never been kind to Taehyung. It was a truth he had accepted long ago, a constant as sure as the darkness that surrounded him. The world had given him little, but the one thing it had granted him, the one truly good and perfect thing, was Jimin. Jimin was not just a friend; he was his anchor, his confidant, his brother. Jimin was his family. In a world of perpetual shadow, Jimin had been his sun—a constant, warm presence who never once made him feel like a burden, who never grew annoyed by the limitations of his blindness.

 

But Taehyung, in his profound wisdom and selflessness, understood a fundamental truth: Jimin had a life of his own. He was a vibrant, whole person who deserved to live for himself, to chase his own dreams, and not just exist as the guide for a blind orphan. He deserved to be loved and to build a future, not just be a crutch for someone else's.

 

He heard the crack in Jimin’s voice, the wet hitch of a suppressed sob. Slowly, Taehyung raised his hand, reaching out into the space between them, trying to find his friend’s face in the void.

 

Jimin immediately understood. He caught Taehyung’s seeking hand and gently pressed his palm against his own damp cheek. Taehyung’s fingers, so sensitive and knowing, gently rubbed the tears away. And then he smiled. A wide, gentle, impossibly warm smile that didn't quite reach his own unseeing eyes.

 

"Why are you crying, Jimin?" he asked, his voice soft and knowing.

 

Jimin’s breath hitched. He knew what was coming. He knew Taehyung was going to smile that stupidly brave, heartbreaking smile and say it was okay. It’s what he always did. It’s what he did now, and it shattered Jimin completely.

 

"It's okay," Taehyung said. His thumb stroked Jimin's cheek once more. There he goes. " You have a life of your own. You are your own person. You deserve the world. You deserve to be with the love of your life, to live and to explore every bit of it."

 

He made it sound so simple, so logical, as if his own heart wasn't breaking at the thought of the constant, comforting presence in his life packing a bag and walking out the door.

 

"It's not like we won't ever meet again," he continued, his voice steady, a testament to his incredible strength. "We can write to each other often. And you'll visit. We'll meet often."

 

He offered a future of letters and visits, a pale substitute for the daily reality of their brotherhood, and he did it with a smile on his face because he loved Jimin too much to let him see the devastating loneliness that awaited.

 

Jimin couldn't hold it in any longer. With a choked sob, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around Taehyung in a desperate, bone-crushing hug. He held on as if he could somehow transfer every ounce of his love, his gratitude, and his guilt through that single embrace.

 

"Tae," he whispered, his voice breaking apart against his friend's shoulder. "I'm so glad to have met you."

 

Taehyung returned the hug just as fiercely, his own composure a thin veil over the ache in his heart. He simply held on, absorbing Jimin's sorrow as he always had.

 

"You don't have eyes," Jimin murmured, the words muffled by fabric, "but you see. You see everyone, Taehyung. You see right through to the heart of them."

 

It was the highest compliment he could ever give. And it was true. Taehyung perceived the world with a clarity that sighted people often lost—he heard the hidden meanings in a pause, felt the tension in a handshake, and understood the weight of an unspoken sigh.

 

Yes, the silent room seemed to agree, he does see everyone.

 

But the haunting, unspoken question lingered in the air between them, a final, heartbreaking thought:

 

Would he ever meet someone who truly saw him? Not the blind orphan, not the burden, but the brave, kind, and endlessly selfless soul within? Would he ever find someone who would stay—someone he wouldn't have to bravely let go of with a whispered 'it's okay' and a smile that hid a universe of pain?

 

The answer, heavy and bleak, settled over the room.

 

Probably not.

 

And so, the cruelest fate was perhaps not his blindness, but his profound clarity of heart. He would likely spend the rest of his life wondering, and loving, and letting go, forever assuring everyone else that he would be alright, his gentle smile a mask for a loneliness only he could truly know.

 

 

A month passed. Thirty days of an identical, agonizing pilgrimage. The pristine halls of the Hospital had become a second home, a mausoleum where his heart was entombed. Jungkook sat in the same stiff chair beside Hikari’s bed, his posture rigid, his hand enveloping her limp one. He was speaking to her in a low, hoarse monotone about nothing at all, the sound of his own voice a pathetic shield against the relentless silence of the room.

 

The quiet swoosh of the door opening was an intrusion. Jungkook didn’t look up, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. He knew the rhythms of the nurses, and this was not their time.

 

The man who entered was not a nurse. His footsteps were heavier, more deliberate. Jungkook finally lifted his gaze to see a doctor he vaguely recognized from the early, chaotic hours—tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the doorway. His expression was a practiced blend of solemnity and purpose.

 

“Mr. Jeon,” the doctor began, his voice a deep, respectful baritone. “I am Dr. Seokjin I was on duty when your wife was first brought in. I wanted to personally express my deepest condolences for your loss. This is a profound tragedy.”

 

Jungkook gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes returning to Hikari’s face. He expected the man to leave. He did not.

 

Jin took a measured step further into the room, the space feeling suddenly smaller. “I know this is an impossible time,” he continued, choosing his words with extreme care. “And I would not ask if the situation were not so dire. But in my work, I am aware of a great many needs. There is a young man… an orphan, actually. He has been blind since birth. A corneal transplant is his only hope for sight.”

 

He paused, letting the information hang in the sterile air. Jungkook’s body had gone very still.

 

“It is a rare opportunity, a tragic gift, but a gift nonetheless,” Dr. Jin said softly. “I must ask… would you consider donating your wife’s eyes? They could give this young man his entire world.”

 

The words landed not as a question, but as a violation. A violent, desecrating obscenity.

 

Her eyes. Her beautiful, expressive hazel eyes that had held entire universes of love and laughter for him alone. The eyes he had gazed into a thousand times. The idea of them being taken, given to some faceless stranger, was an abomination.

 

A fury, white-hot and absolute, erupted from the deep well of his grief. Jungkook shot to his feet, the chair screeching backwards against the floor. His face, pale and drawn for weeks, was suddenly flushed with a raw, terrifying rage.

 

“Get out,” he snarled, the words low and venomous.

 

“Mr. Jeon, if you would just—”

 

“Get out!” The command was a roar this time, echoing off the clinical walls. It was the voice of “Sire Jungkook,” not the broken widower—a voice of absolute, unassailable authority forged in fire and pain. “How dare you? How dare you stand in this room and ask me to carve her up? To give away pieces of her like she’s… she’s spare parts?”

 

His chest heaved. He pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get out of this room. Don’t you ever suggest such a thing to me again.”

 

Without another word, without even a glance back at the bed, Jungkook stormed out. He left the stunned doctor standing there and fled down the hallway, his heart hammering not with grief, but with a righteous, protective fury that was the only thing that had made him feel truly alive in a month of being dead.

 

The furious energy that had propelled Jungkook from the hospital bled away during the cold, silent car ride home, leaving behind a hollowed-out shell of a man. The grand house on Heriot Row welcomed him with a silence that was no longer peaceful, but accusing.

 

He paced the length of his study, the doctor’s words chasing him in a relentless loop. “A tragic gift, but a gift nonetheless.” “An orphan… blind since birth.”

 

Each time the proposition surfaced in his mind, a visceral revulsion seized him. Her eyes. The eyes that had held his reflection a thousand times. To imagine them in another’s face felt like a grotesque violation, a final, unforgivable theft of the last piece of her that still looked like her.

 

But then, a quieter, more insidious thought would whisper. He saw Hikari in the garden, gently cupping a dying bloom as if she could will it back to life. He heard her laugh as she dropped coins into a busker’s hat. “Everyone deserves a little beauty, Jungkook."

 

Was this not the ultimate embodiment of that belief? A final, profound gift of beauty?

 

The conflict was a physical pain, a twisting knot in his gut. One moment he was resolved, certain that preserving her whole was his last act of love. The next, he was crushed by the guilt of denying what might have been her deepest wish.

 

He found Miss Edith dusting in the library, her movements calm and methodical.

 

“Edith,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse and internal screaming. “That doctor… he asked me to… to donate her eyes.”

 

He didn’t wait for her to respond, the words tumbling out in a tormented rush. “It’s monstrous. It is. Isn’t it? To give them away? How could I ever look at myself again?” He searched her face for confirmation, for absolution.

 

Edith set her duster down, her expression pained but clear. “Sir,” she said gently. “You must ask what the lady would have wanted. Not what your grief wants.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Her kindness lived here, not in… in any single part. To give such a gift… she would have loved nothing more. She’d be happy, sir. I am certain of it.”

 

Her certainty was a knife. It didn’t calm the storm; it gave the other side a voice, making the turmoil even more acute. He left her without another word, the war inside him raging fiercer than before.

 

The next day, he returned to the hospital. The pilgrimage felt different. He was no longer just a mourner; he was a man approaching a crossroads.

 

Dr. Seokjin saw him in the hallway. The man had the decency to look apprehensive, bracing for another dismissal.

 

Jungkook spoke first, his voice low and strained. “This… orphan. The one you mentioned.”

 

A flicker of cautious hope passed over the doctor’s face. “Yes.” He chose his next words with immense care, seeing the fragile state of the man before him. “He is… a lovely young man, Mr. Jeon. Truly. He’s kind, gentle despite his circumstances. He has a good heart. The staff at his home speak of his patience, his intelligence.” Dr. Blake leaned slightly forward, his voice dropping to a sincere, earnest pitch. “He is a good person. He deserves this chance. He deserves to see.”

 

The doctor wasn’t just asking for a donation. He was painting a portrait of a recipient. He was giving the gift a character, a soul. Kind. Gentle. Deserving.

 

Jungkook did not answer. He turned without a word and walked into Hikari’s room, closing the door softly behind him. He needed to sit with her. He needed to ask her one more time, and listen, truly listen, for an answer in the crushing silence. The portrait of the unknown, worthy young man hung in the air between them, a ghost in the room, tilting the scales of an impossible decision.

 

The quiet, predictable hum of St. Margaret’s was pierced by a call that would forever alter the course of a life. “Taehyung! It’s a call for you!” Sister Agnes’s voice, sharp and clear, echoed down the cold, tiled hallway.

 

Jimin, ever his guide, gently touched his elbow. “This way, Tae.” Together, they navigated the familiar path to the orphanage’s solitary telephone. It was a journey Taehyung could have made alone; every crack in the plaster, every specific creak of the floorboards underfoot was a map etched into his memory. His world was darkness, but it was a darkness he knew intimately.

 

“Good morning, yes?” Taehyung asked into the receiver, his voice always polite, always expecting the mundane.

 

“It’s me, Taehyung,” a familiar, warm voice replied.

 

A slight frown creased Taehyung’s brow. “Dr. Kim?” It was unusual to hear from the doctor directly. Dr. Seokjin had been a kind presence in his life, a generous donor to the orphanage who had taken a personal interest in his case over the years. A good man, but not one who made social calls.

 

Beside him, Jimin mirrored his confusion, his own brows drawing together as he watched his friend’s face.

 

“Yes, Doctor,” Taehyung said, his grip tightening on the phone.

 

The voice on the other end spoke, its tone shifting from warm to one of profound, life-altering gravity. Taehyung’s responses became short, stunned affirmatives. “Yes… I understand… Yes, of course… We’ll be there straight away.”

 

The receiver clicked back into its cradle with a finality that seemed to echo. The world, for a moment, was utterly silent.

 

“What happened, Tae? Is everything alright?” Jimin asked, his voice laced with immediate concern as he placed a steadying hand on Taehyung’s shoulder.

 

He felt the tremor that ran through his friend’s frame before he saw the tears. They welled in Taehyung’s unseeing eyes and spilled over, tracing silent paths down his cheeks.

 

“Hey… Tae?” Jimin’s worry spiked into alarm, his hand tightening its grip.

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched, a choked sob catching in his throat. Words, when they finally came, were fractured, disbelieving whispers.

 

“Jimin…” he managed, his voice thick with an emotion too vast to name. “Dr. Kim said… I… I can see.”

 

He swallowed hard, trying to force the impossible reality into words. “Someone… someone decided to fund the transplant. Fully. They… they donated the corneas. A gift from their family.”

 

The miracle he had been told was impossible, the dream he had long since buried, was now being offered to him on a silver platter. The weight of it, the sheer, terrifying generosity, was too immense to comprehend. He stood there, trembling, weeping silently for a future he had never dared to imagine.

 

The air in the common room, usually heavy with the scent of damp wool and resignation, seemed to crackle with a new, electric energy. With practiced, hurried movements, Taehyung found his coat, his fingers fumbling not with uncertainty, but with a breathless, thrilling urgency. The rough texture of the wool was no longer just a reminder of the orphanage’s chill; it was the first layer of a new life.

 

Beside him, Jimin was a whirlwind of happy motion, pulling on his own jacket, a wide, unshakeable smile gracing his face. They were going to the hospital. Not for a check-up, not for bad news, but for a miracle.

 

Taehyung’s happiness was a palpable force. It wasn't a quiet contentment; it was a radiant, almost disbelieving joy that seemed to light him from within. A soft, breathless laugh escaped him as he buttoned his coat, a sound Jimin hadn't heard in years—pure, unadulterated hope.

 

And Jimin’s heart, which had ached for so long for his friend, felt a profound and settling peace. All the worries about leaving, all the guilt, momentarily vanished, replaced by a soaring, shared exhilaration. He watched Taehyung, seeing the excited tremor in his hands, the way he turned his head as if already trying to take in the world through a new sense. He wasn't just going to the hospital; he was walking toward the dawn.

 

"Ready?" Jimin asked, his voice warm with affection.

 

Taehyung nodded, a brilliant, hopeful smile on his face. "Ready."

The mid-November chill of Edinburgh was a pervasive thing. It didn't just bite at the skin; it seeped through wool coats and settled deep in the bones, a damp, grey cold carried on a wind that whistled through the narrow Old Town closes. As Jimin guided Taehyung out of St. Margaret's, the world greeted them with a fine, misting rain that clung to their hair and lashes. The cobblestone streets, slick and dark, reflected the glow of the wrought-iron streetlamps that had flickered on early in the afternoon gloom. The journey to the hospital was a familiar one, but today, every sound was heightened—the rhythmic click of their footsteps, the distant rumble of a bus, the sigh of the wind—all underscored by the frantic, hopeful beating of Taehyung’s heart.

 

Inside the hospital, the sterile warmth was a shock to the system. The familiar smells of antiseptic and floor polish were now the scent of impending wonder, not dread. Dr. Seokjin was waiting for them in a small, private consultation room, his usual kind demeanor softened further by a look of profound happiness.

 

"Taehyung, Jimin," he greeted them, gesturing to chairs. "I'm so glad you're here."

 

"Thank you, Doctor," Taehyung said, his voice barely a whisper, his entire being focused on the man's every word.

 

"The procedure is fully arranged," Dr. Seokjin began, his tone warm and steady. "All the funds have been provided. The donor... the gift... has been secured. It's all happening because of one man's incredible generosity."

 

Taehyung leaned forward, his unseeing eyes wide with emotion. "Who is he?" he asked, his voice thick with gratitude. "I... I need to thank him. I need to—"

 

Dr. Seokjin’s expression shifted, a shadow of sorrow passing over his features. He held up a hand gently to stop him. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Taehyung-ah."

 

The hope on Taehyung's face didn't fade, but it was joined by confusion. "Why? I just want him to know what this means."

 

The doctor sighed softly, choosing his next words with immense care. "He was very clear. He does not wish to be known. He does not want thanks." Dr. Seokjin paused, the weight of the secret heavy in the room. "He only told me one thing to explain why he was doing this. He said... 'I would never have even considered it if it weren't for my wife. She had the kindest heart. This is for her.'"

 

The words hung in the sterile air. The anonymous gift was no longer just an act of charity; it was an act of love, a testament to a woman Taehyung would never know. His overwhelming joy was suddenly tempered by a profound, humbling respect for the depth of a stranger's grief and devotion. The miracle he was being given was born from another's immense loss.

 

Taehyung’s happiness was not a simple, soaring joy. It was a profound, trembling awe that felt almost too large for his body. It was the dizzying, terrifying, and exhilarating sensation of a door he had believed was permanently sealed being thrown open, revealing a world of color and light he had only ever been able to touch and hear.

 

Yet, that very same joy was inextricably woven with a deep, aching sorrow. His miracle was built upon the foundation of another man's total devastation. The gift of sight was paid for with a life. He understood that the "kind heart" the doctor spoke of belonged to a woman who was now gone, and that the man who had given this gift was drowning in a grief so profound that he could not even bear to be thanked.

 

Therefore, Taehyung’s happiness was humbled, made sacred and heavy by this knowledge. He was happy for the future that was being granted to him, but he was simultaneously, deeply sad for the past that had been stolen from the anonymous benefactor. His heart swelled with gratitude for the gift, even as it broke for the price that was paid for it. He was receiving the greatest treasure of someone else's life, and the weight of that inheritance was both a blessing and a solemn responsibility. It was a joy that could not be celebrated without also mourning the loss that made it possible.

 

The sky wept for her. It seemed a cruel mockery that the heavens would open on this of all days, as if the universe itself could not contain its grief for the loss of Hikari. A cold, relentless November rain fell upon Edinburgh, drenching the mourners gathered around the freshly dug earth in a haze of grey misery.

 

Jungkook stood apart from them, a solitary figure of utter desolation. The black of his suit was soaked through, clinging to his frame, but he was insensible to the chill. He felt nothing but the vast, howling emptiness within him. The priest’s words were a distant murmur, swallowed by the drumming of the rain on black umbrellas and the ragged sound of his own breathing. He watched, numb and shattered, as the casket—a horrifyingly polished, final box—was lowered into the ground. Each thud of earth that followed, landing on that polished surface, felt like a physical blow to his chest.

 

When the last of the mourners had offered their hollow condolences and drifted away, he remained. The grave diggers lingered at a respectful distance, waiting for the broken widower to leave so they could finish their grim task.

 

He did not leave.

 

He finally moved, his steps slow and heavy, sinking to his knees in the sodden grass beside the mound of fresh, wet earth. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead and streamed down his face, mingling with tears that were as hot and endless as his pain.

 

He reached out a trembling hand, placing it on the cold, rain-slicked soil as if he could somehow reach her.

 

“I did it,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken, a secret meant only for her. “I kept my promise. I let them… I let them take the light from your eyes.”

 

A sob racked his body, and he bowed his head, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

 

“I gave it to someone else. Because you would have… you would have told me to.” He choked on the words. “But Hikari… my love… what do I do with the darkness you left behind in me?”

 

There was no answer. There was only the endless, pouring rain, the scent of wet earth and grief, and the profound, deafening silence of a world that had lost all its color. He stayed there, kneeling at the altar of his loss, a king dethroned in a kingdom of rain, utterly and completely alone.

Notes:

Thank you for reading. 💗

Chapter 3: The stillness and the storm

Notes:

I am back with another chapter 😭😭 it was an off from my university as it had been raining cats and dogs for two days now almost so all I am doing is write. Writing is therapeutic.
Hope you all like it.

“Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?"

_____  Henry David Thoreau 

The same dream, yet again.

 

Taehyung woke with a start, his breath catching in his throat. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead despite the deep, chilly December cold that seeped through the old walls of St. Margaret's. In the darkness of the dormitory, his new eyes—her eyes—saw nothing, but his mind was ablaze with the fading imprint of a memory that was not his own.

 

A grand, dark-wooded piano. A man’s strong, elegant hands moving over the keys, playing a haunting, unfinished melody. That very song, that song. A woman’s melodious laugh, so full of joy it seemed to sparkle in the air like sunlight. A feeling of absolute, perfect love.

 

It was a ghost, a beautiful, persistent echo that visited him each night, leaving him more unsettled than rested.

 

It had been nearly three weeks since the bandages had come off. Three weeks since his world had exploded into a dizzying, overwhelming symphony of color, shape, and light. Jimin, his anchor, his brother, had finally moved in with Yoongi, leaving a tangible silence in the orphanage that even the new wonders of sight couldn't quite fill. True to his word, Jimin visited every weekend, a constant, bright presence in Taehyung’s rapidly changing world.

 

Being able to see was a miracle for which Taehyung felt a gratitude so profound it was a physical ache in his chest. He was grateful to the doctors, to God, but more than anyone else, to the woman. Though she was gone, he felt eternally, deeply indebted to her. It was her eyes that now traced the intricate patterns of frost on the windowpane; it was her gaze that helped him explore the colors of a world he had only ever touched and heard. He often found himself speaking to her in his mind, a silent prayer of thanks for this unimaginable gift.

 

He was in a constant state of awe. The streets of Edinburgh, which he knew so intimately by sound and smell, were breathtakingly more beautiful than any description Jimin had ever offered. The deep grey of the cobblestones after rain, the fiery orange of a stubborn autumn leaf clinging to a branch, the soft, golden glow of a streetlamp cutting through the evening fog—each was a revelation.

 

But no sight had compared to the first. When the bandages had finally fallen away, the first thing his new eyes had focused on was Jimin’s face, blurred by tears and the sudden flood of light. He had seen the worry, the hope, the overwhelming love etched into every feature of his best friend’s face. And Taehyung, the patient one, the calm one who never cried easily, had broken. A torrent of tears had streamed down his face—tears of joy, of disbelief, of a decade of shared struggle finally culminating in this single, perfect moment. Seeing the person who had been his entire world for ten years… it was a rush of emotion that sight alone could not contain.

 

The polished, cold floor was a shock against his bare feet as Taehyung crossed the silent dormitory. He came to a stop before the large window, his breath momentarily catching as he looked out. The world beyond the foggy glass panes was still shrouded in the deep indigo of pre-dawn, a vast, sleeping mystery he was only beginning to comprehend.

 

He sighed, a white plume of air misting the cold glass. For days now, the same dream had haunted the edges of his sleep, a ghostly reel that played on an endless loop. It was always the same—every detail, every note, a perfect, unchangeable snippet of a life he had never lived. He had even memorized the piano melody, a skill honed from a lifetime of relying on his ears. In his former world of darkness, music had been his primary color, his entertainment, his solace. He knew countless compositions, but this one… this one was foreign. It was beautifully, heart-wrenchingly melancholic, a tune that spoke of a deep, private love and a whisper of sorrow he could feel in his very bones. Where did it come from?

 

A movement outside drew his eye. The first flurry. A single, perfect snowflake, then another, drifting past the glow of the streetlamp. So it begins, he thought. Snow always arrived like this in Edinburgh, a quiet transformation in the late Decembers or early Januarys, blanketing the historic city in a hushed, pristine silence.

 

A sudden chill that had little to do with the weather crept up his spine. He pulled his worn cardigan tighter around himself, but the cold he felt was internal—a profound and lonely ache born from a beautiful, borrowed memory that was not his own. The snow continued to fall, each flake a silent secret against the glass, much like the song now permanently etched into his mind.

 

The living room of the Georgian townhouse was a frozen monument to a lost era. Tall, elegant windows were draped in heavy velvet, their frames painted a stark white against the deep olive-green walls. A magnificent marble fireplace, its mantelpiece carved with intricate acanthus leaves, housed a roaring fire that cast dancing shadows across the room. The flames illuminated the subtle patterns of a worn but exquisite Persian rug and gleamed against the dark, polished wood of meticulously cared-for antique furniture. Yet, for all its opulence, the room felt less like a home and more like a museum exhibit, its air thick with a silence that even the crackling fire could not truly penetrate. It was the silence of profound absence.

 

Jungkook sat in a high-backed leather armchair, a book open in his lap. It was one of Hikari’s favorites, its pages faintly smelling of her jasmine perfume. He wasn’t truly reading; he was torturing himself, tracing the words she had once loved, each one a stark reminder of the vibrant mind that was now gone. Nothing was left but the memories. The thought was a constant, aching companion. They were all he had, and yet they stung like shards of glass. In his darkest moments, he wished for the mercy of oblivion, to have his memory wiped clean of the pain. But the very idea was a betrayal. To forget her face, the specific light in her pretty, gentle eyes, the sound of her voice… that would be a second, more complete death. It was a war within himself—a desire to escape the agony, and a desperate need to cling to its source.

 

The silence of the townhouse was a living thing, thick and heavy as velvet drapes. Jungkook sat in his late wife’s morning room, a delicate porcelain cup cold in his hand. He wasn't drinking; he was simply existing, a statue in a museum of his own grief.

 

A soft knock preceded the entrance of Mrs. Edith, his housekeeper for over two decades. Her steps, usually so firm and capable, were hesitant on the polished floor.

 

“Master Jeon,” she began, her voice softer than usual. “Might I have a word?”

 

He looked up, his eyes dark and vacant. “Edith.”

 

She wrung her hands, a nervous gesture he had never seen from her. How does one say it? she thought. He has lost so much. Does he need to see my weakness?

 

“It’s… it’s about my position, sir,” she said, her gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder. “I wish to rest. I can no longer handle the work. Not efficiently.”

 

The words barely penetrated the fog. Another change. Another absence. It registered as a fact, not a feeling. Hikari was the only feeling left, and she was gone.

 

He set the cold cup down. “Where?” he asked, the single word devoid of curiosity, merely completing a required social formula.

 

Edith’s shoulders tightened slightly. He thinks I am abandoning him entirely. “A dormitory, sir. It will be adequate.”

 

A dormitory. The image was filed away under Things That Do Not Matter. But a flicker of old habit, the ghost of a duty to his household, stirred.

 

“No,” he stated, the word flat and final. “Stay. Keep your rooms.” A guest. A charge. The thoughts were formless in his mind. It was simpler than the alternative. Simpler than motion.

 

Tears welled in Edith’s eyes. Such kindness, in his own sorrow. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered.

 

She gathered herself. The problem remained. “The house will still need running,” she said carefully. “With your permission… an advertisement. For a new housekeeper.”

 

Jungkook’s gaze was already back on the window, on nothing. The matter was already forgotten, dismissed. The machinery of the house was a dull, distant hum.

 

“Do it,” he murmured.

 

He gave his absent-minded consent, a hollow man granting a request to a world he could no longer feel, completely unaware of the chain of events he had just set in motion.

 

 

The world was still a symphony of overwhelming sensation, but a new note had begun to play within Taehyung: restlessness.

 

He sat on the edge of his narrow cot in the dormitory of St. Margaret's, the familiar sounds of the other boys a comforting yet constricting blanket. For nineteen years, these sounds had been the boundaries of his world. Now, the sliver of grimy window he could see promised something else. Something more.

 

I’ve been a burden long enough, the thought echoed, a constant, gnawing truth. The matrons had been kind, in their weary, overworked way. But he was a man now, or nearly. They needed the bed for a younger child, one still trapped in the dark. He had been given a miraculous key to the world; it felt like a sin not to try and use it.

 

A sudden, powerful impulse seized him. I have to leave. I have to see. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating. See what? Everything. Anything. The world that had been a concept of smell, sound, and touch was now a riot of confusing, beautiful color.

 

But a man needed work. A purpose. Shelter. The practicalities were a cold splash of reality. How does one find such a thing?

 

Then he remembered. The newspaper. Matron Agnes read it aloud sometimes in the evenings, her voice painting pictures of a world beyond the stone walls. Perhaps it held answers.

 

He found a discarded copy on the common room table, its pages smooth and crisp under his fingertips—a sensation he was still marveling at. He spread it out, his heart sinking a little. The page was a forest of dark, squiggling lines. Letters. He knew some of them now, thanks to Matron’s patient lessons. He could painstakingly spell out his name: T-A-E-H-Y-U-N-G. But whole words? Sentences? It was an immense, frustrating puzzle.

 

He brought the paper close to his face, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, his finger tracing under the lines of text. He recognized a ‘W’. An ‘A’. It was agonizingly slow. Notices blurred into a mess of ink. He could pick out numbers—’15’, ‘boy’, ‘wanted’—but the context was lost on him. A wave of hot frustration washed over him. I can see, he thought bitterly, and yet I am still in the dark.

 

He was about to give up, to resign himself to simply walking the streets and asking until someone took pity on him, when a specific, neatly bordered section caught his eye. The letters were larger, more formal. He squinted, his lips moving silently, sounding out the shapes.

 

‘Wan… ted,’ he began, the word forming slowly. ‘A… Gov… er… nor.’ Governor. He’d heard that word before. Someone important. In charge.

 

Summoning all his focus, he wrestled with the next part. ‘For a… Town… house… in New Town.’ New Town. That was the place with the wide, clean streets and the grand, symmetrical stone houses he’d heard the matrons whisper about with awe.

 

The rest was a hopeless jumble. He caught ‘exceptional’, ‘character’, ‘supervision’, ‘household’. They were just words, but their weight felt significant. This was different from the ads for ‘strong lads’ or ‘errand boys’. This was for a person of substance.

 

They will never choose me, he thought, the old insecurity surging back. An orphan who can’t even read the advertisement properly.

 

But then another thought, quiet but firm, rose in response. I don’t need to read it all. I just need to find the house.

 

His fingers trembled slightly as he carefully, precisely, tore the advertisement from the page. He didn’t need to understand every word. He understood enough. It was a chance. A direction.

 

He would go to New Town. He would find this house. He would knock on the door and… and what? Ask for the job he couldn't even read the description for?

 

It was madness. But it was a mad, beautiful hope. Clutching the scrap of newsprint like a talisman, he began to plan.

 

The packing did not take long. His life’s possessions fit into a small, worn satchel: two pairs of trousers, three shirts softened by countless washes, a spare set of underthings, and a woolen scarf Matron Agnes had knitted for him last winter. At the very bottom, wrapped carefully in a soft cloth, was the small wooden bird a long-forgotten benefactor had once given him—his only toy. It was not much, but it was his.

 

Saying goodbye was harder. The matrons fussed over him, their faces a blur of concern and pride that he could now, finally, see. “You write to us, now, you hear?” Matron Agnes said, her voice thick with emotion, her face a map of kindness he was seeing for the first time. He nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat, memorizing the lines around her eyes. The younger boys looked at him with a mixture of awe and envy, seeing not the blind boy they sometimes had to guide, but a man setting out into the world. He left them with his extra bread roll from supper, a king’s ransom.

 

Then the heavy oak door of St. Margaret’s swung shut behind him for the last time, and the world opened up.

 

Edinburgh in winter was a sharp, breathtaking slap to the senses. A brittle cold bit at his cheeks, and the air smelled of coal smoke and impending snow. The sky was a low, woolen blanket of grey, leaching the color from the Old Town’s soot-stained stone. He pulled his thin coat tighter, the satchel feeling absurdly light on his shoulder.

 

He walked, his boots crunching on the frozen grit of the cobblestones. The streets here were a chaotic tapestry of life—narrow closes winding between towering lands, hung with the ghost of laundry. Hawkers shouted, their breath pluming in the air, and the smell of baking bread and brewing ale fought with the pungent odor of the gutter. People jostled past him, their faces etched with the weariness of a hard life. He saw it all now—the patched elbows on coats, the ruddy, wind-beaten cheeks, the hurried gait of those with no time to spare. This was the world he knew, but seeing it was a different, more visceral experience altogether.

 

He followed the directions he’d been given, climbing the gentle slope out of the Old Town’s embrace. As he walked, the world began to change. The cramped, teeming streets gave way to a startling order. The air felt clearer, colder. The cacophony of hawkers and crowded life faded into a hushed, almost reverent silence.

 

He had reached New Town.

 

Taehyung stopped, his breath catching in his throat. It was like stepping into another country, another century. The chaos was gone, replaced by a breathtaking, severe geometry. Wide, elegant streets laid out in perfect lines, flanked by rows of majestic townhouses that stood like stern, identical sentinels of wealth. The architecture was grand, imposing—soaring columns, intricate ironwork on balconies, vast windows that were not just for light, but for display. There was no rubbish here, no shouting. The only sounds were the distant clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage and the whisper of the wind sweeping down the wide avenues.

 

People here were different, too. Women in fine, dark wool coats and fur muffs glided past without seeming to touch the pavement, their faces pale and composed. Men in top hats and tailored greatcoats walked with an air of unchallenged ownership. They glanced at him—a young man in a threadbare coat, carrying a poor satchel—and their eyes slid away, dismissing him as an anomaly in their perfect world. He felt a hot flush of shame, acutely aware of his own shabbiness.

 

He wandered, dwarfed by the scale and silence, the torn advertisement clutched in his cold hand. He was lost in a grid of impeccable privilege. And then he saw it.

 

At the end of a particularly wide and quiet crescent, set slightly apart from its neighbors, was a mansion. It was not just a townhouse; it was a fortress of Georgian elegance, isolated in its own grandeur. Four stories of pale, honey-colored stone rose with a severe dignity. A flight of pristine steps led to a black lacquered door, gleaming like a dark jewel, flanked by white columns. It had more windows than he could quickly count, each pane a flawless sheet of glass reflecting the brooding grey sky. There was no warmth to it, no welcome. It was magnificent, silent, and utterly intimidating.

 

Taehyung’s steps slowed to a halt. He stood on the opposite pavement, his small satchel suddenly feeling like it contained the entirety of his past life. He looked down at the crumpled newsprint in his hand, then up at the immense, silent house.

 

This was it. The place from the advertisement. The house that needed a governor.

 

A cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach. They will take one look at me and laugh, he thought. The gulf between this world and the one he had left an hour ago seemed impossible to cross.

 

But he had come this far. Taking a deep, shuddering breath that clouded in the freezing air, he forced his feet to move. One step, then another, across the wide, empty street, toward the grand, isolating staircase that led to the black door.

 

 

The climb up the pristine stone steps felt like ascending a mountain. Each one was broad and shallow, designed for grandeur, not for the trembling feet of a nervous orphan. Taehyung’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, so loud he feared it would echo off the stern facade of the house. He stared at the black lacquered door, a monolith of polished perfection, and for a wild moment, he considered turning back.

 

But the memory of the orphanage’s crowded dormitory, the finality of his goodbye, steeled his nerve. He reached for the heavy brass knocker, its cold weight surprising him, and let it fall twice against the strike plate. The sound was a deep, solemn thud-thud that seemed to be swallowed by the immense silence of the crescent.

 

He waited, shivering slightly in the cold, rehearsing the few sentences he had prepared. The door opened not with a grand sweep, but with a quiet, precise movement.

 

A woman stood there, and Taehyung’s first thought was that she looked exactly as the house felt: orderly, dignified, and immaculate. Miss Edith was in her early fifties, her figure held with a posture that spoke of a lifetime of discipline. Her steel-grey hair was pulled into a severe but neat chignon at the nape of her neck, not a single strand out of place. She wore a dark, practical dress, a set of keys hanging from a belt at her waist, and her eyes, a sharp, intelligent grey, assessed him in one swift, comprehensive glance. They held no warmth, but no cruelty either—only a deep, weary competence.

 

Taehyung instinctively straightened his own posture, clutching his satchel.

 

“Yes? Can I help you?” Her voice was crisp, expectant, but not unkind.

 

“M-Ma’am,” Taehyung began, his voice softer than he intended. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “My name is Kim Taehyung. I am here about the… the advertisement. For the governor of the house.” He held out the crumpled piece of newspaper, a pathetic flag of surrender.

 

Miss Edith’s eyebrows rose slightly. She took the paper, her eyes scanning it and then returning to him, her assessment deepening. She took in his worn coat, his young face, the palpable nervousness that radiated from him. A boy, was likely her first thought. This is a boy, not a house governor.

 

“I see,” she said, her tone neutral. “And what experience do you have managing a household of this size, Mr. Kim?”

 

This was the question he’d dreaded. He had no lies prepared; he could only offer the stark truth. “I have no direct experience, Ma’am,” he said, his voice gaining a little strength through his honesty. “I have… I have only just left St. Margaret’s Charity House. But I understand hard work. And I understand responsibility.” He paused, choosing his words with care, wanting her to see the earnestness in his eyes, now so newly able to convey it. “I may not know the ways of a grand house yet, but I am a quick learner. And I believe in being loyal and… and doing a thing properly.”

 

Miss Edith listened, her expression unreadable. She asked him more questions—could he keep accounts? Did he know how to manage staff? Had he any references? To each, Taehyung answered with the same quiet truthfulness, admitting his shortcomings but always circling back to his willingness to learn, his gratitude for the opportunity, his deep-seated need to prove himself worthy.

 

He spoke of order, of peace, of creating a well-run home—things he had craved his entire life in the chaos of the orphanage. He did not grovel; he was simply, utterly sincere.

 

As he spoke, something in Miss Edith’s stern demeanor began to soften almost imperceptibly. She saw past the shabby coat. She saw the polite dip of his head when she spoke, the clear, earnest light in his eyes, the lack of guile or entitlement. He was rough, yes, and utterly green. But he was a gentleman in spirit, something that couldn't be taught. In a world that had recently felt so cold and dark, this boy’s genuine warmth was a unexpected surprise.

 

“The position,” she said finally, interrupting him, “is one of significant trust. The household is not as large as it once was, but it is still considerable.” She made her decision then, a risk based on a gut feeling she hadn’t trusted in a long time. “The master of the house is… particular. He values quiet and discretion above all else.”

 

Taehyung held his breath.

 

“There is not much family to manage,” she continued, her voice lowering slightly. “Only the master. Master Jeon. He keeps to himself. Your duty would be to myself, to the staff, and to the smooth running of his home. Do you believe you can handle that?”

 

Taehyung’s heart felt like it might burst. Only one master. It sounded like a blessing, a chance to learn without a crowd of judging eyes. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, his voice filled with a fervent promise. “I can. I will not let you down.”

 

A faint, almost invisible smile touched Miss Edith’s lips. “Very well. We will try it. A trial period. You may start immediately. I will show you to your room.”

 

The wave of relief and joy that washed over Taehyung was so powerful it left him dizzy. He had done it. He had a job. A purpose. A room of his own. In a mansion.

 

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he said, his voice thick with emotion he could barely contain. “Thank you. You will not regret it.”

 

“I hope not, Mr. Kim,” she said, stepping back to allow him across the threshold. “I truly hope not.”

 

And for the first time, Kim Taehyung stepped into the world of Master Jeon.

 

 

The key turned in the lock with a heavy, final sound. Jungkook pushed the immense door open and stepped into the cavernous foyer, his movements slow, as if wading through deep water. The house greeted him with its usual profound silence, a silence that had once been peaceful but now felt like a void.

 

He was late. Later than usual. There had been no reason to hurry. No warm light spilling from under the drawing-room door, no soft footfalls rushing to greet him, no gentle voice asking about his day. There was only the cold, perfect order of a museum after closing hours.

 

He shrugged off his greatcoat, its weight a familiar burden, and hung it mechanically in the closet. The air in the house was still and scentless, save for the faint, clean aroma of beeswax and polish. There was no trace of Hikari’s perfume—the delicate notes of jasmine and orange blossom that used to linger in the air, a ghost of her presence. He had asked the staff to remove all her things, all her bottles and powders, the day after the funeral. He couldn't bear the scent of her without the woman. It was a special kind of torture.

 

It’s better this way, he told himself, the same hollow mantra he repeated every night. It’s quieter.

 

But the quiet was a physical ache. He was getting used to it, the way one gets used to a chronic pain—a constant, dull throb in the background of every thought, every breath. The habit of grief was settling in, its rhythms dictating his own. Come home late. 

Eat the meal left for him in the dining room, its warmth a poor substitute for human warmth. Drink a single glass of brandy that did nothing to warm the coldness inside him. Retire to his room—their room, though her side of the bed was now brutally empty.

 

He stood for a moment in the grand hallway, listening to the absolute stillness. He could hear the old house settling, the faint tick of the longcase clock in the drawing room counting down the seconds of a life that felt suspended. He was the master of all this—the marble, the art, the silence. And he would have traded every stone, every painting, for the sound of her laughter echoing down this hall just one more time.

 

The pain was a sharp, sudden twist in his chest, so acute it made him catch his breath. He closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass. It always did, eventually, receding back into the numb emptiness that was his new normal.

 

With a sigh that was barely more than a whisper, he turned toward the stairs, ready to climb them alone, to face another night in the quiet company of his loss. The routine was a shield, a way to move through the hours without feeling them. He was getting used to it.

 

But it still hurt. It hurt so much.

 

 

The grand house was a labyrinth of wonders, and Taehyung, for the first time in his life, was free to explore it. His footsteps were silent on the thick runners carpeting the hallways, his new eyes drinking in the details: the rich, dark wood of the wainscoting, the delicate patterns in the plaster ceiling roses, the way the fading evening light caught the dust motes dancing in the air. It was all so beautiful it made his chest ache. He trailed his fingers along the wall, not for guidance as he once would have, but simply to feel the cool, smooth silk of the wallpaper under his touch.

 

He turned a corner into a quieter wing of the house. The air here felt different—heavier, stiller. A sliver of warm, flickering light spilled from a doorway left slightly ajar. Drawn by the warmth, he approached silently.

 

The room was a library, or a study. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and the scent of old leather and wood smoke hung in the air. And there, in a high-backed leather armchair angled toward a dying fire, was a man.

 

He was still in his work clothes—a waistcoat of fine grey wool, a white shirt undone at the collar. One hand rested on the arm of the chair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, its smoke curling into the air like a languid ghost. He was simply staring into the flames, his profile sharp and devastatingly handsome in the firelight, but etched with a grief so profound it seemed to have carved him out from the inside.

 

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat. This had to be him. Master Jeon.

 

He hovered at the threshold, a silent spectator to a private moment of anguish. Every instinct told him to retreat. But another part of him, the part that had been hired for a duty, urged him to announce himself.

 

Hesitantly, his heart hammering, he raised his knuckles and knocked softly on the doorframe.

 

The man didn't startle. He turned his head slowly, as if moving through water, and his gaze landed on Taehyung.

 

Taehyung was taken aback. The man’s face was indeed absurdly handsome, a sculpture of perfect lines and angles. But his eyes… they were the emptiest things Taehyung had ever seen. Dark pools that reflected the firelight but generated none of their own. They were windows to a house where all the lights had been extinguished. If eyes are the windows to the heart, Taehyung thought with a sudden, piercing sadness, does that mean his heart is just as hollow?

 

“I… I am sorry to disturb you, sir,” Taehyung said, his voice barely above a whisper. He dipped into a slight, respectful bow. “My name is Kim Taehyung. I am the new governor of the house. I wished to introduce myself.”

 

Jungkook’s eyes remained on him, the look in them one of pure, detached assessment. He took a slow drag from his cigar.

 

“I see,” Jungkook replied, his voice a low, formal monotone. “Very well. Edith’s decision is her own. You may go.”

 

It was a clear dismissal. But as Taehyung made to bow again and retreat, something made Jungkook’s gaze linger. The firelight caught Taehyung’s eyes as he lifted his head.

 

And something uncomfortable and unwelcome stirred in the frozen depths of Jungkook’s being. It wasn't recognition. It was the sheer, vivid aliveness in them. They held a nervous light, a bright, undimmed intensity that felt like an affront to the quiet tomb he had made of his own soul. That fervent hope, that youthful earnestness—it was a language he no longer spoke, a country he had been exiled from. The directness of the boy’s gaze was a sudden, sharp pressure against the numb shell surrounding him.

 

He dismissed the feeling instantly. It was sentiment, a weakness. A ghost of a feeling for a ghost of a man he used to be.

 

He looked away, breaking the moment, and turned back to the fire, withdrawing into his private void once more. “Close the door on your way out,” he said, his voice once again a hollow echo.

 

Taehyung, his own heart racing from the intensity of that brief, searching look, bowed again to the man’s turned back. “Yes, sir,” he whispered, and gently pulled the door shut, leaving the master alone with his ghosts.

 

The heavy door clicked shut, a soft, final sound that severed the fragile connection. On one side of the oak, Taehyung stood in the dim hallway, his pulse a wild, fluttering thing in his ears. The image of the master was burned onto his vision—the stark handsomeness, the elegant despair, the devastating emptiness of his eyes. It was a portrait of grief so complete it felt sacred, and Taehyung felt like an intruder who had stumbled upon a forbidden altar. He pressed his palm flat against the cool wood of the door, as if he could absorb some understanding of the solitude that lay beyond. A resolve, fierce and protective, bloomed in his chest. He would learn the rhythms of this silent house. He would learn the shape of this man’s sorrow. He would serve him.

 

On the other side of the door, Jungkook exhaled a slow, ragged plume of smoke into the quiet. The fire had dwindled to embers, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the stillness in the room. He could still see the boy’s eyes—not their color, but their unsettling aliveness. That raw, unguarded intensity had been a tiny, sharp stone dropped into the still, black water of his being, sending ripples through a silence he had fought hard to cultivate. The disturbance was faint, almost nothing, but in a world of nothing, it was everything. He frowned, extinguishing his cigar with a precise, irritated motion. It was nothing. A trick of the firelight. A fleeting echo of a self he had long since buried. He leaned his head back against the leather and closed his own eyes, seeking the familiar, welcome darkness behind his lids, willing the world, and the boy with the fervent gaze, to simply fade away.

 

And outside, the snow began to fall in earnest over Edinburgh, blanketing the New Town in a hushed, forgiving white, covering the tracks of the past and silencing the world for the night.

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading 💗. Leave comments about how you like the chapter.

Chapter 4: The sound of laughter

Notes:

Hi<3

 

The silence of the house the next morning was different. It was no longer just an empty space to be filled; it was a territory to be learned. Taehyung awoke with the dawn, the unfamiliar softness of the bed and the profound quiet a constant reminder that he was no longer at St. Margaret's. For a moment, he simply lay there, watching the pale grey light of a Scottish morning seep through the window of his small, clean room, tracing the patterns on the ceiling he could now see.

 

Then, he remembered the dream.

 

It had come again, more vivid than ever. The same beautifully haunting tune, spilling from a grand piano in a sun-drenched room. The same man, his identity hidden, his back to the dream—broad, firm shoulders held with an innate elegance, the cut of his waistcoat speaking of wealth and refinement. The music had been a living thing, a thread of pure melancholy and memory.

 

But this time, something new had woven itself into the melody. A woman’s laugh. Light, airy, and full of a joy so palpable it made Taehyung’s own heart clench in response. And then, a lower sound—the man’s chuckle, rich and warm, weaving with her laughter, creating a harmony more beautiful than the piano’s alone. It was a sound of pure, unguarded happiness.

 

Taehyung had held his breath within the dream, a desperate spectator. Don’t wake up. Not yet. Let me see. Let me see their faces. He willed the man to turn, willed the scene to solidify, to show him the source of that blissful, intertwined sound.

 

But the dream, as dreams do, obeyed its own rules. The laughter faded, the music dissolved into echoes, and the figures in the sunlit room blurred, retreating into a past he could not access. It didn't fracture or shatter; it simply… dissolved, leaving behind nothing but a profound, aching darkness and the ghost of that haunting tune lingering in his mind.

 

He sat up in bed, pulling the blankets around his shoulders. The room was cold, but the chill he felt was from the inside. These weren't just random dreams. They felt like memories. But they couldn't be his. He had never been in such a room, had never heard such music, had certainly never known a laugh like that.

 

Whose memories are they?

 

The thought was a whisper, unsettling and strange. He looked down at his hands, the hands that could now see. They were his own, yet they felt somehow new, connected to a world of sensation he was still deciphering.

 

 

 

The day unfolded in a rhythm of newness and quiet industry. Under Miss Edith’s crisp but not unkind direction, Taehyung learned the intricate dance of running a grand house. He checked the silver for tarnish, his new eyes marveling at the intricate engravings. So this is what wealth feels like, he thought, not just coins in a purse, but weight and detail in every object. He reviewed the household accounts with her, the numbers a challenging but fascinating puzzle on the page. He familiarized himself with the pantry, the linen closets, the precise schedule of the maids. The work was methodical, peaceful, and it left little room for the haunting melody of his dream to echo too loudly.

 

This is a good life, he told himself, polishing a banister until it shone. Orderly. Quiet. I can make a place for myself here. He was determined to be so competent, so indispensable, that the stern Miss Edith would never regret her gamble.

 

And he did not see the master. Jungkook’s absence was a palpable presence in itself. He must be a ghost in his own home, Taehyung mused, living in rooms I haven't even seen. The house seemed to hold its breath for him, existing in a state of suspended animation until his return. Taehyung found himself listening for the turn of a key in the lock long before evening fell, a strange anticipation tightening his chest.

 

When the sound finally came, it was just as late as the night before. Taehyung was in the main hall, ensuring a fresh vase of winter greenery was perfectly arranged on the console table. The key turned, the door opened, and the cold night air swept in, followed by Master Jeon.

 

He was a silhouette against the darkness once more. Taehyung turned, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, and offered a small, formal bow. Be professional. Do not stare.

 

“Good evening, sir.”

 

Jungkook’s movements were the same weary ritual. He shrugged off his coat, his eyes scanning the hall with that same distant, unseeing gaze. Another day. Another empty hall. Does he even see the new flowers? he thought, the notion a familiar, bitter ache. Does he see anything at all anymore?

 

His gaze finally flickered to Taehyung. The acknowledgment was a mere fraction of a second, a slight, almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes as if noting the presence of a new object in its designated place. He gave a curt, silent nod.

 

It was then, in that fleeting moment of attention under the bright glow of the crystal chandelier, that it happened. Taehyung saw the sharp, elegant line of his jaw, the perfect bow of his lips, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheek. He saw the sheer, absurd perfection of his features, no longer half-obscured by firelight and shadow, but clear and devastatingly handsome.

 

A hot, inexplicable flush crept up Taehyung’s neck. Why am I reacting like this? His carefully rehearsed composure evaporated. His heart did a foolish, stumbling leap against his ribs. He felt… flustered. Bewildered by the sheer physical impact of the man standing before him. He is my master. This is… inappropriate.

 

“I—The… the fire is lit in the library, sir,” Taehyung stammered, his voice betraying a slight tremor he desperately wished to quell. Stop it. Sound capable. “Should I… have a tray brought to you?”

 

Jungkook’s eyes held his for a second longer, and Taehyung felt pinned by that dark, empty gaze. Why does he look so nervous? Jungkook wondered distantly. The boy’s earnestness was a faint, irritating buzz against the numb silence in his mind. Everyone is nervous. Or pitying. I am so tired of it all.

 

“No,” Jungkook said, his voice flat and final. The single word was a door slamming shut. He turned away, his focus already gone, retreating back into the vast, private world where nothing and no one could reach him.

 

He began walking toward the staircase, his footsteps silent on the marble. Taehyung stood rooted to the spot, his cheeks burning, feeling foolish and young and utterly transparent. He must think me an idiot. He watched the broad line of Jungkook’s retreating back, and a confusing jumble of emotions swirled within him—awe, pity, and a startling, undeniable attraction that left him breathless and confused.

 

The master ascended the stairs without a backward glance, leaving Taehyung alone in the bright, silent hall, more aware of his own racing pulse than he was of the perfectly arranged flowers beside him.

 

The grand house was finally still, settled into the deep silence of the late hour. The day's work was done, and a rare moment of peace had descended. In the small, cozy sitting room adjacent to the kitchen, a fire crackled warmly in the hearth. Miss Edith sat in her accustomed armchair, knitting needles clicking softly. Taehyung, feeling a familiarity that was both new and comforting, had settled on the thick rug before the fire, his hands folded neatly in his lap, watching the flames dance.

 

The image of Master Jeon’s lonely, handsome face and hollow eyes wouldn't leave him. It was a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire, the gentle domesticity of this room. A question, bold and personal, had taken root in his mind all evening, and now, in the safety of the flickering light, it begged to be asked.

 

He shouldn't. It was not his place. But the curiosity, mixed with a strange, protective concern, was too strong.

 

He lifted his gaze to Miss Edith’s kind, weary face. "Miss Edith?" he began, his voice soft.

 

She looked up from her knitting, her eyes gentle. "Yes, dear?"

 

He hesitated for a second, then plunged ahead. "Does the master... have no wife?"

 

The effect was immediate. The gentle clicking of the needles stopped. Miss Edith’s face seemed to soften and sadden all at once, her eyes taking on a distant, pained look. She let her hands, holding the wool, fall into her lap. The cozy room suddenly felt charged with an old, profound sorrow.

 

She sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire, quiet house. "Oh, dear," she said, her voice hushed and thick with memory. "He did have a wife. The loveliest woman you could ever hope to meet. Inside and out. Lady Hikari."

 

The name hung in the air between them, beautiful and tragic.

 

"She wasn't just beautiful," Miss Edith continued, a faint, wistful smile touching her lips. "She had a light about her. She could walk into a room and it was as if someone had lit every candle. She was kind to everyone, from the scullery maid to the Lord Mayor. And her laughter... oh, it was like little bells. You'd hear it echoing through these very halls."

 

Her gaze was far away, lost in a happier time. "And Master Jeon... he adored her. They were so very young and so very in love. It wasn't an arrangement of convenience, not for them. He looked at her as if she had hung the moon and all the stars just for him. He was... brighter then. He smiled. He was a different man entirely."

 

The picture she painted was so vivid, so full of life and joy, that it made the present silence of the house feel even more profound.

 

"She died," Miss Edith said, the words dropping like stones into the quiet room, shattering the beautiful memory. "Just a few months back. A terrible accident. It... it shattered him. Broke him into pieces I fear will never be put back together. This house hasn't been the same since. He hasn't been the same since. The light went out that day. Forever."

 

Taehyung's breath caught in his throat. The puzzle pieces clicked into place with a devastating clarity. The profound silence. The hollow eyes. The late returns. The grief wasn't just an emotion; it was his entire state of being. A specific, shattering loss.

 

He looked down at his own hands, the new eyes that had been given to him suddenly feeling like a profound weight. He was living in a house of ghosts, serving a man whose heart was buried with his wife.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words utterly inadequate. "I didn't know."

 

Miss Edith gave him a sad, understanding smile, blinking away a sheen of tears. "Of course you didn't, child. How could you?" She picked up her knitting again, the needles resuming their soft, rhythmic click, a sound meant to stitch together the present and soothe the unspeakable past. "It's just the way of things now. We do our best to look after him, in the ways we still can. But a part of him... a part of him went with her."

 

Taehyung nodded silently, turning back to look into the fire. But he no longer saw just dancing flames. He saw the reflection of a profound, epic love and a devastating loss. He saw the ghost of a laughing woman. And the master’s haunting, empty eyes now made a perfect, heartbreaking sense. He wasn't just a grieving man; he was a monument to a love that had been lost.

 

The dream was a burst of color.

 

Sunlight, dappled and golden, filtered through the leaves of a large tree, painting shifting patterns on the grass. The air was warm and carried the rich, sweet scent of blooming roses and freshly cut grass. It was a sensory overload in the most beautiful way.

 

Taehyung saw the swish of a skirt, the color of sunlit primroses, as it brushed against the deep emerald lawn. It was followed by the sound of light, running footsteps and a woman’s laughter—a sound so clear, so full of pure, unadulterated joy that it made his own heart leap in response.

 

Then, a man’s laughter rang out, bright and unguarded, weaving with hers. It was a sound Taehyung had never heard from him in waking life, so free of the weight that now crushed it.

 

"You cannot catch me!" the woman’s voice teased, breathless with delight.

The deeper, pursuing footsteps were confident, playful. The scene was all movement and vibrant life, a private game of chase where the only goal was the shared happiness itself. It was a glimpse into a summer that had died, a love that had once been the very air this house breathed.

 

 

Taehyung’s eyes flew open in the dark of his room. The echo of that laughter seemed to linger in the silence, a stark contrast to the winter chill seeping through the windowpanes. He sat up, his chest tight with a confusing ache.

 

What is this? he thought, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. The dreams were more than memories; they were invasions. They felt so real, so intimate, as if he were a ghost haunting Master Jeon’s past. He could still feel the warmth of that sun, hear the specific timber of that joyful laugh. It was a gift and a violation all at once.

 

A restless energy thrummed under his skin. He couldn’t just lie there, surrounded by the ghosts of a happiness he had no right to witness. He needed to anchor himself in the present. He needed to talk to someone from his own world, his own life.

 

Jimin.

 

Without another thought, he rose from his bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and lit a small lamp. The house was profoundly still around him as he made his way quietly to the small writing desk in the corner of his room. He took out a sheet of paper and a pen, the implements still feeling foreign and thrilling in his hands.

 

He dipped the pen in ink, took a steadying breath, and began to write, his script still clumsy but legible, each word a conscious effort.

 

 

Dearest Jimin,

 

I hope this letter finds you well and warm. Life here continues, and I am learning more each day. Miss Edith is a patient teacher, and my reading and writing are slowly improving. It is a strange and wonderful thing, to see words I can understand.

 

Jimin, I must confess something that troubles me. I have been having the most peculiar dreams for a while now. They started not long after I received my sight. They are always the same, yet a little different each time.

 

There is a man, seen only from behind, playing a grand piano. The music is the most beautifully sad thing I have ever heard. And then… a woman laughs. Her laughter is like light itself. It fills the whole dream.

 

Last night, the dream changed. There was no piano. Instead, I saw a sunlit garden. The same woman was there, her laughter the same, but it was brighter, playful. She was running, and the man was chasing her. It was a game. I could feel their happiness, Jimin. It was so real it was like a memory, but it cannot be mine.

 

I do not understand what it means. Why do I keep seeing these things? It feels like I am looking into a life that is not my own.

 

This house is grand and comfortable, and the people are kind. But sometimes, it feels so full of a silence that has a weight to it. These dreams make the silence feel even heavier.

 

On a brighter note, Christmas is nearing! I find myself growing more excited each day. I try to imagine how the streets of Edinburgh will look, draped in lights and greenery. I have never seen a Christmas tree decorated, or a shop window filled with presents. I am hoping perhaps this house will have some cheer, though it is so very quiet.

 

I miss you. Please write back when you can. Your words always make things clearer for me.

 

Your friend, Taehyung

 

 

The world outside the tall windows was a study in white. For two days, snow had fallen over Edinburgh in a soft, relentless profusion, blanketing the New Town in a deep, hushed quiet. The grand Georgian townhouse felt even more imposing, a serene, snow-bound monument of pale stone.

 

That morning, Miss Edith, fastening the buttons of her heavy wool coat, found Taehyung ensuring the fires were laid. "Taehyung, dear," she said, her voice crisp in the chilly air of the hall. "I have some pressing business in the Old Town to see to before the holiday. The roads are treacherous, so I shall be back quite late. You'll manage?"

 

"Of course, Miss Edith," Taehyung replied, straightening up. "Don't you worry."

 

"John is in the garage should the master need the motorcar, and Alice is about her work. The house is in your hands." With a firm nod, she stepped out into the wintery day, the door closing firmly behind her, leaving Taehyung alone with the profound silence.

 

The weight of the responsibility was a quiet thrill. For the first time, the vast, echoing townhouse was truly under his care. He moved through the high-ceilinged rooms with a sense of purpose, checking that the central heating held against the bitter cold seeping through the old glass. The only other souls in the residence were John, the chauffeur, who was likely ensuring the sleek black motorcar would start in the freezing weather, and his wife Alice, a quiet, efficient woman whose soft humming could sometimes be heard from the kitchen over the modern hum of the refrigerator.

 

The snow created a cocoon around the townhouse. It was a peaceful, broken only by the crackle of the fires in the grates and the occasional groan of the ancient plumbing. Taehyung found himself at a large window in the drawing-room, watching the fat flakes swirl down, painting the elegant crescents of the New Town anew. He thought of Jimin, hoping his letter had arrived, and of the approaching Christmas, his heart fluttering with a nervous excitement. For a few hours, with the snow falling and the house quiet, the haunting dreams felt far away. It was just him, the gentle storm, and the sleeping giant of a mansion he was learning to call home.

 

 

The silence of the snow-cloaked townhouse began to feel heavy, and Taehyung’s sense of duty itched for a tangible task. Peering out a window, he saw the snow was piling high in the front garden, threatening to block the path to the sleek black motorcar parked near the garage.

 

I should clear it, he thought. Before it gets worse. It’s my responsibility now. In his haste, he’d forgotten his gloves.

 

Pulling on his thick woollen coat and wrapping a large, scratchy muffler around his neck until it covered half his face, he ventured out into the twilight. The cold was a sharp, breathtaking slap, but the air was clean and still. He found a shovel leaning near the garage and set to work, his bare hands quickly turning red and stiff around the frozen metal handle, his breath pluming in the fading light.

 

He was so focused on his work, on the biting pain in his fingers and creating a neat path, that he didn't hear the quiet purr of an engine approaching earlier than usual. He didn't hear the motorcar come to a stop at the curb, its headlights cutting through the violet dusk.

 

He was bent over, shovel in hand, when a dark figure moved past him toward the steps. Startled, Taehyung straightened up quickly to get out of the way, but his boot slipped on a patch of ice hidden under the snow.

 

With a gasp, he stumbled backward, colliding solidly with the person he’d been trying to avoid. The shovel clattered to the ground between them.

 

Oh no. No, no, no—

 

“Oh! I—I’m so sorry, sir!” Taehyung blurted out, his voice muffled by the scarf, his heart hammering in his chest. He frantically pulled the muffler down from his face, his cheeks flushed a deep rosy pink from the cold and his embarrassment.

 

It was Master Jeon.

 

He’s back early. And I’ve just thrown myself at him like a fool.

 

He stood there, having barely swayed at the impact, his own charcoal wool coat dusted with snow. He looked down at Taehyung, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

 

Clumsy oaf, was Jungkook’s first, weary thought. Another complication. Another instance of chaotic movement in a world I need to be still. His dark eyes, usually so distant, were sharp with a flicker of irritation, taking in the scene: the fallen shovel, the cleared path, the young man before him with snow in his hair and a look of utter mortification.

 

Then his gaze dropped. He saw the shovel on the ground. And he saw the boy’s hands—bare, red, raw from the cold and the work, clutching at the woollen coat for warmth.

 

No gloves. The observation was clinical, detached. Foolish. Why would he be out here without gloves? It was an unnecessary hardship, a detail of poor planning that irked him. Yet, it also spoke of a determination to complete a task, a lack of complaint. Clumsy, but… earnest.

 

For a long, frozen moment, Jungkook just stared, his irritation warring with that faint, unwanted flicker of… something else.

 

“What are you doing?” Jungkook’s voice was low, not angry, but laced with a cold curiosity that was sharper than any winter wind.

 

His voice. It’s so deep. And he’s even more handsome up close, the snow in his hair— Stop it! Taehyung’s mind screamed at him. He felt dizzy, flustered beyond measure, painfully aware of his own chapped, freezing hands.

 

“Sh-shoveling, sir,” Taehyung managed, his own voice trembling slightly. He instinctively curled his red fingers into his palms, hiding them. “The path. For the motorcar. I… I didn't see you. I apologize.”

 

Jungkook’s gaze flickered from Taehyung’s flustered face to the hidden hands, then to the shovel on the ground. The faintest line appeared between his brows. At least he’s attempting to be useful.

 

He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod.

 

“See that you do not make a habit of hurling yourself at your employer,” he stated, his tone flat and devoid of humor.

 

Then, without another word, he stepped around Taehyung and the fallen shovel, continuing up the freshly cleared steps to the front door.

 

Taehyung stood frozen, watching the broad back disappear into the house, his heart pounding. The master’s words had been cold, but the instruction about the gloves… it hadn’t been cruel. It had been almost… practical. A strange, fluttering warmth spread through his chest, battling the cold and the shame, a feeling far more confusing than the winter air.

 

The encounter in the snow left Taehyung’s nerves buzzing. To settle himself, he decided to perform a duty he knew was always welcome, even if it was never acknowledged. He prepared a tray with a pot of strong black tea, the way he’d learned Miss Edith preferred it for the master, and carried it cautiously toward the study.

 

The door was ajar. Peering inside, he saw the now-familiar scene: Master Jeon sat in his leather armchair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his profile sharp and distant against the window framing the dark, snow-filled sky. He was so still he might have been a part of the room’s somber furnishings.

 

Taehyung entered softly, his footsteps silent on the rug. He placed the tray on the small table beside the master, the gentle clink of china the only sound. He was about to turn and retreat when a low voice stopped him.

 

“Why were you working without gloves?”

 

The question was so unexpected, so devoid of the previous coldness, that Taehyung started slightly. Jungkook hadn’t even turned to look at him; he continued to stare out at the night, the question hanging in the smoke-filled air.

 

“I…” Taehyung stammered, his cheeks already beginning to warm. He noticed. Why did he notice that? “My old ones… they had holes, sir. I… I don’t have any others. It was not a problem. The task needed doing.”

 

Jungkook was silent for a long moment. Holes in his gloves. It was such a small, mundane detail of poverty. It shouldn't matter. Yet, it did, a minor irritant in the otherwise smooth order he demanded of his household. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. He took a final drag from his cigar before stubbing it out. “I need to send a letter. There is paper and a pen in the top drawer of the desk. Bring it here.”

 

He wants me to write for him? Panic, sharp and immediate, lanced through Taehyung. But he could not refuse. “Yes, sir,” he murmured, his heart beginning a frantic rhythm.

 

He retrieved the heavy cream paper and a sleek fountain pen, bringing them to the small table. He stood there, waiting, the pen feeling like a foreign, dangerous object in his hand.

 

“Begin,” Jungkook said, his voice a low, dictating monotone. “To the directors of Edinburgh Trust. Regarding the quarterly acquisition proposal. The preliminary figures, while indicative, necessitate a more scrupulous audit before we can acquiesce to the terms…”

 

The words washed over Taehyung—scrupulous, acquiesce, preliminary—they were a jumble of complex shapes and sounds he couldn’t begin to translate onto the page. He stood frozen, the pen poised uselessly over the paper, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

 

Jungkook paused, waiting for the sound of scratching pen. Hearing nothing, he finally turned his head. His dark eyes fell on the perfectly blank page, then lifted to Taehyung’s face.

 

His eyes are wide again, Jungkook noted distantly. And his cheeks are flushed. Does the boy have a fever? Or is it simply this… this nervous energy he seems to carry around him? The observation was a clinical flicker in his mind, quickly dismissed.

 

“Why are you not writing?” he asked, his tone not angry, but flat and interrogative.

 

The words tumbled out of Taehyung in a ashamed rush, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I… I cannot, sir. Not… not yet. I am still learning to read and write properly. Those words… they are too…”

 

He couldn’t finish. The admission felt like a failure.

 

Jungkook watched him, taking in the bowed head, the white-knuckled grip on the pen. A long, tense silence stretched between them. Then, to Taehyung’s utter shock, Jungkook held out his hand.

 

“Give me the pen.”

 

Taehyung’s head snapped up. Their eyes met for a fleeting second before Taehyung quickly looked down again, his heart hammering against his ribs so violently he was sure the master could hear it. His hand. He’s so close. He placed the pen carefully into Jungkook’s waiting hand.

 

The brief touch was electric for Taehyung. His master’s fingers were cool, his grip firm. It was the first time they had ever touched with intention. To Taehyung, it felt momentous, intimate, sending a dizzying wave of warmth through him that made his head feel light.

 

To Jungkook, it was nothing. A simple transfer of an object. He took the pen, his expression unchanging, utterly unaffected by the contact or the boy’s palpable distress.

 

“You may go,” he said, his attention already returning to the blank page as he began to write himself, his script sharp and efficient.

 

“Yes, sir,” Taehyung whispered, escaping to the hallway. He leaned against the wall, one hand pressed over his racing heart, the ghost of the touch burning on his skin. On the other side of the door, Jungkook continued to write, the boy's wide eyes and rosy cheeks already fading from his mind as if they were never there.

 

Alone in his study, Jungkook finished the letter, his signature a sharp, slashing mark at the bottom of the page. The silence he cultivated so carefully settled back around him, a heavy cloak he wore by choice. It was a defense against the world, against the memories that lurked in every shadow of the too-large house. Here, in the quiet, he could almost believe the numbness was peace.

 

Later, moving through the cavernous hallways on his way to retrieve a book from the library, he was halted by an unfamiliar sound. It was a laugh—a deep, melodious chuckle that seemed to vibrate through the solemn silence of the house. It was utterly out of place. Frowning, he followed the sound to its source: the kitchen doorway.

 

Peering inside, he saw Miss Edith smiling fondly and, across from her, the new boy—Taehyung. He was leaned back in his chair, his head thrown back slightly, a hand covering his mouth as he tried to stifle the warm, rich sound of his amusement at something the housekeeper had said.

 

Jungkook stood in the shadows of the hallway, watching. A strange, disconnected thought surfaced in his mind, cool and observational. Is he even a man? The boy was all delicate lines and softness—slim, with a graceful neck and features too pretty, too finely drawn for conventional masculinity. His lips were a plush, startling pink against his fair skin, his nose subtle and straight, and his eyes… when they crinkled with mirth, they were enormous, doe-like, fringed with lashes so thick they cast shadows on his rosy cheeks. There was a palpable youthfulness to him, a vibrancy that seemed to make the very air around him shimmer. He looks like a painting, Jungkook mused, something from another time, too vivid and fragile for this world. The observation was clinical, devoid of desire, but it held him there for a moment longer before he turned away, the echo of that unguarded laugh lingering in the hall as he continued on his way, the quiet of the house suddenly feeling even more profound.

 

The echo of that unexpected laughter seemed to hang in the hallways long after Jungkook had retreated to the library, a fleeting, foreign ghost in the house’s usual silence. He stood by the shelves, a forgotten book in his hand, the sound still reverberating in the deep quiet of his mind. It has been… so long, he thought, the realization a dull ache. So long since a sound that genuine, that unburdened by sorrow, had rung through these grand, empty rooms. It was a ripple on the still, black surface of his grief, both an affront and a faint, puzzling vibration that unsettled the dust of his solitude.

 

 Upstairs, tucked away in his small room, Taehyung pressed his fingertips to his own smiling lips, the memory of a shared joke with Miss Edith warming him far more than the woolen blanket he drew around his shoulders. Outside, the snow continued to fall over Edinburgh, wrapping the Georgian townhouse in a silent, white embrace, burying the day's small confusions and quiet revelations under a pristine new layer, promising nothing but quiet, and the slow, inevitable turn toward morning.

 

 

Chapter 5: A Forbidden Flutter

Notes:

Hello loveliesssss
Here is a chapter with mostly taekook moments only.
I hope you like it .💗
Keep commenting as they encourage me.

"I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary."

______ Margret Atwood

 

The invitation was a thick, cream-colored cardstock, an unwelcome weight on Jungkook’s desk. The annual Edinburgh Winter Benefactor’s Gala. An event Hikari had loved and he had always endured for her sake. Now, it was merely a torturous obligation. His usual aide from the firm was down with the flu. The thought of navigating that glittering, pitying crowd alone made a cold knot form in his stomach.

 

His eyes fell on Taehyung, who was meticulously dusting the bookshelves in the study, his movements graceful and quiet.

 

“Taehyung.”

 

The boy jumped slightly, turning with those wide, ever-attentive eyes. “Yes, sir?”

 

“There is an engagement this evening. Your presence will be required. Be prepared to depart at seven. You will attire yourself accordingly.” The instruction was delivered with a cold, impersonal efficiency, leaving no room for debate. It was a matter of necessity, not choice.

 

Taehyung’s composure flickered for only a second, a quick blink of surprise. “I understand, sir."

 

At precisely seven, Taehyung stood nervously in the foyer, wearing the only suit he owned, a simple, dark thing that Miss Edith had helped him press to a sharp crease. He felt like an imposter.

 

When Jungkook descended the stairs, Taehyung’s breath caught. He was wearing a tailored black tuxedo with a rather long coat that seemed to absorb the light, making him look even more severe and devastatingly handsome. His gaze swept over Taehyung, giving a curt, approving nod that made Taehyung’s heart stutter.

 

The car ride was silent. Taehyung stared out the window, and as they entered the more festive streets of the city’s elite quarter, his awe began to override his nerves.

 

“Oh,” he breathed, unable to contain himself as they passed a magnificent townhouse draped in thousands of tiny white lights, looking like a cascade of frozen stars. A little further on, a grand hotel entrance was framed by two enormous Christmas trees, their boughs heavy with gold and crimson ornaments.

 

Jungkook did not turn from the window. “A rather excessive display,” he remarked, his voice devoid of interest. “One must question the taste.”

 

Taehyung said nothing, but a small, private smile touched his lips. To his new eyes, it was not excess; it was magic.

 

 

But Taehyung was undeterred. To him, it was a miracle. Every twinkling light, every shimmering bauble was a wonder he was seeing for the first time. A small, unconscious smile touched his lips, his earlier anxiety replaced by a cheery wonder.

 

The gala was a whirlwind of sound and light. Taehyung stuck to his role, taking Jungkook’s coat, accepting a glass of champagne he wouldn’t drink, standing a respectful half-step behind him. But his eyes were everywhere, drinking in the women in sparkling gowns, the ice sculptures, the soaring ceilings draped with greenery and ribbons.

 

Jungkook moved through the crowd like a ghost, his replies to well-wishers curt and minimal. He used Taehyung as his shield.

 

“You must excuse me a matter requires to be discussed with my assistant,” he said to a particularly persistent socialite, turning slightly toward Taehyung.

 

The move brought them into close proximity. Jungkook’s back was to the crowd, his broad shoulders blocking Taehyung’s view, creating a small, intimate pocket of space around them. Taehyung could smell the faint, clean scent of Jungkook’s cologne—sandalwood and something sharp like frost. He could see the perfect line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled just slightly against his neck.

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched. His cheeks flooded with heat. He stared fixedly at the knot of Jungkook’s tie, his mind going utterly blank, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was painfully aware of every inch of space between them.

 

Jungkook seemed oblivious, his eyes scanning the room over Taehyung’s shoulder, waiting for the socialite to leave. He glanced down to see Taehyung frozen, flushed, and staring determinedly at his chest.

 

“Is there a problem?” Jungkook inquired, his voice low and devoid of genuine concern.

 

“None at all, sir,” Taehyung replied, his voice even, betraying none of the sudden, disconcerting awareness that had tightened his chest.

 

Later, as they made their exit, Jungkook paused to offer a final, frigidly polite word to their hosts. Taehyung stood ready with his overcoat. As Jungkook turned and slid his arms into the sleeves, his fingers grazed Taehyung’s for a single, fleeting second.

 

The contact was a spark. Taehyung’s hand stilled for a fraction of a moment, a jolt of sensation traveling up his arm. He recovered instantly, smoothly adjusting the coat onto Jungkook’s shoulders, his face a mask of professional calm, though a high blush had finally managed to stain his cheeks.

 

Jungkook adjusted his cuffs, utterly unmoved by the minor contact. “See to the motorcar,” he directed, his tone indicating the moment was already forgotten.

 

“Immediately, sir,” Taehyung responded, his tone respectful and steady. He turned to execute the order, his heart a wild, secret drumbeat against the impeccable stillness of his exterior. He had navigated a world of diamond-bright lights and cold grandeur, and the only thing that had truly warmed him was the accidental brush of a hand that felt nothing in return.

 

The motorcar purred to a halt before the imposing iron gates of the townhouse. The world was hushed, wrapped in the deep, blue silence of midnight after snow. Taehyung, weary from the overwhelming evening and chilled to the bone, alighted from the car with a quiet, “I’ll see to the gate, sir.”

 

He moved briskly through the crunching snow, his bare hands already stinging with the bite of the cold, eager to be back within the familiar walls. As he reached for the cold iron latch, his fingers, red and numb, brushed against something else. A letter, half-tucked in the letterbox, its edge damp with frost.

 

In his tired and flustered state, all thought of protocol and the waiting motorcar vanished. Jimin. It had to be. With a sudden, eager motion, he pulled it free, turning it over to confirm the familiar, looping handwriting. It was.

 

A transformation came over him. The exhaustion, the cold seeping into his ungloved hands—it all fell away. His face, half-hidden in the thick muffler, lit up from within. His eyes, always so expressive, crinkled at the corners, shining with a pure, unguarded joy that was starkly visible even in the dimness.

 

Inside the motorcar, Jungkook watched through the windscreen, the yellow beams of the headlights cutting a path through the dark and illuminating the scene like a stage. They caught the snowflakes caught in Taehyung’s dark hair, dusting the shoulders of his coat like diamond sprinkles. They highlighted the rose blush on the visible curve of his cheek. His ungloved hand clutched the paper, the skin flushed a vivid red against the white envelope.

 

The rest of his face was buried in the scarf, but it didn’t matter. The emotion was all there in his eyes—a brilliant, captivating happiness.

 

For a long, suspended moment, Jungkook simply stared, the engine’s quiet rumble the only sound. He watched the way Taehyung held the letter, his bare fingers surely aching with cold, yet seemingly oblivious in his delight.

 

There is something ridiculously absurd about him, Jungkook thought, the observation surfacing in his mind, cool and detached. The way his eyes betray every passing feeling. As if he has no concept of a mask. No understanding of concealment. Or self-preservation. Maybe they just remind him of someone. Someone who's distance had left him in pieces.

 

The thought was followed by another, quieter one, that felt less like his own.

 

…Unlike mine.

 

The contrast was suddenly, painfully clear. Where Jungkook’s own soul felt like a frozen, barren landscape, this boy’s was a live thing, shining out for anyone to see, even in the midnight snow, his vulnerability as plain as his bare hands in the freezing air. It was absurd. It was… captivating.

 

A sharp, unfamiliar pang—something between envy and a long-forgotten yearning—lanced through him. He looked away, breaking the spell, the warmth of the car interior suddenly feeling claustrophobic against the image of that cold, joyful figure outside.

 

The sharp blast of the motorcar’s horn shattered the moment. Taehyung jolted, the letter clutched tightly in his cold hand. Reality came crashing back—the waiting motorcar, the master inside, his duty. Flustered, he fumbled with the heavy iron gate, pushing it open with a loud creak before hurrying back to the car, his cheeks burning with a mixture of the cold and his own forgetfulness.

 

That letter made him incandescent, Jungkook observed from within the car as it glided through the gates. It must be from a lover. The thought arrived in his mind, sharp and unbidden, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. Love. The word, and all its cousins—lover, beloved, darling—felt like ash. They were words from a language he was no longer permitted to speak.

 

On the worst nights, he would rail against God, against the universe, his anger a silent scream in the darkness of his room. What did I do? What sin did I commit that was so grave you had to take my light away? On other nights, the anger would dissolve into a despair so profound he would simply break, begging for the pain to stop, for the constant ache in his chest to be numbed into nothingness.

 

And in a way, it was working. He was becoming numb. He no longer found beauty in art, solace in music, or interest in the world. He moved through it like a ghost. Someone once said that merely breathing isn't living. Jungkook was the embodiment of that statement. He was breathing. He was not living.

 

He entered the grand foyer, followed closely by Taehyung, who was practically vibrating with suppressed energy. The younger man’s focus was clearly miles away.

 

“Sir,” Taehyung began, his words coming out in a hurried rush. “Is there something you want? Something you require for the night?”

 

Jungkook turned and looked at him, really looked at him. The residual joy was still a faint glow in his eyes, a stark contrast to the hollow stillness in his own.

 

“No,” he replied, his voice flat.

 

“I can go to my chamber now?” Taehyung asked again, unable to hide his desperation to be alone with his letter.

 

“Yes,” Jungkook replied curtly. He turned on his heel and moved down the darkened hallway, his figure swallowed by the shadows, retreating into the vast, silent emptiness of his wing of the house.

 

Taehyung didn't wait a second longer. He all but ran to his room, closing the door behind him before sinking onto his bed. With careful, excited fingers, he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

 

Dearest Tae,

 

I hope this letter finds you well and warm in that grand house. I read about your dreams. It sounds so strange and wonderful, and a little frightening. Perhaps your new eyes are seeing more than just the world in front of you. Be careful, but be curious too.

 

Your news made me all the more grateful for my own happiness, risky as it is. Yoongi is taking such good care of me. I know a relationship between two men is not something spoken of, and we must be so careful, but he is steadfast. He is my rock. He makes me feel safe and loved in a way I never thought possible. We are happy, Tae. Truly.

 

Which is why I must ask… would you consider spending Christmas with us? Our flat is small and nothing like your mansion, but it is filled with warmth. We would love to have you. You shouldn’t be alone for the holidays. Think on it?

 

Your friend, Jimin

 

Taehyung held the letter to his chest, a different kind of warmth spreading through him. Love, it seemed, could exist in many forms, even those hidden from the world. And the invitation felt like a lifeline, a promise of warmth and familiarity in a house that, for all its grandeur, often felt as cold as the Edinburgh snow.

 

The kitchen was a warm, fragrant oasis in the otherwise cold, silent expanse of the mansion. The scent of baking bread and frying bacon hung in the air, a stark contrast to the frost-licked windows overlooking the snow-blanketed gardens of Carlton Terrace. Taehyung, having woken with a nervous energy that had little to do with the hour, was carefully arranging slices of toast on a silver platter. His movements were still tentative in this grand space, a constant, quiet fear of chipping the fine china or dropping the heavy silver.

 

The silence here is different from the orphanage. There, it was the quiet of waiting. Here, it’s the silence of something that’s ended. But today… today feels different. It’s Christmas. And I’m going to see Jimin.The thought was a little sunbeam in his chest, warming him from the inside.

 

He glanced at Miss Edith, the head housekeeper, whose kind, lined face was softened by the steam from a large pot of oatmeal. She was the closest thing to an anchor he had in this vast, bewildering house.

 

"Miss Edith," he began, his voice barely louder than the crackle of the hearth. "Today's Christmas."

 

She looked up, her smile immediate and genuine. "Yes, dear. Merry Christmas."

 

He fidgeted with the hem of his apron. "I wanted to ask you…" he started, his fingers twisting together. "Can I take a day off for today? A friend of mine, from the orphanage, he invited me to celebrate Christmas with him. His name is Jimin. So I was thinking… if I could spend the day with him?"

 

Miss Edith’s smile turned wistful. She wiped her hands on her apron, her gentle eyes seeing right through his nervousness. "Oh, Taehyung, that sounds lovely. But a matter like that… you should ask Master Jeon himself."

 

Ask him? Directly?A cold dread, entirely separate from the winter outside, trickled down his spine. He’s a storm cloud contained in a man. How do you ask a storm for permission? He gulped, the image of Jungkook’s imposing, solitary figure freezing the words in his throat.

 

His eyes wandered around the kitchen, then through the door to the grand hall beyond. It was then that the oddity of it all truly struck him. The sheer… nothingness. No wreaths, no ribbon, no tree sparkling in the corner. The house was as austere and mournful as it had been on his first day.

 

"Why is there no decoration for Christmas here?" he asked, his curiosity momentarily overriding his fear.

 

Miss Edith’s face softened with a deep, familiar sorrow. "Ever since Lady Hikari died, the Master doesn't fancy celebrations. Or any events, really." She sighed, a sound heavy with memory. "It was always her. She was like sunlight, she was. So excited and eager to decorate for every holiday. And he… he did it all for her. He’d have the biggest tree brought in from the Highlands just to see her laugh. Now that she's no more…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "He doesn't care for any of it now."

 

He did it all for her.The words painted a picture so vivid it ached. 

 

"I see," he gulped, the weight of Jungkook’s grief settling on his own shoulders.

 

And then, the idea came. It was foolish, naive, and probably wildly overstepping. But it bloomed in his mind’s eye, bright and irresistible—a small, defiant spark against the overwhelming gloom.

 

It’s not good though, to sit in the dark like this. Maybe… maybe he just needs someone to remember the light for him. Even just a little bit. What if we surprised him? Just a little decoration. Something small. Maybe… maybe it would make him feel just a little bit less alone.

 

A determined, if nervous, light entered his eyes—her eyes. He looked at Miss Edith, a tentative, hopeful smile touching his lips.

 

"It's not good though," he repeated, his voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "How about… how about we surprise him with a little decoration?"

 

 

Taehyung’s footsteps were whisper-quiet on the runner carpet, each one a hammer against the oppressive silence of the grand hallway. The journey to the master’s wing felt like a mile, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He rehearsed the simple question over and over, but each version sounded more foolish than the last. The sheer authority that radiated from Jungkook Jeon was enough to make his palms sweat.

 

He finally reached the heavy, dark oak door. He took a shaky breath, raised a trembling hand, and was just about to knock when the door swung inward.

 

There, filling the doorway, was Master Jeon. Clad in an impeccably tailored dark suit, he was wrestling with his tie, his long, elegant fingers fumbling with the silk, a faint frown of frustration on his face. The unexpectedly human sight was so disarming that Taehyung stumbled back a step, his gaze immediately dropping to the floor in a hot flush of embarrassment. He was bothering him. He shouldn't be here.

 

Jungkook abandoned the tie, the ends hanging loose around his collar. His dark eyes, sharp and perceptive, fixed on the flustered boy before him.

 

“Yes?” The single word was like a shard of ice, sharp and devoid of any warmth.

 

Taehyung’s fingers began to twist together of their own accord. He sounds so cold. He’s going to say no. He forced the words out, his voice smaller than he intended. “S-Sire,” he began, the formal address feeling strange on his tongue. “Today it is Christmas. An… an acquaintance of mine has invited me to spend the day with him. I… I request today’s off.” The request hung in the air between them, fragile and meek. He kept his eyes firmly downcast, awaiting the verdict.

No answer came. The silence stretched, thin and taut, until Taehyung’s nerves forced his gaze upward.

 

There was just something about his master that flustered him, a dizzying intensity that he knew he shouldn't feel. But a ridiculous, unbidden thought crossed his mind: What a blessing it is to have eyes, if only to look upon a face like his. The sheer impropriety of the thought sent a hot blush blooming across his cheeks.

 

The words were out before his courage could fail him. "May I?" He didn't know where it came from, this sudden boldness that launched his slender fingers toward the loose ends of Jungkook's tie.

 

Jungkook didn't answer with words. He simply gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod and looked away, his jaw tight, granting a silent permission that felt more like a surrender. He was a bit taller, but Taehyung could easily reach, his dainty fingers working with a deft, practiced efficiency to form the knot.

 

A foreign feeling coiled, tight and hot, in Jungkook's stomach. This close proximity with someone who worked for him was somehow suffocating. It shouldn't be. And then a memory, sharp and unbidden, sliced through him.

 

"I can tie my tie, you know, my love," a younger Jungkook had said, his voice warm with amusement as he wrapped his arms around Hikari's waist while she fussed with the silk.

 

Hikari had looked up at him, her bright, warm eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know you can, darling," she teased, her fingers never stilling. "I just like doing things for you."

 

A sharp, unexplainable pain lanced through his chest, so acute it was a physical ache. He missed her with a desperation that was a constant, dull roar, and anything that reminded him of her—especially this tender, intimate echo of a gesture—was a torture he needed to escape.

 

His eyes, dark and stormy, dropped to Taehyung. And at that moment, Taehyung looked up.

 

"All done, sire." His voice was soft.

 

Jungkook found himself staring into a face that was not his wife's, yet framed by the eyes that had once held her soul. The proximity was suddenly overwhelming. He could see the faint blush still high on the boy's cheeks, the slight part of his lips.

 

He backed away as if burned, putting a cold, respectable distance between them. The moment shattered.

 

"You can have the day off," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. He snatched his long coat from a nearby chair, not looking back as he strode toward the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing his retreat down the hall.

 

Taehyung just stood there, dumbfounded, the ghost of the master's cologne in the air and the frantic beating of his own heart loud in his ears.

 

The soft click of the front door closing echoed through the hall, its finality snapping Taehyung from his daze. He stood frozen, the phantom pressure of the silk tie still on his fingertips. A frantic, hammering rhythm against his ribs made it hard to breathe—his own heart, beating a wild, frightened tattoo.

 

This wasn't right. This flustered heat in his cheeks, this dizzying rush that left him unsteady—it was terrifying. He was an employee, an orphan living on charity, and the master of the house was a monument of grief, a man carved from ice and sharp edges. To feel this strange, pulling attraction was not just foolish; it felt like a betrayal of the very walls that sheltered him.

 

He took a shaky step back, as if to physically distance himself from the confusing emotions lingering in the air. The day of freedom ahead felt suddenly overshadowed. He wrapped his arms around himself, a small figure in the vast, silent hall, trying to calm the treacherous pounding in his chest that felt too much like hope.

 

 

 

Chapter 6: The hauntingly beautiful song

Notes:

Hi loveliesssss I'm here with another chapter .
I'm eternally grateful for my readers who motivate me and love this story.
💗💗

 

“The soul falls in love without knowing how, just as without knowing how it falls asleep.” — Victor Hugo

 

The car glided through the snow-blanketed streets of Edinburgh, a silent capsule in a world of muted sound. Jungkook stared out the window, unseeing, the ghost of a touch and a pair of honey-colored eyes haunting his thoughts.

 

"The firm would be closed today, sire, as it's the Christmas holiday," John said, breaking the long silence from the driver's seat.

 

Jungkook didn't reply immediately, lost in the absurdity of his own mind. Eversince that boy… Taehyung… had come into the house, the place has started to seem a bit livelier. It was a disconcerting thought. The dead grand mansion occasionally rang with a melodious, deep laughter now, a sound so foreign Jungkook had almost forgotten what it sounded like within those walls after Hikari. And then another, more ridiculous thought crossed his mind. He called it absurd, sheer nonsense. The thought was that the boy was beautiful. He scoffed inwardly. How can a man be anything but beautiful? But Taehyung was. There was a delicacy to his features, a warmth in his gaze that felt unsettlingly familiar.

 

"Sire?" John tried again, his tone careful.

 

"Yes?" Jungkook cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet car.

 

"The firm is closed. To where would you like to go?"

 

Where? The question echoed emptily inside him. Where could he go? He felt like a ghost himself, belonging nowhere after Hikari. He had offices, properties, but nowhere to go. It was strange, he mused, how the loss of one person could lead to the loss of everything else—warmth, laughter, happiness, and foremost, the feeling of home.

 

"Turnberry's," Jungkook said abruptly, naming the most exclusive menswear store in the city. It was a place of action, of transaction, something his mind could understand.

 

The hushed, plush interior of Turnberry's was a world away from the snowy streets. He moved with practiced ease through the racks, selecting a fine cashmere scarf for Miss Edith. It was a practical gesture, an acknowledgement of her years of service he rarely voiced.

 

And then his eyes fell on a display of gloves. They were made of the softest lambskin, lined with silk, elegant and warm. His gaze lingered. An image flashed in his mind: Taehyung’s slender, bare fingers fumbling slightly as they arranged the breakfast tray that morning, the skin looking pale against the cold silver.

 

Before he could talk himself out of the sheer irrationality of it—buying a gift for an employee, for the boy who unsettled him so—he pointed to a pair in a rich, chestnut brown.

 

"Those as well," he told the attentive clerk, his voice leaving no room for question. He paid without looking at the bill, the transaction a sharp, definitive end to a impulse he refused to examine. The small box was placed in the bag with the scarf, a secret nestled beside a courtesy.

Taehyung stepped off the bus, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his thin coat. He walked carefully along the cobblestone pathway, still marveling at the ability to watch his own feet navigate the uneven stones. The sun was a pale, silver coin behind a veil of grey cloud, offering little warmth but casting the snowy world in a soft, luminous glow. A contented smile touched his lips as the crisp, chilly air nipped at his cheeks.

 

He let his gaze wander, drinking in the bustling scene. The streets were alive with a festive energy he could now see. Garlands of evergreen and twinkling lights were strung between lampposts. A florist’s stall on the corner was doing a brisk business; he watched, fascinated, as a man in a tweed cap presented a bouquet of winter roses to a woman, her delighted laugh ringing through the cold air. A little further on, a group of children, bundled into colorful scarves and mittens, were diligently rolling snowballs to form a lopsided snowman.

 

This, he thought, his heart swelling with a simple, profound joy. This is the greatest blessing. To see the world in all its messy, beautiful detail.

 

For a moment, he was perfectly, utterly happy. Life, for all its past hardships, was undeniably good. He liked it.

 

And then, unbidden, Jungkook’s face crossed his mind—the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity of his dark eyes, the unexpected vulnerability as Taehyung had fixed his tie. A hot flush crept up his neck. He shook his head slightly, as if he could physically dislodge the image of his master from his thoughts.

 

Soon, he found himself in front of a decent-looking, two-story terraced house. It was exactly the kind of solid, respectable home he’d always imagined from descriptions: made of weathered stone, with a single large window on the ground floor framed by dark green shutters. A wisp of smoke curled from the chimney, promising warmth within, and a simple, cheerful wreath of holly hung on the bright red door.

 

Taking a steadying breath, he raised his hand and knocked.

 

The door flew open almost immediately.

 

“TAEHYUNG!” Jimin shouted, his face splitting into a brilliant, familiar grin. He didn’t hesitate, throwing himself forward and wrapping his arms around Taehyung in a fierce, welcoming embrace.

 

Laughing, the confusing thoughts of Jungkook momentarily forgotten, Taehyung caught him and hugged him back with equal force, the joy of seeing his oldest friend a warm and steady anchor in his swirling world.

The warmth from Jimin’s hug was still settling around him like a comfortable blanket when Taehyung noticed the other figure in the cozy sitting room. A man stood by the fireplace, quieter and stiller than the energy Jimin radiated. He was older, with an air of calm deliberation that seemed to settle the very air around him.

 

“Taehyung, this is Min Yoongi,” Jimin said, his voice bubbling with pride and affection as he tugged Taehyung further inside. “Yoongi, this is my Taehyungie. The one I told you about.”

 

Yoongi offered a slight, formal bow, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp and observant. “It’s good to finally meet you, Taehyung. Jimin speaks of you often.” His voice was a low, steady rumble, a complete contrast to Jimin’s melodic exuberance.

He’s so serious,Taehyung thought initially, feeling a flicker of nervousness under the man’s calm appraisal. But then he saw it. As Jimin flitted around, taking Taehyung’s coat and chattering a mile a minute, Yoongi’s gaze followed him. And in those calm, deep-set eyes, there was a look of such profound fondness, such unwavering admiration, that it made Taehyung’s own heart ache with a sudden, strange longing. It was a quiet, powerful love that didn’t need shouts or grand gestures; it was in the steady, watchful presence, in the way Yoongi’s stern expression softened almost imperceptibly when Jimin laughed.

 

I wish… The thought came unbidden, surprising him. I wish to have someone look at me like that one day. To be someone’s anchor like Jimin is for him.

 

Any lingering awkwardness melted away as they moved to the small kitchen to prepare the Christmas meal. Jimin, for all his chaos, was a surprisingly competent cook, directing operations with enthusiastic flourishes. Yoongi, it turned out, was the precise and methodical counterpart—julienning vegetables with expert efficiency while Jimin seasoned the main dish with more heart than measurement. Taehyung was put on peeling duty, a simple task that let him bask in the easy, comfortable dynamic between the two men.

 

The afternoon unfolded in a blur of laughter, the sizzle of food in a pan, and the shared warmth of the small kitchen. Jimin teased Yoongi for his seriousness, and Yoongi volleyed back with a dry, witty remark that would make Jimin shriek with laughter and swat at his arm. They included Taehyung effortlessly, pulling him into their jokes, asking him about his new life at the mansion—though he carefully edited out any mention of confusing masters and haunting memories.

 

For a few precious hours, Taehyung wasn’t an orphan or a house governor. He was just Taehyung, surrounded by the vibrant, loving energy of his best friend and the deep, steady calm of the man who adored him. It was a glimpse into a kind of life he hadn’t known was possible, a world built not on grand staircases and silent halls, but on shared laughter in a warm kitchen and the quiet, certain language of love spoken between two people. It was the happiest and, in a way, the most bittersweet Christmas he could remember.

The remains of their Christmas meal sat between them on the low table, a testament to their shared effort and enjoyment. The room was warm, filled with the scent of roasted meat and pine from the small tree in the corner. It was then that Jimin, his eyes sparkling, reached for a small, clumsily wrapped package tucked beside his chair.

 

“For you, Tae,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I know it’s not much, but… I had to save up for ages.”

 

Taehyung took the package, unwrapping it carefully to reveal a small, slightly battered harmonica, polished until it shone.

 

“Remember old Mr. Higgins at the home?” Jimin said, a nostalgic smile on his face. “He tried to teach us on his. We were terrible. But we’d practice out behind the shed, thinking we were so clever. I thought… maybe we could be terrible at it together again.”

 

Taehyung’s throat tightened. It was a gift that spoke of a world that belonged only to them, a secret history of stolen moments and shared dreams. He ran his thumb over the cool metal. “Jimin…,” he whispered, clutching it. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

 

A wave of affection for his friend washed over him, so strong it momentarily eclipsed the lonely ache in his own chest. He was so genuinely happy Jimin had found this, had found Yoongi and this warm, solid life. He watched as Yoongi then cleared his throat, reaching into his own pocket to pull out a small, velvet box. He placed it in Jimin’s hands without a word.

 

Jimin opened it to reveal a simple, elegant silver bracelet. His eyes went wide, filling with tears. “Yoongi…”

 

“It’s so you have a piece of home with you,” Yoongi said, his deep voice even quieter than usual, his ears tinged with pink. “Wherever you go.”

 

The raw, quiet love in Yoongi’s gesture was a physical thing in the room. Taehyung’s smile for them was real, but it hid a deep, yearning pang. To be loved like that… he thought, to have someone look at you with that certain, steady devotion… He tucked the harmonica safely in his pocket, a token of one beautiful kind of love, while his heart ached for another he couldn't name.

 

They fell into a comfortable silence. It was during this lull that Taehyung, the weight of his secret feeling heavier amidst their shared intimacy, finally spoke.

 

“It’s strange,” he began, staring into the fire. “Living in that big house. I’ve been having these… not dreams. They feel more real. Like memories. But they’re not mine.”

 

Jimin leaned forward, instantly concerned. “What do you mean?”

 

“It started after the surgery,” Taehyung explained. “I’d hear a piano. A man playing. And laughter. I could never see their faces. But it was always happy. Until recently.”

 

“What changed?” Yoongi asked, his calm, analytical tone grounding the conversation.

 

“It’s… a song now. I heard words for the first time just this morning.” He closed his eyes, concentrating. “They were beautiful, but sad. I don’t know what they mean. They were something like… Naze, konna ni mo namida ga afureru no… Nee, soba ni ite soshite waratte yo… That’s all I remember. It repeats a lot.”

 

Yoongi was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s Japanese,” he said finally. He translated slowly, carefully: “Why… are my eyes filled with so many tears? Hey… stay by my side… and laugh for me.”

 

A heavy silence fell over the room. The beautiful, melancholic meaning of the words hung in the air.

 

“That’s… heartbreaking,” Jimin breathed out.

 

“Can you hum the tune?” Yoongi asked gently. “The melody it’s set to?”

 

Taehyung nodded, a little self-conscious. He hummed the few bars he knew, the melody flowing from him as naturally as breathing. It was wistful, filled with a deep yearning.

 

Yoongi listened intently, his head tilted. “It’s… it’s not a happy song, is it? But there’s a warmth to it, too.”

 

“That’s it exactly,” Taehyung said, relieved someone understood. “It’s melancholic, but it’s also… heartwarming. It feels like a memory of a great love, but also the pain of losing it. It’s both at once.” He left the identity of the people in his visions unspoken, too superstitious to give the haunting a name, too afraid of the connection it forged between him and the lonely master of the house.

Yoongi listened intently, his head tilted. “It’s… it’s not a happy song, is it? But there’s a warmth to it, too.”

 

“That’s it exactly,” Taehyung said, relieved someone understood. “It’s melancholic, but it’s also… heartwarming. It feels like a memory of a great love."

 

The heavy oak door of the mansion closed behind Jungkook with a definitive thud, a sound that always seemed to swallow the outside world whole. He shrugged off his overcoat, the chill of the evening still clinging to the wool, and handed it automatically to the waiting attendant. Then he stopped.

 

The grand living room, usually a study in somber elegance and shadow, was… different.

 

Strings of soft, white fairy lights were draped over the mantelpiece, twinkling against the dark wood. A great wreath of pine and holly, dotted with deep red berries and pale winter roses, hung on the center of the main window. It was tasteful, understated even, but it was undeniably a decoration. It was change.

 

A faint, unfamiliar scent of pine and cinnamon hung in the air.

 

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Miss Edith," he called out, his voice low but carrying through the vast hall.

 

The housekeeper appeared swiftly from the direction of the kitchens, her hands clasped neatly in front of her apron , " sir."

 

"What is this?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over the lights again, not with appreciation, but with the scrutiny of a man surveying a breach in his perimeter.

 

Miss Edith followed his gaze, a hesitant smile touching her lips. "Its Mr taehyung, He thought the house could use… a touch of the season. He did it all himself this afternoon."

 

Jungkook was silent for a long moment. He looked at the wreath, at the careful arrangement of the berries. He gave a single, slow nod. "I see."

 

He turned to go, then paused, reaching into the pocket of the coat still held by the attendant. He pulled out a simple, woolen scarf, its pattern familiar and old. "The nights are cold. This is for you," he said to Miss Edith, his tone offering no room for refusal or thanks. He placed it in her hands and then walked away, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he ascended the stairs to his private study.

 

He did not go to his study.

 

He went to their room. The door clicked shut behind him, a sound of finality. The room was immaculate, untouched, a museum exhibit of a life interrupted. He stood in the center of the dim space, not touching anything, just breathing in the sterile, scentless air.

 

Taehyung did it.

 

The thought was a pebble dropped into the still pond of his grief. It should have been a kind gesture. It was, to any rational mind. But to Jungkook, it was a violation. A splash of false cheer on a canvas of permanent night. He didn't like it. He didn't like the lights, the scent of pine, the forced merriment it implied. He didn't like anything that wasn't the all-consuming, familiar embrace of his sorrow.

 

He sank into the armchair by the cold fireplace—her chair.

 

If Hikari were here… If Hikari were here,the mansion wouldn't be decorated with a few strings of lights. It would be alive. It would be a symphony of their shared laughter, a sonnet written in the golden glow of a hundred candles. There would be music—her music, probably that melancholic Japanese jazz she loved—spilling from every room, and the air would be thick with the scent of the spiced wine she insisted on making, even though he always pretended it was too sweet. She would have dragged a tree so large it would scrape the ceiling, and they would have argued playfully about the placement of each ornament, her hands guiding his until he conceded with a kiss.

 

Christmas would have been a riot of color in their monochrome world, a firework in the quiet dark. Without her, it was just another endless night. The decorations weren't a celebration; they were a garish reminder of the celebration that would never be. The world had not gained color; it had merely highlighted the void where all its color had drained away.

 

Nothing felt good. Nothing would ever feel good again.

 

Hours must have passed. The clock on the mantel struck eight, its chime deep and mournful in the silent house. He stood, his body moving with a heavy inertia, and left the room.

 

The hallway was long and dark, lit only by the faint moonlight from the windows at either end. He walked its length, a solitary figure in the immense solitude of his own home. At the far window, he stopped, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket. He didn't light it for a long time, just rolled it between his fingers, a dark shape against the moonlit glass.

 

Then, the scratch of a match, a flare of light that briefly illuminated his hollowed, handsome face before dying out. He took a long, slow draw on the cigar, the tip glowing a fierce orange in the darkness, a single, burning star in the vast, cold universe of his grief. The smoke he exhaled was a ghost in the moonlight, a pale, vanishing echo of the life that had once filled these halls.

 

The side door to the mansion closed with a soft, careful click, sealing out the biting winter night. Taehyung stood in the modest vestibule, his movements slow and deliberate as he unwound the thick scarf from his neck. Each motion was still a quiet marvel to him—the ability to see the deep blue wool of the scarf, to hang it neatly on a hook he could see instead of having to feel for.

 

He shrugged off his coat, his fingers brushing over the rough texture, and hung it next to the scarf. The simple, mundane act of coming home was still a poem written in light and color. He turned, intending to head towards the kitchen to see if Miss Edith needed any last help before retiring, when he stopped dead.

 

At the far end of the grand hallway, silhouetted against the large moonlit window, was a figure. A single, burning ember glowed like a malevolent eye in the darkness, and beneath it, the faint, sharp scent of cigar smoke reached him.

 

Master Jeon.

 

His heart, foolish thing, began a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Flustered again. Always flustered around him.

 

He should say something. Announce his presence. But his voice felt lodged in his throat. The man was like a statue carved from shadow and moonlight, so still and imposing that any sound felt like a desecration. Taehyung’s mind raced, tripping over itself. Did he see the decorations? Does he hate them? He must hate them. Why did I think it was a good idea?

 

From his post by the window, Jungkook watched the figure enter from his periphery. He didn't turn his head, only his eyes shifted slightly, taking in his face.He saw the careful, almost reverent removal of the coat, the way the man stopped suddenly, like a deer sensing a predator.

 

He took a long, slow drag on his cigar, the end flaring brightly, illuminating the sharp planes of his face for a brief moment before receding back into gloom. He exhaled a plume of smoke that curled and twisted in the moonbeams. He made no move to acknowledge the other man. He simply watched. Waiting. His gaze was heavy, bored, and utterly penetrating. It was the stare of a man who had long run out of curiosity, for whom the comings and goings of others were merely minor disturbances in a constant state of stasis.

 

The tension stretched between them, thin and taut as a wire. It was not a tension of conflict, but of profound imbalance. One man, a storm of nervous energy and unspoken apologies, feeling unbearably seen. The other, a void of cold apathy, merely observing the flicker of life before him with a dull, distant interest, wondering how long it would take for it to extinguish itself under the weight of his gaze.

 

Just as Taehyung thought to retreat, a voice cut through the silence, low and cold, without the speaker even turning his head.

 

"Taehyung."

 

The sound of his name, spoken in that toneless, commanding baritone, made him jump. "Yes, Governor?"

 

"Follow me to the study."

 

It wasn't a request. It was a directive. The ember of the cigar dipped slightly as Jungkook turned and walked down the hall, not waiting to see if he was being obeyed. Taehyung’s feet moved of their own accord, following the retreating back, his pulse a loud drum in his ears.

 

The study was exactly as he kept it: austere, organized, and cold. Jungkook went to his large mahogany desk but did not sit. He finally turned to face Taehyung, his expression unreadable in the dim light of a single lamp.

 

"The decorations," Jungkook began, his voice sharp, each word a chip of ice. "Miss Edith informed me it was your doing."

 

Taehyung’s mouth went dry. He could only nod, his hands clasping nervously behind his back.

 

"I do not like decorations. I do not like celebrations. They are… frivolous noises in a silence I have no wish to break." He paused, his dark eyes boring into Taehyung, who felt pinned in place. "That was something Hikari did. She filled this space. She had that right. She is no longer here. Therefore, no one has that right anymore."

 

The words were delivered with a brutal, harsh finality. Taehyung’s heart wasn't just beating fast now; it was hurting, a sharp, squeezing pain with every syllable.

 

"Nothing you do," Jungkook continued, his tone dripping with a cold certainty, "will bring any warmth to this house or to what is left of me. My heart is frozen, and I have no interest in anything meant to fascinate or cheer. Do you understand? I would prefer everything to be left exactly as she left it. It is a memorial. Not a home. It does not require… festive touches."

 

He finally looked away, dismissing Taehyung with the gesture. "That is all. You may go."

 

Taehyung stood there for a second longer, the words etching themselves into him, each one a cut. He managed a stiff, shallow bow, his vision blurring slightly. "Understood, Governor," he whispered, the words barely audible.

 

He turned and left the study, walking blindly back toward the vestibule. His heart beat loud and painful in his chest, a frantic, wounded bird trapped in a cage of bone. He felt foolish, presumptuous, and utterly chastised. The beautiful, haunting melody from his dream felt like a cruel joke now, a song about a loss so profound he could never hope to understand it, let alone try to ease it.

 

The sting of Governor Jeon’s words lingered long after Taehyung had retreated to his room, a cold echo in the silence. He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling he could now see, and replayed the harsh lecture. Nothing you do will bring any warmth.

 

Why had he even tried? What foolish impulse had made him think he could sprinkle a little joy into the grand, desolate tomb of Jungkook’s grief? He was the help. An orphan with nowhere else to go, granted a position and a miracle out of a charity he didn't understand. Jungkook was the master, a man carved from ice and loss. Their worlds were not meant to touch, and Taehyung had overstepped a line he hadn't even seen.

 

He sighed, the sound loud in the quiet room. He decided then. He would avoid Jungkook as much as possible. He would be a ghost in the mansion, silent and efficient, leaving no trace of himself behind. But who was he kidding? In a house governed by routine and one man’s pervasive sorrow, their paths were destined to cross. He knew what was going to happen—more of the same coldness, more of his own flustered silence. But he could at least try to make himself smaller, less of a disturbance.

 

The dream came again. The same haunting melody, the same clear, pleading voice singing those beautiful, incomprehensible words. Naze, konna ni mo namida ga afureru no… It wrapped around him, a bittersweet blanket, before releasing him back into consciousness.

 

His eyes opened to the soft grey light of another morning. The melody faded, leaving its now-familiar ache in his chest. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, and his gaze fell upon his small bedside table.

 

There was a box on it.

 

A simple, elegant cardboard box that hadn’t been there the night before. He blinked, thinking he was perhaps still caught in the dream. He reached for it, his fingers hesitating before lifting the lid.

 

Inside, nestled on a bed of crisp white tissue paper, was a pair of gloves. They were made of fine, buttery brown leather, soft to the touch and clearly expensive. They were practical, perfect for the winter chill, but also beautiful in their craftsmanship.

 

He stared, utterly bewildered. Who…?

 

He had no one. Miss Edith was kind, but she wouldn’t purchase something like this. The other staff kept a respectful distance. There was only one other person in this house who had the means and, theoretically, the reason.

 

But that was impossible. The man who had lectured him on futility just days ago?

 

 Taehyung took the box and went to find Miss Edith. She was in the kitchen, overseeing the morning tea.

 

“Miss Edith,” he said, his voice quiet. “Do you know about these?”

 

She turned, her eyes softening as she saw the box in his hands. “Ah. They’re lovely, dear.”

 

“Do you know who left them? In my room?”

 

A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “I received a new scarf myself. A very fine one. She adjusted a teacup, her tone gentle. “Perhaps the master noticed the chill in the mornings when you’re seeing to the grounds.”

 

Taehyung’s heart, which had been sitting in a numb, sunken place since the lecture, gave a tentative, painful throb. Jungkook had noticed. He had noticed the cold, and he had done something about it. It was a transaction, surely. A practical provision for an employee to ensure his efficiency. But still… he had noticed.

 

And then the other, more startling thought occurred to him, making his cheeks warm slightly.

 

“But… how did they get on my table?”

 

Miss Edith’s smile became a little wistful, a little sad. “The master often walks the halls late at night. He… checks things.”

 

The implication hung in the air, sweet and terrifying. Jungkook had been in his room. While he slept. The man of ice and sharp words had stood in the quiet dark and left a gift.

 

Taehyung clutched the box tighter, a confusing storm of emotions swirling inside him. A flicker of happiness that the Mister Jeon had thought of him at all, warring with the chilling memory of his words. And underpinning it all, a strange, quiet wonder that the man who wanted everything left as a frozen memorial had, however practically, added something new.

 

The library was Jungkook’s sanctuary, a vast, high-ceilinged room that smelled of old paper, polished leather, and the faint, ever-present scent of his cigars. It was the one room Taehyung usually avoided unless specifically summoned. But a book needed reshelving—a volume on European landscape architecture. Holding it carefully, Taehyung pushed the heavy oak door open and slipped inside.

 

The room was dim, lit only by a single green-shaded lamp on the immense desk. And there, in the pool of light, was Jungkook. He wasn’t working. He was simply sitting, staring into the middle distance, a crystal glass of amber liquid held loosely in his hand. He was the picture of bored, uninterested dissipation.

 

Taehyung froze, intending to back out silently. But the floorboard beneath his foot creaked.

 

Jungkook’s head turned slowly. His eyes, dark and utterly devoid of curiosity, found Taehyung in the doorway. He didn't speak, didn't dismiss him. He just looked, waiting.

 

“I’m sorry, sire,” Taehyung whispered, his voice too loud. “I was just returning this.” He held up the book like an offering.

 

Jungkook’s gaze flicked to the book, then back to Taehyung’s face. He gave a barely perceptible nod towards the shelves. Permission.

 

Heart hammering, Taehyung moved into the room. He found the correct section, slid the book into place, and turned to leave. The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

 

“Sire I'm truly grateful, For the gloves. That's… very kind of you.”

 

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as if he’d already forgotten about the transaction. He took a slow sip from his glass. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

 

“Sit,” he said finally, his voice a flat command. He gestured with his glass to the chair opposite his desk.

 

Taehyung’s pulse jumped. He approached slowly and lowered himself into the large leather armchair, perching on the edge.

 

Jungkook didn’t look at him. His eyes scanned the shelves behind Taehyung before landing on a specific, leather-bound volume. “There. The red one. Bring it.”

 

Taehyung stood, retrieved the book, and placed it on the desk. The Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe.

 

“Open it,” Jungkook instructed, his tone bored. “Find ‘The Raven.’ Read it.”

 

Taehyung’s hands trembled slightly as he opened the book. The print was small and ornate. He found the poem, his finger tracing the title. He took a shaky breath. Reading aloud was still a challenge, especially under this man’s heavy gaze.

 

“‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…’” he began, his voice hesitant.

 

“Louder,” Jungkook murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against his chair.

 

Taehyung swallowed and continued, his voice gaining a little strength as he navigated the haunting, rhythmic verses. He read of the lost Lenore, of the ghostly tapping, of the bleak December and the dying ember. He read of yearning so profound it summoned a demon to the chamber door.

 

As he read, his eyes kept flicking up to the man across from him. Jungkook’s eyes were still closed, his face a mask of impassivity. But he was listening. The sharp, handsome lines of his profile were etched in the lamplight—the strong brow, the straight nose, the severe set of his mouth. He was so handsome, Taehyung thought, a sudden, unbidden flush warming his skin. And so utterly, tragically closed off. He looked like a prince from a cursed fairy tale, imprisoned in a castle of his own grief.

 

Taehyung’s voice softened as he reached the poem’s devastating end, the raven’s final, eternal decree.

 

“‘And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore.’”

 

The last word hung in the air between them, a perfect echo of the silence that had preceded it.

 

Jungkook didn’t move for a long moment. Then, his eyes opened. They weren't bored anymore. They were deep, pools of a quiet, resonant agony that the poem had tapped into. He looked at Taehyung, really looked at him, and for a second, Taehyung felt seen in a way that was terrifying and exhilarating.

 

Without a word, Jungkook picked up his glass, drained it, and stood. He walked to the window, turning his back on Taehyung, on the poem, on the moment and then he turned around.

 

 

 He was so still, so beautiful in his profound sorrow, that a wild, impossible thought flashed through Taehyung’s mind.

 

Could I… touch him?

 

The urge was startling in its intensity—a desire to bridge the immense gap with the simple press of his fingertips, to see if that skin was as cold as it looked, or if there was any warmth left beneath the frozen surface. The thought was so intimate, so presumptuous, that a violent flush immediately scalded his cheeks and neck. He dropped his gaze to the book in his lap, his heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to escape.

 

 

Jungkook watched him for a moment, observing the way the younger man seemed to be trying to fold into himself, the vivid red staining his ears. It was a change from the usual pallor of nervousness. This was something else.

 

“Your face,” Jungkook’s voice was low, cutting through the silence without any particular emotion. “It becomes warm. Every time you are in this room with me. Why?”

 

Taehyung’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with deer-in-the-lantern-light alarm. “I— It’s… the room is quite warm, sir, The fire…” he stammered, gesturing weakly toward the cold, ash-filled fireplace.

 

Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver. It was clear he didn’t believe a word of it. He let the lie hang in the air for a long, uncomfortable moment before he shifted his line of inquiry, his tone still that same flat, probing monotone.

 

“That poem,” he began, his eyes drifting to the book. “It speaks of a loss. A specific, agonizing kind.” He paused, his focus returning to Taehyung, sharper now. “What would you do? If you lost a lover?”

 

The question was like a splash of cold water. Taehyung blinked, thrown by the rawness of it. He fumbled for an answer, for any frame of reference. “I… I suppose I… I wouldn’t know what to do with the silence,” he said slowly, thinking of the vast, echoing mansion. “I’d want to fill it, but I’d know nothing would ever fit correctly again. It would be like… trying to light a candle in a hurricane. A pointless, fragile gesture against something immense.” He swallowed, his own words surprising him. “But… I wouldn’t truly know.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because…” Taehyung’s voice dropped to a near whisper, the admission making him feel incredibly young and exposed. “I’ve never had one. A lover.”

 

Jungkook was silent, his dark eyes studying him as if he were a curious, new specimen. The confession seemed to have genuinely given him pause, pulling him from his own misery for a brief second to regard the man before him.

 

“Never?” he finally asked, the single word laced with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of something that wasn’t boredom.

 

Taehyung shook his head, looking down at his hands. “No, sir.”

 

Another stretch of quiet. Then, the question came, so blunt and unexpected it made Taehyung’s breath catch.

 

“What kind of women do you like?”

 

The flush, which had begun to recede, returned in full force. Taehyung’s mind went utterly, completely blank. He had no answer. He had never allowed himself to truly consider it, his life before consumed by survival and darkness.

 

“I… I’m not sure,” he mumbled, his voice thick with embarrassment. 

 

He dared a glance up. Jungkook was still watching him, that unreadable, intense expression on his face. He wasn't smiling, but the harsh lines around his mouth seemed slightly softer. He looked… contemplative.

 

He didn't say anything else. He simply picked up his glass, swirled the amber liquid once, and turned his gaze away, staring out into the dark library, leaving Taehyung sitting there, his heart racing and his skin burning, more seen and more confused than he had ever been in his life.

Chapter 7: Is it her or is it me?

Notes:

I am sorry if it's boring and too long.😭 I am trying my best. although I think we do not need fics anymore because taekook are already providing it all to us in real life. 💗🎀🤭

What does it truly feel like, to fall in love?

 

I imagine it is the unconscious drift of one’s gaze across a crowded room, a silent compass forever seeking its north. It is the sudden, dizzying catch of the heart when that single, cherished face is finally found—a rhythm stuttering into a wild, frantic drum against the ribs.

 

It is the soul’s desperate yearning to fall into the depths of their eyes, while the courage fails, leaving one unable to even lift their gaze to meet theirs, utterly undone by a beautiful, flustering warmth.

 

And above all, I think falling in love must be the quiet, persistent hope to be the reason their eyes crinkle with joy, to forever see them laughing, content, and alight with a happiness you helped place there.

 

Dearest Jiminie,

 

I hope this letter finds you well. It's been well over a week since Christmas passed by, and I miss you.

 

I'd like to tell you something I have been avoiding for a while now, but it's becoming too troublesome to keep inside any longer.

 

You know my master, Mister Jeon? He is a fine man, in his early thirties, I should think. To speak plainly, Jimin, he is the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes upon. He has a sort of severe, classical beauty, like a statue carved from marble—all sharp, elegant lines and impossible grace. His hair is the colour of raven's wings, and his eyes... oh, his eyes are the darkest shade of brown, like rich earth, but they are so cold and sharp, almost devoid of any emotion. He is a widower who grieves his wife's death most ardently, and his entire being seems wrapped in that perpetual winter.

 

But sometimes, an absurd thought crosses my mind. I find myself wondering how his laugh would sound—if it would be deep and warm, or light and surprising. I try to picture his face not as a mask of ice, but softened with warmth in those beautiful eyes. It is a foolishthought I know.

 

I get terribly flustered when he is near or around. I thought it was merely fear, that his cold, imposing presence was what stole my breath and made my heart pound so loudly in my ears I fear he might hear it. But I am afraid that is not the case.

 

It is not fear that makes my palms sweat and my words jumble into nonsense. It is not fear that makes me seek him out in a room, only to look away the moment his gaze might find mine. It is a strange, fluttering anticipation. 

 

I don't know what to do. It is bothersome and burdening, this constant tumult inside me for a man who sees nothing but a ghost when he looks at his own reflection. Please, tell me what this is. What is happening to me?

 

I will be most earnestly waiting for your reply.

 

Your friend,

 Taehyung

 

The paper felt heavy in his hands, a physical anchor for the whirlwind inside him. Taehyung sat at the small writing desk in his room, the afternoon light casting long shadows through the enlarged glass panes. He read the words of his own letter to Jimin one last time before sealing it, each sentence a stark echo of the turmoil in his heart.

 

A bitter smile touched his lips. He didn't like this feeling one bit—this constant, aching awareness that left him breathless and unsettled. And yet, he also craved it; the frantic flutter in his chest when he caught a glimpse of dark hair, the way his entire world narrowed to the sound of a particular footstep in the hall had become a guilty addiction.

 

His eyes would unconsciously search for his master in every room, a reflex he could not control. And when Jungkook was finally before him, a statue of cold elegance, Taehyung wouldn't even dare to look at his face, terrified of what his own expression might reveal. It was a madness, a delicious torture that was slowly driving him insane.

 

He tried to dismiss it as a mere attraction, a natural reaction to someone of such haunting, severe beauty. But it had gone beyond that. He had started to wonder about the man beneath the marble. How would those dark, cold eyes look if they ever gazed at him with warmth? What emotions would they hold if they weren't shuttered with distance? He found himself lying awake, imagining the sound of his laugh, a sound he had never heard. He ached to see him smile, truly smile, and the sheer force of that desire was what truly frightened him.

 

These thoughts were a forbidden territory. He was not allowed to have them. He was not permitted to want these things. So he had poured it all out to Jimin, giving the chaos a shape in words, begging his friend to name this thing for him. Because to name it himself would be to make it real, and Taehyung was desperately afraid of what would happen if this terrifying, beautiful thing became real.

 

Jungkook sat in the deep leather embrace of his office chair, a silhouette against the vast window that framed a twilight Edinburgh. Clad in his long wool coat, a forgotten cigar smoldered between his gloved fingers, its smoke curling into the still air like a ghost. His gaze was fixed on the world outside, but it did not see the city.

 

A grim acceptance had settled in his bones, cold and final. Hikari was gone. The woman who had patiently carved a heart into the stone of his chest was gone. No amount of rage at the heavens, no desperate, midnight bargaining with a silent God would bring her back. The universe had continued its indifferent turn. The roads below still teemed with life, his firm’s ledgers remained full, the seasons had performed their relentless ballet—the fiery orange leaves of autumn yielding to the silent, milky white blanket of winter upon the cobblestones. He still drew breath. Day broke; night fell. Nothing in the world had changed.

 

And yet, everything within him had.

 

He looked at people and saw only shapes. He observed events and saw only trivialities. A profound, hollow apathy had become his constant companion. Nothing mattered. The vibrant tapestry of life had faded to a monotonous grey, and he had no desire to see its colors again.

 

As this familiar, bleak thought threatened to pull him under, a sudden, unbidden image pierced the gloom.

 

Taehyung.

 

Not as he was now, avoiding and nervous. But as he was that night upon their return from the event. The memory was vivid, lit by the soft, yellow glow of the entrance hall lanterns. He saw the way the light had caught him, holding that letter, his face illuminated. His eyes, usually so wide and expressive, had been alight, shining almost golden with a private joy, the corners crinkling with a smile that seemed to reach into the very heart of the darkness surrounding Jungkook.

 

The clarity of the memory was a shock to his system.

 

Jungkook shook his head, a sharp, physical rejection of the thought. He took a long, harsh drag from his cigar, as if the burn could scour the image from his mind. It was an intrusion, a splash of unwanted color on his carefully maintained canvas of grey. He focused again on the falling snow, on the cold glass, on the emptiness. But the afterimage of those golden, smiling eyes lingered stubbornly in the periphery of his vision, a tiny, defiant ember in the vast darkness of his grief.

 

Jungkook stood abruptly, the leather of his chair sighing in protest. He strode from his office, his long coat sweeping behind him like a shadow, a man propelled by a private, unwelcome tempest. His footsteps were measured on the polished floor, carrying him on a familiar path to a door that was always slightly ajar. He pushed it open without ceremony.

 

There, behind a utilitarian desk, sat Kim Namjoon. More than his head of security, he was the sole retainer privy to the unspoken rhythms of his employer's turmoil. Namjoon understood the architecture of silence; he comprehended the storms Jungkook housed behind a placid facade.

 

Namjoon looked up from his documents, his gaze immediately discerning the subtle tension in the set of Jungkook’s shoulders, the grim line of his mouth.

 

“Kim,” Jungkook stated, his voice clipped, the single syllable resonating with a latent intensity.

 

Namjoon set his pen down with precise care. “Sir?”

 

“I find myself in need of a diversion this evening. You will accompany me to the club for a drink.”

 

It was his established ritual. When the meticulously ordered world within his mind began to fray, when sensations he had long since buried threatened a most inconvenient resurgence, he would seek to drown them in the clean, smoky burn of a single malt. He would immerse himself in the numbing propriety of his club until the sharp edges of his consciousness were blunted and he could forget, for a few hours, that he possessed a heart at all.

 

Namjoon inclined his head, his response as practiced and dutiful as the question had been expected.

 

“As you wish, sir.”

 

The door to Jungkook’s private chambers was never locked, a trust Taehyung held with solemn gravity. He entered on silent feet, his duty to ensure the room was perfectly kept for a master who barely seemed to notice his surroundings. The room was a testament to restrained, masculine elegance. High, corniced ceilings loomed above walls papered in a deep, forest green. A heavy, dark wood four-poster bed dominated the space, its linens crisp and untouched. A mahogany escritoire stood near the window, its surface bare safe for a silver-backed brush and a crystal ashtray. The air was still and cold, smelling faintly of polished wood, starched cotton, and the lingering, elegant scent of sandalwood cologne and cigars.

 

His eyes swept the room, checking for dust, ensuring everything was in its severe, precise place. Then he saw it. Draped casually over the back of a wingback chair by the cold fireplace was Jungkook’s long wool coat, the one he’d been wearing earlier.

 

An urge, swift and overpowering, seized him. Glancing around the empty room as if he were committing a crime, he crossed the floor and reached out. His fingers brushed the heavy, finely woven wool. He lifted it, bringing it close to his chest, folding his arms around it.

 

This was the closest his master could ever be to him. The coat was heavy, imbued with the lingering presence of its owner. Hesitantly, almost fearfully, he bent his head and inhaled.

 

The scent was him. Entirely him. The sophisticated sandalwood, the crisp, cold winter air that clung to the fibres, and beneath it all, the faint, unmistakable aroma of fine tobacco. It was a scent that spoke of authority, of a world far removed from Taehyung’s own, and it made his heart ache with a desperate, foolish longing.

 

He sighed, the sound loud in the silent room.

 

What am I even doing?

 

The absurdity of his actions crashed down upon him. He was alone in a man’s room, hugging his coat, stealing his scent like a lovesick thief. Heat flooded his cheeks. With hurried, guilty motions, he smoothed the coat and placed it back exactly as he had found it, as if he could erase the transgression. He fled the room, the ghost of Jungkook’s scent clinging to him.

 

He threw himself into his work for the rest of the afternoon, the memory of his foolishness a constant, burning ember in his mind. Finally, with the evening drawing in, he tucked the sealed letter to Jimin into his pocket, pulled on his own simple coat and the gloves Jungkook had given him, and stepped out into the Edinburgh evening.

 

The city was bathed in the deep blue light of early winter dusk. Gas lamps flickered to life, their warm glow casting pools of gold on the cobblestoned streets and the ornate stone facades of the New Town. His breath plummeted in the chilly air, a crisp, cold bite that seeped through his clothes. The sound of his own footsteps echoed in the quiet, dignified streets, mingling with the distant hum of a car engine and the mournful cry of a foghorn from the Firth of Forth.

 

As he turned onto a quieter side street, a sudden burst of laughter broke the stillness. A small group of children, bundled in thick woollens, were trying to slide on a patch of black ice, their cheers ringing out. One of them, a little girl with bright red mittens, lost her balance and tumbled onto her bottom with a giggle.

 

Seeing Taehyung, she grinned. “Mister, it’s too slippy!”

A genuine smile, the first all day, touched Taehyung’s lips. “Aye, that it is,” he said, his voice warm. “Here, let’s see.” He carefully took her mittened hands and, with a playful grunt, pulled her back to her feet, spinning her gently once before setting her down. The other children giggled, and for a moment, Taehyung was simply a young man playing in the street, the weight of the mansion and his impossible feelings momentarily forgotten. He made a show of pretending to slip himself, much to their delight, before waving and continuing on his way, their laughter a sweet, fleeting melody in the cold evening air.

 

The moment of lightness faded as he reached the post box, its red paint vivid against the grey stone. He hesitated for a second, the letter to Jimin feeling like a lead weight in his hand. Then, with a resolve born of desperation, he slipped it through the slot. The sound of it falling into the darkness was final. His secret was now entrusted to the post, speeding away from him, and he was left alone with the chilly Edinburgh night and the haunting scent of sandalwood that still seemed to linger on his clothes.

 

The crisp evening air felt like a baptism after the stifling, scent-filled atmosphere of the mansion. Taehyung decided to elongate his walk, meandering through the elegant Georgian squares of Edinburgh's New Town rather than taking the most direct route. The city was settling into its evening rhythm under a sky of deepening violet. Gas lamps hummed to life, their warm, hazy glow painting the cobblestones with gold and stretching long, dancing shadows behind him.

 

He passed a small, iron-gated garden, its bare branches etched like lace against the twilight. On a bench within, a couple sat nestled close. They were not young, their faces lined with years, but the man had his arm around the woman’s shoulders, her head resting against him. They weren't speaking, simply watching the dusk settle, their gloved hands intertwined on her lap. A sense of profound, quiet contentment radiated from them, a world entire in that small, silent connection. Taehyung’s steps slowed, a hollow ache blooming in his chest. He looked away, the simple intimacy feeling like a performance he was not meant to see.

 

Further on, a shop window still glowed warmly. It was a florist, a vibrant oasis against the grey stone. Buckets of blooms were artfully arranged inside—deep crimson amaryllis, cheerful yellow chrysanthemums, and delicate white freesia that perfumed the air even through the glass. His eyes were drawn to a cluster of roses, their velvety petals a perfect, blood-red.

 

He stood there for a long moment, a silent spectator to this beauty he could not touch. The image of the couple on the bench merged with the flowers before him. Without fully deciding to, he pushed the shop door open, a little bell chiming softly.

 

A few minutes later, he emerged, the chilly air biting anew. In his hand, wrapped in simple brown paper, was a single, perfect rose. He hadn't bought it for anyone. He had bought it for himself. A foolish, romantic gesture, but the urge had been too strong to deny. He held it carefully, the thornless stem cool against his skin through his gloves.

 

He walked on, the rose a splash of impossible color in the monochrome evening. He brought it to his nose, inhaling its sweet, peppery scent. It was nothing like the sophisticated sandalwood and tobacco that haunted the mansion. This was something simpler, something openly beautiful.

 

And his thoughts, inevitably, drifted to him.

 

He tried to picture Jungkook here, on these streets. Would he even notice the couple on the bench? Would his sharp eyes ever linger on something as frivolous as a flower shop window? The thought of Jungkook buying a rose was so ludicrous it was almost painful. He was a man of ledgers and cigars, of cold silences and imposing rooms. Flowers, romance, whispered endearments—these were not his currency.

 

Yet, as Taehyung looked down at the rose in his hand, a desperate, secret wish unfurled in his heart. He wished, with a fervor that shocked him, that someone would get him one. Not just anyone.

 

Him.

 

The master of the house. The man of ice and grief. The thought was the most absurd of all, a fantasy so fragile it threatened to shatter in the cold Edinburgh air. He clutched the rose tighter, a solitary token of a longing he could never speak, and continued his walk home, the weight of his unrequitable desire a heavier burden than any letter he had ever posted.

 

The bar was a cocoon of dark wood and hushed masculinity, a sanctuary for Edinburgh's established gentlemen. Leather armchairs the color of oxblood were grouped around low tables, their surfaces polished to a soft gleam by the low light of Tiffany lamps. The air was thick with the rich, peaty scent of single malt Scotch and the fragrant smoke of expensive cigars, a haze that curled towards the pressed-tin ceiling. In a secluded booth tucked into a shadowy corner, Jungkook sat, a near-empty bottle of a decades-old Macallan between him and Kim Namjoon.

 

Jungkook had been drinking with a grim, silent determination for the better part of the evening. The alcohol had long since ceased to be a social lubricant; it was a tool, a blunt instrument to bludgeon the thoughts he couldn't silence. He didn't speak of the hollowness anymore. He simply endured it, his sharp features set in a stony mask, the only movement the steady rise of the glass to his lips.

 

Namjoon watched him, a familiar sorrow in his eyes. Love is one wretched thing, he thought, not for the first time. What did it make of a youthful, handsome man? He saw the ghost of the man Jungkook had been before—lighter, with a wit that could flash as sharp as his intelligence, now buried under layers of grief and amber liquor. He wished, with a fervency that ached, for his friend to find some measure of peace, some fragment of the happiness that had been stolen from him.

 

"That's enough, sire, I reckon," Namjoon said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the bar. He reached out and gently took the bottle from Jungkook's loose grip.

 

Jungkook’s eyes, glassy and distant, flickered up but held no protest.

 

"Let's go," Namjoon said, his tone firm but kind as he stood. "Let's take you home." He placed a steadying hand on Jungkook's shoulder.

 

"You go," Jungkook murmured, the words a hushed, slurry whisper into the rim of his empty glass.

 

Namjoon’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean, sir? I can't leave you here. You've drunk a lot."

 

"I will leave by myself, Kim," Jungkook insisted, a flash of his old imperiousness cutting through the drunken haze. He shrugged off the hand. "I am not a baby, for God's sake. I am thirty-two."

 

"Well, age has nothing to do with this. You are drunk," Namjoon stated, his patience wearing thin.

 

"And I want to be alone," Jungkook said, his voice gaining a sharper, colder edge. He made a dismissive, waving gesture with his hand, a clear and final command for Namjoon to leave.

 

A silent battle waged between them for a long moment. Namjoon tried again, his voice low and pleading, attempting to coax him to his feet. But Jungkook was immovable, a stubborn rock in a sea of alcohol and misery. His expression shut down, becoming the impenetrable mask he wore so well. With a heavy, defeated sigh, Namjoon finally relented. He nodded once, a curt, unhappy gesture.

 

"Very well, sir. Do not be long." Leaving a more than sufficient stack of notes on the table, he cast one last, worried look at his employer, then turned and walked out of the bar, the weight of his helplessness a heavy cloak on his shoulders.

 

Jungkook was alone. Exactly as he’d demanded. The victory felt as hollow as everything else.

The elegant Georgian facades of New Town seemed to lean in, their pristine, symmetrical windows like the judging eyes of a silent, wealthy audience. The streets, swept clean and lit by the soft, golden glow of gas lamps, whispered of a world reserved for the elite. Taehyung walked slowly, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his simple coat. He didn't envy the tailored overcoats or the pearls that gleamed on the women who passed; he had never craved expensive things. But his heart ached with a quiet, persistent envy for the couples he saw, their arms linked, their heads bent together in private laughter. They possessed a treasure he desperately wanted.

 

A sharp, chilly wind picked up, pulling at his scarf and carrying the damp, metallic scent of impending rain. He quickened his pace slightly.

 

Would he be home by now? The thought of Jungkook was a constant, humming undercurrent in his mind. He must be in his study. Good, Taehyung thought, a mixture of relief and disappointment settling in his chest. I will just go straight to my room. Miss Edith must have given him his evening tea.

 

Meanwhile, Jungkook had dismissed his driver with a slurred, yet firm command, insisting he wished to walk. The cold air was a slap against his heated skin, a temporary clarity in the fog of whiskey. He walked with an unsteady but determined gait, his long coat billowing behind him like a dark wing. The world swayed gently, the cobblestones seeming to shift under his feet. His only focus was the distant, looming outline of his mansion, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky.

 

The first heavy drops of rain began to fall, cold and sparse, splattering on the pavement.

 

It was at the corner of Queen Street, just as the rain began to fall in earnest, that their paths converged.

 

Taehyung, head down against the wind, turned the corner. Jungkook,looking up at the sky with a grimace, stepped onto the same pavement.

 

They stopped.

 

A mere twenty feet separated them on the deserted, rain-slicked street. The gas lamp above them flickered, casting their faces in alternating light and shadow.

The world narrowed to the space between them. There stood Jeon Jungkook. His master. The bane of his existence, the owner of his every foolish thought. The heavy, chilling rain ceased to matter. The elegant streets of New Town, the judging windows, the distant rumble of thunder—it all faded into a blurry, impressionist painting. Just when Taehyung had meticulously planned to avoid him, fate had placed the man directly in his path, drenched and devastatingly real.

 

Jungkook looked at him, his dark eyes struggling to focus through the haze of expensive whiskey. He blinked, rainwater catching on his long lashes. Wasn't this the worker in his house? Oh, yes. Taehyung. The very same man whose inexplicable presence in his mind had been the catalyst for this entire evening of drowning his senses.

 

And then Jungkook took a step. Then another. He moved through the downpour with a drunkard's deliberate, unsteady grace, closing the distance between them. The rain soaked through his fine wool coat, plastering his dark hair to his forehead, but he seemed not to notice.

 

Taehyung stood frozen, a statue in the storm. His heart was a wild, frantic drum against his ribs, its beat loud enough to drown out the rain. A hot flush spread across his cheeks and neck, a stark contrast to the icy rivulets running down his skin.

 

Jungkook now towered over him, his presence immense and overwhelming. The scent of rain, cold night air, and the rich, peaty aroma of single malt Scotch enveloped Taehyung.

 

"S-sir," Taehyung stammered, the word barely a whisper snatched away by the wind.

 

Jungkook leaned in closer, his voice a low, slurred rumble that vibrated in the small space between them. "Are you here," he murmured, his breath a warm cloud in the cold air, "or have my thoughts decided to drive me more mad by giving me your illusions?"

 

Taehyung froze. What? His mind scrambled, unable to process the words. What was this man saying?

 

Before he could form a thought, Jungkook lifted a gloved hand. The black leather, cold and wet from the rain, gently brushed against Taehyung’s cheek. The touch was electric, sending a violent shiver through Taehyung’s entire body. He flinched, but didn't pull away, utterly paralyzed.

 

Jungkook’s dark, glassy eyes searched his face, lingering on his eyes. "Your eyes tell," he slurred, his thumb stroking a slow, absent-minded path along Taehyung’s cheekbone. The gesture was intimate, possessive, and utterly bewildering. "They are too expressive. They give you away."

 

The scene was brutally cinematic: the relentless, silver curtain of rain, the glistening black cobblestones reflecting the hazy gaslight, the two figures locked in their impossible standstill. The chilly wind whipped around them, but Taehyung felt only the searing heat of the gloved hand on his face and the dizzying intensity of Jungkook’s drunken, searching gaze.

 

" You seem to be very drunk sir , let me take you home ," taehyung said.

The world tilted violently as Jungkook stumbled, his legs finally betraying the immense weight of his grief and the whiskey. "What home?" he whispered, the words a raw, broken thing that was nearly swallowed by the drumming rain. The facade of the cold, untouchable governor shattered completely as his knees buckled and he fell to the glistening cobblestones.

 

Taehyung’s heart lurched. "Sir!" He hurriedly knelt in the cold puddle beside him, his own discomfort forgotten. He slipped an arm around Jungkook's broad shoulders, trying to support his dead weight. "S-sir, you'll catch a cold," he pleaded, his voice tight with a panic that went beyond mere duty.

 

Jungkook lifted his head. The rain streamed down his face, but it was mingled with other, hotter tracks. Tears. For the first time, Taehyung saw something other than coldness or bored indifference in those deep, dark eyes. He saw a bottomless, agonizing sorrow. It was a vulnerability so stark and complete that it stole the air from Taehyung's lungs.

 

Jungkook’s gloved hand, trembling slightly, came up and fisted in the soaked wool of Taehyung’s coat collar, clinging to him like a man drowning in a stormy sea.

 

"I miss her," he whispered, the confession torn from him, hushed and shattered. It was not spoken to Taehyung, but to the night, to the rain, to the ghost that would never answer.

 

And that’s when Taehyung realized. He was nowhere in this.

 

The intimate touch, the searching gaze, the drunken words—none of it was for him. It was a crack in the dam, and he was just the nearest person, a placeholder, a warm body to receive the overflow of a love that belonged entirely to someone else. The realization was a slap, cold and sobering, pulling him brutally back to reality. He was the help. The servant. A spectator to a tragedy in which he had no part.

 

The romantic fantasy he’d nurtured shriveled and died, right there on the rain-soaked street.

 

Swallowing the bitter ache in his throat, Taehyung pushed his own feelings down into a deep, dark place. He shifted his grip, his voice becoming firm, practical. "Let's go, sire," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

 

With a tremendous effort, he managed to get them both upright, half-carrying, half-dragging the larger man. They stumbled together through the iron gates of the mansion, a sodden, miserable tableau—the broken master and the servant holding him together, their steps echoing on the wet gravel as the rain continued to fall, washing away tears but not the pain.

 

The grand iron gates of the mansion swung shut behind them, sealing them in the private, rain-lashed world of the estate. The journey up the gravel drive and into the silent, looming house was a slow, arduous struggle. Taehyung, smaller and slighter, bore most of Jungkook’s weight, his own clothes now as soaked and heavy as his master’s. They left a trail of rainwater on the polished marble floor, a testament to their miserable arrival.

 

Somehow, Taehyung managed to navigate them into the master bedroom. He half-guided, half-dropped Jungkook onto the edge of the large four-poster bed. The man slumped forward, his head in his hands, water dripping from his dark hair onto the Persian rug.

 

“We need to get you out of these wet things, sir,” Taehyung said, his voice practical, though his hands trembled. “You’ll fall ill.”

 

Jungkook offered no resistance, lost in his own private storm. With careful, efficient movements, Taehyung worked. He peeled off the sodden, expensive wool coat, then the waistcoat beneath. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of the soaked white shirt, his cheeks burning as more and more of Jungkook’s torso was revealed. The man was all hard planes and defined muscle, a powerful physique usually hidden beneath layers of tailored austerity. Taehyung’s breath hitched, a flush of heat spreading through him that had nothing to do with exertion. He kept his eyes averted, focusing on the task, fighting a losing battle against his own flustered reaction.

 

He found a dry sleeping shirt and managed to get it over Jungkook’s head, guiding his arms through the sleeves. He was just pulling the bedcovers over him, his task nearly complete, his own heart beginning to slow from its frantic pace, when he made to leave.

 

A hand shot out from under the covers, fingers closing around Taehyung’s wrist with a surprising, desperate strength. The grip was firm, anchoring him to the spot.

 

Taehyung froze, looking down at the hand, then at Jungkook’s face. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in pain.

 

“Please stay,” Jungkook murmured, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol and a bottomless ache. “I am so tired of this… this hollowness. This loneliness.” He swallowed hard, his grip tightening. “Don’t go, Hikari. Please.”

 

The name was a dagger, expertly aimed and plunged straight into Taehyung’s heart. He flinched as if physically struck. The intimate touch, the pleading words—they weren’t for him. They were for a ghost. He was just a warm body, a substitute for the woman Jungkook truly longed for.

 

The hurt was a sharp, cold pain that eclipsed any previous flutter of attraction. Yet, looking down at the man’s tormented face, seeing the raw vulnerability usually locked behind walls of ice, Taehyung couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

 

Wordlessly, his own heart aching, he slowly sank to the floor beside the bed. He didn’t try to correct him. He didn’t speak. He just sat on the hard wooden floor, his back against the bedframe, and let Jungkook keep his hand. The grip was vicelike, as if he were the only thing keeping Jungkook from being swept away by the darkness.

 

And so Taehyung stayed, a silent sentinel in the dim room, listening to the slowing rain outside and the ragged breath of the man he loved, who in his deepest pain, called for another. He sat there, offering comfort he wasn’t meant to give, and bearing a hurt he knew was his alone to keep.

 

A bitter, silent smile touched Taehyung’s lips as he sat on the hard floor, his hand still held captive in Jungkook’s sleep-tight grip. The pieces clicked into place with a cruel, perfect clarity.

 

Of course.

 

The drunken confession on the rain-drenched street—‘are you here or have my thoughts decided to drive me more mad by giving me your illusions’—it wasn’t about him at all. It was never about him. Jungkook hadn’t been seeing Taehyung through the whiskey haze. He’d been seeing a ghost. He’d been so consumed by his grief for Hikari that his mind, in its intoxicated state, had projected her image onto the nearest convenient face. His touch, his words, the raw vulnerability—all of it had been meant for her. Taehyung had just been the canvas upon which Jungkook had painted his longing.

 

The irony was so sharp it felt like a physical cut. He had allowed himself, for one foolish moment in the rain, to believe that the unbridgeable gap between them had narrowed. He had felt seen. But he was invisible. He was just a stand-in, a shadow mistaken for the substance.

He looked at their joined hands, his own small and pale in Jungkook’s larger, stronger grasp. Jungkook would never yearn for him. How could he? His heart, his mind, his very soul were a mausoleum, and Hikari was the eternal resident enshrined within. There was no room for anyone else. There was only the memory of her love and the vast, hollow silence she had left behind. Taehyung’s own feelings were just an echo in that silence, a whisper that would never be heard over the deafening roar of Jungkook’s loss.

 

He was a tenant in a house where every room was already occupied by a ghost. The bitter smile faded, leaving only a profound and weary ache in its place. He rested his head against the side of the bed, closing his eyes, and resigned himself to his vigil, a keeper of a love that was not his own.

 

 

Chapter 8: You Love Him

Notes:

HE FINALLY KNOWS HE IS IN LOVE. 😝💗

“To love, and not be loved in return, is the greatest torture a human heart can know.”

________ Charlotte Bronte 

 

A throbbing ache behind his eyes was the first thing to pull Jungkook back to consciousness. The second was a strange weight and warmth on his hand. He blinked, his vision blurry, the morning light filtering through the curtains feeling like an assault. He tried to move his head and winced, the events of the previous night a fragmented, hazy montage of rain, whiskey, and a crushing, familiar despair.

 

His gaze drifted down.

 

There, on the floor beside his bed, sat Taehyung. He was still in his clothes from the night before, which were damp and rumpled. He was curled awkwardly, his head resting on the edge of the mattress near Jungkook’s hip, fast asleep. And his hand… his slender hand was enveloped in Jungkook’s own, their fingers loosely intertwined as if they had been clinging to each other.

 

Jungkook’s world had narrowed to the point of contact. His gaze was locked on their hands. His own, usually gloved and commanding, lay bare, intertwined with Taehyung’s. He should pull away. This was an intimacy that defied every boundary of propriety and his own carefully constructed identity. A man holding another man’s hand with such… tenderness. It was unthinkable.

 

Yet, something held him frozen. A strange, quiet magnetism. Taehyung’s hand was warm and incredibly soft against his own work-roughened skin. It was a comforting, solid warmth that seeped into him, quieting the usual cold ache in his bones. The boy’s fingers were slender and elegant, and a bizarre thought crossed Jungkook’s mind: His fingers are really pretty. He found himself wanting to keep his hand right there, nestled in that warmth, for just a little while longer.

 

His gaze drifted upward, tracing the lines of the face beside him. Gone was the usual nervous tension. In sleep, Taehyung’s features were peaceful, almost ethereal in the soft morning light. Jungkook’s eyes cataloged the subtle, elegant bridge of his nose, the surprisingly plush curve of his lips, the dark fan of his long eyelashes resting against his cheeks. His honey-brown hair was a messy, silken cascade falling over his forehead, begging to be touched.

 

Last night, the alcohol had shattered his walls. For the first time since Hikari’s death, he had let someone see the raw, gaping wound of his grief. He had been vulnerable, and it was this boy—this beautiful, confounding boy—who had witnessed it, who had borne the weight of his brokenness without flinching.

 

Acting on an impulse he didn't understand, Jungkook’s free hand lifted. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers moved towards Taehyung’s face. Partly to gently brush the stray hair away and see more of that serene face. Partly, a deeper, more startling curiosity: to see if those honey-brown strands were as soft as they looked.

 

His fingertips were a mere breath away from touching when Taehyung’s brow furrowed slightly in sleep. Then, his eyelids fluttered open.

 

Those big, doe-like honey eyes stared up at him, clouded with the last vestiges of sleep, utterly clueless as to why the master of the house was hovering over him, their hands clasped, with his own hand poised to caress his face.

 

The spell shattered. The intensity of the moment, the sheer impropriety of it, crashed down upon them both. Jungkook’s hand froze mid-air, his own eyes widening a fraction as he was caught in the act of an intimacy he could not explain.

 

Jungkook’s hand snapped back as if burnt, returning to his side in a clenched fist. The air, which had been thick with unspoken tenderness, turned brittle and cold. Taehyung’s mind, sluggish from sleep and fever, finally registered the scene: their joined hands, Jungkook’s hovering touch, the intense, unguarded look on his face that was now rapidly closing off.

 

Jungkook cleared his throat, a harsh sound in the quiet room. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, turning his back to Taehyung to stare rigidly out the window at the grey morning. "You didn't have to stay beside me," he said, his voice sharp, reassembling the familiar armor of cold authority.

 

Taehyung pushed himself up from the floor, his body protesting with a chorus of aches from the awkward position. A wave of dizziness and a deep, penetrating cold washed over him. "I wanted to, sir," he replied, his voice weak.

 

"Did you stay because of a master's command," Jungkook asked, his back still turned, his posture stiff, "or because you felt pity for me?"

 

The question hung in the air, sharp and dangerous. Taehyung swayed slightly, bracing a hand against the bedpost. Why had he stayed? The truth was a tangled knot of emotions he couldn't unravel—a fierce, protective ache, a desire to soothe, a love that felt like a bruise. But admitting any of that was impossible.

 

"You asked me to, sir," he finally said, opting for the simplest, safest truth.

 

Jungkook was silent for a long moment, his shoulders tense. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, stripped of its sharpness and raw with a pain he couldn't hide. "Did I call her name?"

 

The ache in Taehyung’s chest mirrored the one he heard in Jungkook’s voice. "You did," he replied simply, the two words feeling like stones dropped into a deep well.

 

A haunting silence descended upon the room, filled with the ghost of a woman who was everywhere and nowhere. Taehyung, shivering with fever and a profound emotional exhaustion, found a last reserve of courage. His voice was a hushed, almost reverent whisper in the quiet room.

 

"They say, sir…" he began, the words fragile. "Out of all the ways you can lose a beloved… death is the kindest."

 

The words hung in the air for a breath, a heresy uttered in the sacred silence of his grief. Then, as if a dueler's blade had been run clean through his chest, Jungkook whirled around. The glacial composure shattered, revealing a raw, aristocratic fury.

 

"You dare call it kindest?" he seethed, his voice a low, dangerous thunder that vibrated with contempt.

 

Taehyung recoiled, the blood draining from his face. He had witnessed cold disdain, but this—this was a tempest of wrath from a man who considered his pain a sovereign state, beyond the comprehension of commoners.

 

In two predatory strides, Jungkook closed the distance. His hands, usually sheathed in kid leather, seized Taehyung’s arms with a brutal elegance, his grip vise-like, jerking him forward. The fine fabric of Taehyung’s shirt strained under the assault.

 

"Kindest?" he barked, the word a sharp, aristocratic crack in the stillness of the chamber. "Do you possess eyes? Did you bear witness to me last night? I am not a man; I am a mausoleum erected for Hikari alone! I possess sight, yet the entire world holds no fascination! It is not a wife I lost, you foolish boy, it is my very self!"

 

Taehyung cried out, a sharp, stifled sound of pain as the grip on his already aching arms became agony. He cast his eyes downward, a hot shame of tears flooding his vision, unable to withstand the storm in his master’s gaze.

 

A dam broke within Taehyung. The fever, the dizziness, the months of silent, servile adoration erupted into a act of breathtaking defiance. He lifted his gaze, meeting the fire in Jungkook’s eyes with his own, glistening with unshed tears.

 

"At the very least, Sire," he breathed, his voice trembling but piercingly clear, "she did not abandon you to pursue a finer existence elsewhere! Pray, enlighten me—how would you fare if she had merely vanished into the ether, leaving you bewildered, knowing she drew breath under this very same sky, yet you were condemned to never behold her again? To know she chose a world without you in it?"

 

"What could you possibly fathom of abandonment? Of a hurt that devours a man's very essence?" Jungkook gritted out, his face a mask of torment and fury mere inches away.

 

"I can!" Taehyung whisper-shouted, the confession torn from the deepest, most wretched vault of his soul. "I understand it well! There exists no soul better acquainted with the term than I! I was abandoned upon the very doorstep of this world the hour I was born!"

 

"I know what it is to be... perpetually alone," Taehyung whispered, the words a raw, broken confession that seemed to cost him the last of his strength. "To have no beloved to call one's own. I know." Tears traced paths through the pallor of his beautiful face, his expression one of utter desolation as he looked up at Jungkook, those luminous, honeyed eyes holding a universe of loneliness.

 

And then, the last vestige of his strength vanished. His body, wracked with fever and emotional exhaustion, simply gave up. His knees buckled, and he slipped from Jungkook’s now-loosened grip, stumbling backward as his eyes fluttered closed.

 

A jolt of pure alarm shot through Jungkook. Instinctively, his arms shot out, wrapping firmly around Taehyung’s waist, catching his dead weight against his own body.

 

"Taehyung," he called, his voice sharp, the fury that had contorted his features moments before entirely replaced by a stark, panicked worry. The feel of the younger man's unnaturally warm skin through his shirt was a shock.

 

"Taehyung!" he shouted, giving him a slight shake, but there was no response. Taehyung had fallen utterly limp, unconscious.

 

"Edith!" Jungkook's voice roared through the silent mansion, a command that brooked no delay. "EDITH!"

 

Within moments, the housekeeper was there, her eyes wide with alarm at the scene: the master holding the unconscious form of the young governor of the mansion, his face a mask of uncharacteristic distress.

 

They carried Taehyung to his room, laying him gently in his narrow bed. A doctor was summoned with urgent haste. The diagnosis was swift: a severe chill, caught from prolonged exposure in wet clothes, had developed into a raging fever. He was burning up.

 

Jungkook listened to the doctor’s words, his expression once again an impenetrable, aristocratic mask. He gave a single, curt nod of understanding. Without another word, without a backward glance at the feverish boy in the bed, he turned on his heel. He retreated to his own chambers, dressed with mechanical precision in his finest suit and overcoat, and left for his firm. The grand door closed behind him with a definitive click, leaving the silence of the sickroom behind, a stark contrast to the tempest of emotion that had just erupted and then been so abruptly, coldly, sealed away.

 

The polished mahogany of his desk, the neat columns of figures in his ledgers—none of it could hold Jungkook’s focus. The austere silence of his firm’s office, usually a sanctuary of order and control, felt stifling. His mind was a fractured record, replaying the morning’s scene on a relentless loop.

 

Why did I lash out at him?

 

It was a question that needled him, a breach in his own impeccable self-control. He was a man of calculated moves, of icy composure. He did not roar; he issued commands. He did not seize; he dismissed. Yet, he had manhandled Taehyung, had shouted into that fragile, earnest face. The memory of it curdled in his stomach, a unfamiliar sensation of shame.

 

And the boy’s eyes. Gods, his eyes. He could not purge the image. Those beautiful, honeyed eyes, swimming with tears, looking at him not with fear of a master’s wrath, but with a profound, heartbreaking understanding. ‘I know what it is to be perpetually alone.’ The confession had been a key, turning a lock deep within Jungkook, and his response had been to try and break the key.

 

Why had it stirred him so? The sight of that vulnerability should have repelled him, should have reinforced the vast social chasm between them. Instead, it had evoked a feeling so foreign it was dizzying—a fierce, protective urge intertwined with a deep, unsettling ache. He had been too harsh. Cruelly, unnecessarily so.

 

The truth, which he had been violently refusing to acknowledge, now presented itself with calm, damning clarity: Taehyung had stayed. Last night, when he was a drunken, broken mess, weeping for another woman, it was Taehyung who had borne witness. Taehyung, who had every reason to flee from such a display of raw, ugly grief, had instead chosen to sit on the cold floor. 

He had wronged someone who had shown him nothing but kindness. And the thought of those tear-filled, lonely eyes was a punishment far more effective than any he could have devised for himself.

 

The clock on the mantelpiece had ticked past eight, the firm long since emptied of its clerks and accountants. Only the soft glow of a single lamp illuminated Jungkook’s office, where he sat, not working, but staring into a glass of amber liquid he had no desire to drink.

 

A quiet knock sounded at the door. “Enter.”

 

Kim Namjoon stepped inside, his expression as unreadable and dependable as ever. “Sir. The final reports from the Glasgow shipment are signed and filed. Was there anything else you required before I depart?”

 

Jungkook didn’t look up. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid cling to the crystal. “Sit, Kim,” he commanded, his voice low.

 

Namjoon hesitated for only a second before taking the seat opposite the desk, his posture ramrod straight, waiting.

 

The silence in the office stretched, thick with the weight of Jungkook’s uncharacteristic confession. He finally broke it, his voice lower, stripped of its usual imperiousness and laced with a tangible regret.

 

"Miss Edith," he began, almost as if speaking to the whiskey in his glass, "she appointed a new governor for the house a few months back. He is a young lad. Seems nothing above nineteen or twenty." He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. "There is something about him which just... stirs something in me."

 

He dared a glance at Namjoon, who was listening with an unnervingly still focus, his brows slightly furrowed.

 

"After Hikari," Jungkook continued, the name a sacred, painful relic, "I have found nothing and no one fascinating. Nothing. But that boy... he is. I don't even know why, or what it is, but he just is, and it... it stirs something in me." He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the feeling. "Up until now, I thought he was too happy, too pleased with his life. I thought he found everything amusing. But that's not the case, I guess."

 

He paused, collecting himself, the evidence of his internal struggle plain on his face.

 

"Last night... he stayed with me all night. I don't exactly remember, but I might have... I undoubtedly talked. Cried for Hikari again." The admission was costly, spoken through gritted teeth. "He changed my wet clothes... but slept in his own on the floor."

 

Namjoon’s furrowed brows deepened. He was calculating, piecing together the scene, but more than that, he was noting the precise, detailed way Jungkook was recounting it. He noticed the specific misery of the boy sleeping in wet clothes. A master rarely noticed such minutiae about a servant unless his attention was profoundly, unusually engaged.

 

"And this morning," Jungkook said, the words coming out in a rush of self-recrimination, "I lashed out at him. I held him harshly. I jerked him—" He cut himself off, rubbing his face with both hands, a gesture of pure, exhausted frustration. "And he... he said things. Things that put my own pain into a different perspective."

 

He dropped his hands, looking at Namjoon with a stark honesty that was entirely new. "I don't know. I feel like I shouldn't have. It was... unbecoming."

 

The word hung in the air. Unbecoming. For a man like Jeon Jungkook, for whom appearance and control were everything, it was perhaps the most damning admission of all. He wasn't just apologizing for hurting a servant; he was confessing to a failure of his own character, and it was all tied to the confusing, fascinating presence of a boy he couldn't seem to ignore.

 

Namjoon cleared his throat, the sound soft in the heavy silence. This level of self-analysis, this palpable worry and regret—it was so profoundly not Jungkook. Even in his youth, before the shroud of grief had fallen, Jungkook had been a man of action and dismissal, not of ruminating on the emotional states of others, least of all the staff. After Hikari, he had become a fortress of ice, utterly devoid of any concern that lay beyond his own pain. Now, he was meticulously recounting the specific misery of a servant’s damp clothes and agonizing over the grip of his own hands. It was a seismic shift.

 

"Well, sir," Namjoon began, choosing his words with the utmost care, "I think it wasn't something you should've done." He stated it plainly, acknowledging the truth they both knew. "But now that you've done it... you can say a 'thanks,' I guess. And try not to do it again."

 

It was a simple, almost underwhelming piece of advice. It offered no grand solution, no analysis of the confusing fascination Jungkook had confessed. It was purely practical, a path forward that required neither excessive emotion nor further self-flagellation. Acknowledge the error, offer a basic courtesy, and resolve to be better.

 

A sigh, heavy with a tension that seemed to release slightly, escaped Jungkook’s lips. He reached for his cigar case, the movement a return to a familiar ritual. He lit the cigar, the flare of the match illuminating the lingering conflict in his eyes before the smoke wreathed his features once more.

 

"Right," Jungkook said, the word a low rumble as he exhaled a plume of fragrant smoke. "That's what I was thinking."

 

The agreement was quiet, but it was a decision. The storm of emotion was being compartmentalized, filed away under a course of action. He would thank the boy. The simple, daunting prospect of those two words felt like the most significant undertaking he had faced in years.

 

The soft knock at his door was a gentle intrusion in the quiet gloom of his room. Taehyung had been listless all day, trapped in the cycle of feverish heat and bone-deep chills, his body a prison of aches. He had no energy for anything but staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his mind a numb blank.

 

“Come in,” he rasped, his throat sore.

 

The door opened to reveal John’s wife, her kind face etched with concern. “It’s a letter for you, Mr. Taehyung,” she said softly, holding out a cream-colored envelope.

 

Taehyung pushed himself up against the headboard, wincing at the protest in his muscles. A fit of coughing shook him before he could answer. “Yes, please. Give it to me. Thank you.”

 

She placed it in his outstretched hand, gave him a pitying smile, and quietly left, closing the door behind her.

 

Taehyung looked down at the envelope. The familiar, elegant script made his heart give a weak, hopeful thump. Jimin.

 

With trembling fingers, he broke the seal and unfolded the paper. The scent of lavender, which Jimin always tucked into his letters, wafted up, a small comfort.

 

My Dearest Tae,

 

I read your letter. I read it once, then twice, and then I simply held it, my heart aching for you and yet so full of understanding. There is no simpler, nor more complicated, way to say this: what you are feeling is love.

 

You are in love with him.

 

I know it frightens you. The intensity of it, the sheer wrongness of it in the eyes of the world, the fact that it is for a man who seems carved from winter itself. But ask yourself, my dear friend: when you think of anyone else, do you wish for their happiness with every fiber of your being? Do you notice the chill in the air and worry if they are warm? Do you see something beautiful and think, unbidden, how you wish you could share it with them? You only have thoughts to weave comfort and warmth for someone when you are in love.

 

I know this because I feel it, too. Your words, your confusion, they mirror my own heart. For I feel the same for yoongi.

 

Do not hate this feeling, Tae. It is a gift, even if it hurts. It means your heart is still capable of incredible warmth after a lifetime of cold. Guard it, but do not be ashamed of it.

 

Write to me soon. I worry for you.

 

Yours, always, Jimin.

 

Taehyung read the letter again, and then a third time, each word sinking into him like a stone dropped into a still pond. Love. 

 

The truth, now spelled out in Jimin’s elegant script, felt less like a liberation and more like a life sentence. Taehyung had danced around the edges of the word, terrified to give it shape, to give it power. He had let the feeling exist as a nameless, aching something—a fascination, an attraction, a troublesome fixation. It was easier that way. A problem to be solved, an impulse to be mastered.

 

But Jimin, with his loving, unflinching clarity, had stripped all that away. He had held up a mirror and forced Taehyung to see the reflection for what it was.

 

Love.

 

The word echoed in the silent, fever-haunted room, each repetition a hammer blow to his fragile reality. He was in love.

 

The absurdity of it was a physical pain, sharper than the ache in his bones. He was in love with a man who described himself as a tomb, a walking mausoleum for a ghost. A man whose heart was a shrine to another, whose every breath was an exhale of grief for a woman Taehyung could never equal. A man who moved through the rarefied air of Edinburgh’s high society, his world one of legacy, wealth, and a power Taehyung could scarcely comprehend.

 

And he was a man. That was the most insurmountable wall of all. Jungkook belonged to a world where such a thing wasn't just taboo; it was unthinkable, a concept that simply did not compute within the rigid architecture of his existence. He didn't even know that a man and a man could be in love. To him, it would be a biological error, a social perversion.

 

Taehyung’s love wasn't just unrequited; it was impossible. It was a flower trying to bloom in a vault sealed shut years ago. It was a song sung in a language the one person he longed to hear it could not understand, would not even recognize as music.

 

He curled onto his side, Jimin’s letter clutched in his hand, a testament to a truth that felt more like a curse. He loved Jeon Jungkook. And that love was a solitary confinement of the soul, a beautiful, devastating secret he would have to keep forever.

 

 

 

Chapter 9: Love is no business

Notes:

Hi hi . I'm here again. taehyung is so heads over heels for Jungkook.😭 My heart aches while writing.
I hope you all like this one too.💗
I'm grateful for the positive response of my lovely readers.

“’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

______ Alfred, lord Tennyson 

 

The door to his room stood open, and framed within it was a sight that made Taehyung’s fever-addled mind wonder if he was hallucinating. Jeon Jungkook. His master, standing awkwardly in the doorway, his posture unnaturally stiff. His gloved hands were clenched at his sides, and his face was a carefully schooled mask of neutrality, though something uncertain flickered in his eyes.

 

"Good evening," Jungkook cleared his throat, the formality of the greeting sounding strange in the intimate space of the sickroom.

 

Taehyung moved, pushing himself up against the headboard, a wave of dizziness momentarily blurring his vision. "Good evening, sir," he replied, his voice hoarse.

 

Jungkook took a few steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over the simple space before landing on the chair near the bed. He sat down, the movement stiff, as if the action were unfamiliar. Taehyung watched him intently, his heart beginning a slow, heavy thud. Why was he here? All day, Taehyung had been building walls in his mind, repeating the mantra that love was the first step toward devastation. And now the very source of that impending devastation was sitting in his room.

 

"Well, I—" Jungkook began, then stopped, clearing his throat again. He looked down at his gloved hands, then out the small window, anywhere but at Taehyung.

 

Taehyung could see the internal struggle. This was a man for whom command was as natural as breathing. Apology was a foreign language. In his whole life, Jungkook had likely only ever apologized to one person: Hikari. The act of offering amends to someone beneath him, a servant, a stranger with no name and no powerful descent, went against every ingrained instinct of his class and character. Taehyung was no one in the grand scheme of Jungkook’s world. Yet, here he was, the great Jeon Jungkook, sitting in a servant’s room, visibly grappling for words that clearly did not come easily.

 

The silence stretched, thick with Jungkook’s unspoken battle and Taehyung’s bewildered anticipation. The apology was hanging in the air between them, not yet spoken, but its presence was a tangible force, a crack in the foundation of their entire dynamic.

 

The words hung in the air, so improbable that Taehyung wondered if the fever was conjuring sounds now. He blinked, certain he had misheard.

 

"I apologize for my reaction today earlier in the morning. It was unthoughtful of me. I shouldn't have done that."

 

There it was. He had said it. A genuine, unvarnished apology from Jeon Jungkook. To him.

 

"It's fine, sire," Taehyung finally managed, the words automatic, his mind still reeling.

 

Jungkook looked up from his studied examination of the floor, his dark eyes meeting Taehyung’s. In the dim light of the room, the reflection of the small fireplace flickered in Taehyung’s honey-colored irises, making them look like liquid gold.

 

An awkward silence descended. Jungkook, clearly unfamiliar with the territory following an apology, seemed to search for something to say. He wasn't ready to leave, not yet. The conversation felt unfinished.

 

"When you said... you know what being abandoned feels like," he began, his voice less formal now, more hesitant. "What did you mean by that? If you want to tell."

 

The question was a gentle probe, a startling show of interest from a man who usually displayed none.

 

Taehyung looked down, picking at the edge of the wool blanket. The directness of the question, coupled with the unexpected apology, disarmed him.

 

"Oh," he said softly. "I... I am an orphan." He stated it plainly, a fact of his existence he had long since accepted. "I have lived all my life in St. Margaret's, in the Old Town." He paused, then added the other defining truth of his life, the one that felt even more personal. "And I used to be blind. Until I got an eye transplant."

 

The confession lay between them. I see. The words finally registered in Jungkook’s mind, taking on a new, profound meaning. The boy’s constant, almost reverent observation of the world, his flustered nature—it all clicked into a heartbreakingly clear picture. He had not only been alone in the world, but he had lived in darkness until recently. The beauty he saw now was a miracle he was still learning to navigate.

 

A strange, heavy feeling settled in Jungkook’s chest. It was more than pity. It was a sharp, unwelcome pang of empathy.

 

"Life is cruel," Jungkook murmured, the words low and gravelly. "Unfair most of the time." His gaze swept over Taehyung’s face, taking in the delicate features, the expressive eyes that had only recently been granted sight. Taehyung was beautiful, a fact Jungkook was becoming increasingly unable to ignore. And he had suffered so much. The injustice of it struck him with a surprising force. His own grief, though all-consuming, had been born from having something wonderful and losing it. Taehyung’s suffering came from having nothing, from being given so little to begin with. The comparison was humbling, and it made his earlier fury seem even more monstrous.

 

The air in the small room shifted, growing warmer, thicker. The apology had been a key, unlocking a door that had been sealed shut between them.

 

"How do you feel now?" Jungkook asked, his voice lower, the formal tone melting away to reveal something more genuinely concerned. His eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, softened as they traced the lines of Taehyung’s face, still flushed with fever.

 

"I feel better, sir. Thank you," Taehyung said. And then he smiled.

 

It was a small, weary thing, but it was pure and unguarded. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners, and for a moment, all the pain and loneliness seemed to vanish from his face. It was the smile of someone whose spirit, despite everything, remained innocent.

 

Something deep within Jungkook stirred again, a feeling so foreign and powerful it momentarily stole his breath. It was more than fascination. It was a pull, an ache to be near that light.

 

He didn't think. He acted on instinct. Slowly, as if moving through a dream, he reached out. His gloved hand, which had been clenched at his side, rose. He hesitated for only a second before he took his hand out of the glove , his fingers gently brushed against Taehyung’s forehead, pushing back the soft, damp strands of honey-brown hair. The touch was meant to check for fever, a practical excuse, but it lingered, becoming something else entirely.

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched. His smile faded, but his eyes didn't leave Jungkook’s. They were wide, questioning, filled with a vulnerability that should have made Jungkook retreat, but instead, it held him captive.

 

"You're still warm," Jungkook murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, absent path just above Taehyung’s eyebrow. 

 

The distance between the chair and the bed seemed to vanish. Jungkook was leaning forward, just slightly, his presence filling the small space. The world outside—the mansion, Edinburgh, the memory of Hikari—all of it receded into a distant hum. There was only the sound of their breathing, the crackle of the fire, and the shocking intimacy of the touch.

 

Taehyung could do nothing but stare, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was not the cold, dismissive master. This was a man seeing him, and the intensity in his dark eyes was both terrifying and utterly captivating.

 

The air crackled with unspoken words, with a tension that had been building for weeks. He was close enough that Taehyung could smell the dizzing strong smell of his master.

 

For a long, suspended moment, neither moved. They existed in that breathless space, on the precipice of something neither of them understood, drawn together by a force that had dismantled Jungkook’s defenses and laid bare Taehyung’s heart. The apology was forgotten. The past was forgotten. There was only this.

 

The spell shattered. As if waking from a trance, Jungkook cleared his throat, the sound harsh and abrupt in the intimate silence. In one swift, almost jerky motion, he withdrew his hand and pushed back from the chair, putting a sudden, cold distance between them.

 

“You should rest,” he said, his voice once again a clipped, impersonal command. He didn’t wait for a response. Turning on his heel, he strode from the room, closing the door behind him with a firm, final click.

 

He didn’t stop until he was back in the stark solitude of his own chambers. With a sharp, frustrated motion, he ripped his gloves off and tossed them onto a nearby table, followed by his long coat, which he shrugged from his shoulders as if it were burning him.

 

He stood in the center of the room, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that was too quick, too unsteady. The only thought spiraling in his mind, relentless and undeniable, was the image of Taehyung’s face. Not just his smile, but all of it—the delicate arch of his brows, the warm depth of his eyes, the soft curve of his lips.

 

Absolute beauty.

 

The words formed in his mind with a terrifying clarity. He had always dismissed such observations before, shoving them away as irrelevant, a mere noting of an objective fact, like appreciating a well-painted portrait. But today, he could not dismiss it. He finally admitted it to himself, fully and without pretense.

 

Taehyung is pretty.

 

And the admission felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of Hikari’s memory, a betrayal of his own carefully constructed identity, a betrayal of the natural order as he understood it. Because if he was admitting Taehyung was beautiful—not in a detached way, but in a way that made his breath catch and his fingers itch to touch—then what did that mean?

 

Did it mean he was, against all reason and will, fascinated?

 

The word was a trap. It implied a captivation, a preoccupation of the mind and senses that he had sworn belonged only to one person, now gone. To be fascinated was to be alive to something, and he had committed himself to a life of emotional death.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, a growl of frustration building in his throat. He didn't like admitting it one bit. This… stirring… was inconvenient, illogical, and profoundly dangerous. It was a flaw in his armor, a weakness he could not afford. And yet, the image of that smile, of those trusting eyes looking up at him, refused to be banished. It lingered, a beautiful, haunting ghost that was slowly, inexorably, displacing the others.

 

 

 

The morning was bitterly cold, a characteristic Edinburgh grey that seeped into the bones. Jungkook stepped out, the freezing air biting at any exposed skin as he moved towards his waiting car. His gaze, usually fixed ahead or buried in the financial times, drifted across the frost-rimed lawn towards the old, barren oak tree near the iron gates.

 

There, he saw him.

 

Taehyung was crouched down, his back to the mansion, huddled against the chill. He wasn't gardening. He was coaxing a small, shivering stray cat with a few scraps of meat from the kitchen, his voice a soft, gentle murmur that was stolen by the wind. The cat, skinny and trembling, finally darted forward to snatch the food. Taehyung smiled, a quiet, warm thing in the bleak cold, and gently scratched behind the creature’s ears with a tenderness that was utterly unguarded.

 

Jungkook stopped dead. His hand paused on the car door handle. He simply watched, his stern expression softening imperceptibly. He saw the pure, uncomplicated kindness in the action, a stark contrast to the complex, calculated world he inhabited. For a long, suspended moment, the weight of his ledgers and meetings vanished. There was only this: the sight of his young governor showing compassion to a creature as cold and alone as he himself felt.

 

Then, as if sensing the observation, Taehyung glanced over his shoulder. His smile faltered slightly when he saw Jungkook watching him, a faint blush creeping up his neck despite the cold.

The spell broke. Jungkook’s face shuttered back into its neutral mask. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, slid into the car, and was driven away, leaving Taehyung crouched in the frost, his heart thumping strangely.

 

In his office, Jungkook stared at the same column of numbers for the tenth time. The figures blurred into meaningless shapes, refusing to cohere into any logical order. The only image his mind would conjure was the one burned onto the back of his eyelids: Taehyung crouched in the bitter cold, his form huddled against the wind, offering a moment of profound tenderness to a shivering, forgotten creature. The quiet smile on his face, a stark contrast to the bleak, grey world around them. It was a moment of such simple, unvarnished goodness, a purity that felt entirely alien.

 

It fascinated him. It unsettled him deeply. He couldn't reconcile it with the cold, grief-stricken fortress of his own existence. A strange, heavy sensation tightened in his chest, a weight that felt both constricting and expansive. It wasn't the familiar ache of grief for Hikari; this was something new, something burdensome and confusing.

 

He dropped his pen in frustration, the sound cracking like a gunshot in the silent room. Why did that boy, that single act of kindness in the freezing cold, occupy his thoughts so entirely? Why did the memory make it feel so difficult to breathe?

 

The kitchen, usually a place of bustling industry, was still and quiet save for the muffled howl of the wind outside. Jimin’s arrival was a sudden, vibrant splash of color in the monochrome gloom, his presence a tangible warmth that seemed to push back the Edinburgh chill. He found Taehyung at the great oak table, his movements as he chopped vegetables precise yet utterly mechanical, a faint, troubled frown marring his brow—a mask, Jimin knew instantly, for a far deeper anguish.

 

Leaning against the cold marble counter, Jimin studied his friend. “So,” he began, his voice soft yet cutting through the silence. “How is everything? Speak plainly. Truly?”

 

The knife stilled. Taehyung’s shoulders slumped as if the weight of the question was a physical burden. He set the blade down with a definitive click, his palms pressing flat against the cool, worn wood. For a long moment, he did not look up.

 

“I must… I must endeavor to cease this,” Taehyung whispered, the words emerging thick with a wretched resignation that clutched at Jimin’s heart. His voice, though quiet, carried a new, painful formality. “I must forcibly halt this descent. To allow myself to fall further… it is a path leading to utter desolation. There is no forward route. No conceivable destination.”

 

He finally lifted his gaze, and Jimin’s breath caught at the sight. Taehyung’s eyes, those great honeyed pools, shone with unshed tears, making them luminous with a pain too profound for words.

 

“He will not permit entry,” Taehyung continued, his tone becoming almost analytical, as if dissecting his own heartbreak to make it bearable. “It is not a matter of a locked door. It is that the chambers are already occupied to their fullest capacity. His heart is a grand estate, Jimin. A palatial home where every wall, every corridor, every last drawing-room is adorned with a portrait of her. They are masterpieces, each one. There exists not a single vacant hook, not the slightest sliver of bare wall upon which one might hope to hang even the smallest, most humble sketch. I would be… a perpetual visitor. permitted to stand in the grand foyer, perhaps, to admire the beauty of a curated love in which I hold no share. A love that was never, and will never be, intended for me.”

 

He drew a shaky breath, the aristocratic pretense crumbling to reveal the raw boy beneath. “And it is a devastatingly beautiful estate to behold,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a hushed, intimate register. “He is… he is the most arrestingly handsome man I have ever laid eyes upon. There is a severity to his beauty, a craftsmanship, as if he were carved from marble and winter itself. And his scent…,” Taehyung’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, lost in the memory. “It is sandalwood and fine cigar smoke, and something else entirely his own… something crisp and cold and utterly intoxicating. It clings to the library, to his coat… to my very thoughts.”

 

He opened his eyes, a fresh wave of misery washing over him. “And I… I am reduced to a state of utter ridiculousness in his presence. I become a flustered, stumbling fool. My words desert me, my hands betray me with their trembling. He need only glance in my direction and my composure utterly shatters. It is the most thrilling and the most wretched feeling all at once.”

 

“The way you speak of him, Taehyung—each word paints him before my eyes. Though I have never stood in his presence, I see him clearly, as if your voice itself were his shadow.”

 

I am scared Jimin , the distinct lines that demarcate my being from his are dissolving into a troubling mist. I am haunted by the prospect that the world will gaze upon my countenance and see only his reflection staring back."

 

 He moved forward then, wrapping an arm around Taehyung’s shoulders in a wordless gesture of solidarity, offering the only comfort he could in the face of such a beautifully articulated tragedy. They stood like that for a long while, in the warm, silent kitchen, as the wind continued its mournful song outside.

 

“Namjoon,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, lacking its typical edge of command.

 

Namjoon, who had been silently organizing files, looked up. “Sir?”

 

“I have been feeling… off. For a few days now.” Jungkook continued to stare into the fire, avoiding eye contact. “A disquiet. It is… unfamiliar.”

 

Namjoon remained silent, giving him space to continue.

 

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He finally turned, his dark eyes meeting Namjoon’s, filled with a turmoil he rarely showed. “What if…” he hesitated, the words seeming physically difficult to form. “What if a man were to… fall in love again? Is it even possible?”

 

He didn’t wait for an answer, the questions tumbling out as if he’d been holding them back for too long. “My wife has died. I miss her terribly. I think of her every day. That will never change. I have accepted she is gone, but… to feel something for another… it feels like the deepest betrayal. I will never do that to her memory.” His voice was firm on the last sentence, a vow to himself as much as to Namjoon.

 

Namjoon listened, his expression thoughtful. He placed the files down carefully. “Sir,”he said, his tone respectful but direct. “What’s gone is gone. It is tragic, and the pain is a testament to what you had. But nothing can be done to change it. To deny yourself the capacity to feel again… that is not loyalty. It is a different kind of prison.” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “Do not be so harsh on yourself. You are still living. The heart is not a monument; it is a room. Perhaps it is not about replacing what was lost, but… about adding to it. Let destiny decide what it wants. You do not have to fight it so hard.”

 

Jungkook looked away, back to the fire. Namjoon’s words settled over him, not as a comfort, but as a challenge to everything he had believed for so long.

 

In the warmth of the kitchen, the contrast to Jungkook’s cold office was stark. Jimin sipped his tea, watching Taehyung, who was staring out at the grey afternoon.

 

“I figured out the song,” Taehyung said softly, not turning around. “The one from my dreams. The melody… it’s complete now. And the lyrics. My mind finally put it all together.”

 

He turned, a small, bittersweet smile on his face. He walked to the table and picked up a sheet of paper where he had carefully transcribed the musical notes and the Japanese lyrics in his neat handwriting.

 

“Here,” he said, handing it to Jimin. “For Yoongi. So he can translate it. I need to know what it is I’ve been hearing.”

 

Jimin took the paper, his heart aching for his friend. “Tae…”

 

“I want to know what it says,” Taehyung interrupted, his voice barely a whisper.

 

Jimin carefully folded the sheet of music, the paper crisp under his fingers. "Alright," he said softly, the word a promise. "I'll see that Yoongi gets this. He will decipher it for you." He tucked it safely into his inner coat pocket, then turned his full attention back to his friend, his expression shifting to one of deep concern.

 

"Tae," he began, his voice gentle yet insistent. He reached out, placing a hand over Taehyung's where it rested on the table. "Why do you remain here? This house... this pain. You could find work elsewhere. You could come live with me. The space is small, but it is warm, and it is ours. I miss you terribly. This place is draining the light from your eyes."

 

Taehyung did not pull his hand away, but he shook his head, a slow, determined motion. "I cannot, Jimin. I will not. I cannot leave him here... drowning. However silently, however privately, he is undoing himself. To leave would feel like... like abandoning a soul caught in a riptide. I may not be able to pull him to shore, but I cannot be the one who turns and swims away."

 

"Taehyung," Jimin implored, his tone firmer, laced with a painful realism. "Look at the facts, my dear friend. He is a young master of Edinburgh's high society. We are orphans. The chasm between your worlds is not just wide; it is uncrossable. It is not simply a matter of station; it is a matter of entire universes."

 

A sad, knowing smile touched Taehyung's lips, a look of weary acceptance that seemed far too old for his face. "I know," he breathed. "I know all of that. So what if it is not meant to be? So what if I bleed for it?" He looked directly at Jimin, his gaze clear and heartbreakingly resolute. "Love is no business transaction, Jimin. It is not a ledger of give and take. It is solely about the giving. That is the least, and the most, a true lover can do."

 

He spoke with a quiet conviction that silenced Jimin's protests. It was a philosophy born of a heart that had known little but loss, yet had chosen to love with a terrifying, unconditional openness.

 

only if taehyung knew how much it is meant to be.

 

 

Chapter 10: I will stay by you

Notes:

Hi babies. here is another chapter. I am sorry I couldn't update earlier I was too caught up with university and stuff.
I hope you like it 💗

 

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

_________ Pablo Neruda 

 

The dream clung to him like a shroud, the final, haunting notes of the melody echoing in the silence of his waking mind. That song. Again. That man’s laughter, that woman’s smile, their shared, unshakeable joy. It was a beautiful, heart-wrenching torture.

 

With a sigh that was more of a shudder, Taehyung slid to the edge of the bed, his feet dangling until they found the cold, polished floorboards. Restlessness propelled him up, and he began to pace, the ghost of the tune a metronome to his steps. Whose memories are these? The question was a constant, gnawing presence.

 

It was early, the deep, silent hour of 5 a.m. Drawn to the window, he crossed the room and pushed aside the curtains. They were heavy, floor-length things of a deep burgundy damask, their thick fabric and interwoven threads meant to staunch the Scottish cold. They were hung on a substantial, polished brass rod, framing the large, multi-paned sash window typical of a Georgian townhouse, the glass imperfect and wavering slightly with age.

 

Outside, the world was still pitch black, the streetlamps below casting weak, hazy halos on the cobblestones.

 

Dressed only in a sheer white linen shirt—its oversized sleeves swallowing his slender wrists—and a pair of simple black trousers, he felt the chill immediately. But the cold was a distant sensation, secondary to the constriction in his chest. He needed to move, to walk off the weight of the dream.

 

He slipped out of his room and into the hallways. They were wide and high-ceilinged, a testament to Georgian grandeur, but in the pre-dawn dark, they felt like a canyon of shadows. The walls, painted a faded olive green, were interrupted by white paneling and dark wood wainscoting that rose halfway up. Portraits of severe-looking ancestors gazed blankly from ornate frames, their eyes seeming to follow his silent passage. The air was still and carried the faint, clean scent of old wood, beeswax polish, and a deep, settling cold. His bare feet made no sound on the runner carpet that stretched the hall's length, its intricate pattern muted and worn by generations of footsteps.

 

He was so lost in the echo of the song in his mind that he didn't see the dark shape until it was too late. He walked squarely into it, the corner of a solid oak chest digging sharply into his ribs.

 

"Ow," he whispered, a sharp, pained gasp into the silence. He stumbled back, heart hammering against his ribs. The shape was tall, man-sized. Fear, cold and sharp, lanced through him. "Who is it?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

 

He strained his eyes, but the darkness was absolute. "Is it you, John?" he tried again.

 

Panic seized him. "Are you a thief?" he shrieked, and on pure instinct, he swung a blind, frantic fist toward the shadowy figure.

 

His blow never landed. In a swift, fluid motion, both his wrists were caught in a firm, unyielding hold. He was spun around his back flush against the sturdy chest , The impact stole his breath. A hard, warm body pressed against his, pinning him in place, the sheer linen of his shirt offering no protection from the stranger’s strength or the cold chill of late January .

 

The stranger bent, his lips almost brushing Taehyung's earlobe. Taehyung could feel the solid wall of the man's chest against his own, the steady, powerful rise and fall of his breathing a stark contrast to Taehyung's own frantic panting. The heat of him seeped through the sheer linen, a shocking contrast to the cold wall at his back.

 

"I will scream! Who are you?" Taehyung said, his voice a terrified whisper, more scared now than before because of the effortless strength that held him.

 

"You do not recognize me, Taehyung?" The voice was a low, resonant baritone, a vibration that traveled straight through Taehyung's bones.

 

Taehyung's breath caught in his throat, lodging there like a stone. It was him. It was the master.

 

"M-Master," he stammered, his body going weak, not from fear alone, but from the sheer, shocking intensity of the moment. The harsh grip on his wrists, pinned behind his back, was a painful anchor to reality.

 

"The way you look at me," Jungkook whispered, his breath a warm fan against the sensitive skin of Taehyung's neck, "I thought you'd recognize me even if I were to be in another body."

 

Taehyung's heart was beating a frantic, hard rhythm in his ears, drowning out all other sound. "I..." he tried, but no other words would come. His mind was a whirlwind of the dream, the song, and the overwhelming presence of the man holding him.

 

Then, he was being turned, his back meeting the cold plaster wall once more. Jungkook released one wrist to reach for the small paraffin lamp on the study chest. A match scraped, flared, and then the wick caught, casting a warm, golden pool of light between them. Jungkook brought the lamp up, its yellow glow illuminating their faces in the vast, dark hallway.

 

He didn't look at Taehyung's frightened expression or his parted lips. His gaze, dark and intense, locked onto Taehyung's eyes.

 

"Your eyes," Jungkook breathed, his voice hushed, almost reverent. The lamplight caught the rich, honeyed warmth of them, making them seem to glow from within. In their depths, Jungkook seemed to be searching for something, a memory, a recognition that mirrored the haunting curiosity of Taehyung's own dreams. The anger and suspicion from moments before had vanished, replaced by something far more profound and unsettling.

 

The silence in the hallway was absolute, broken only by the soft hiss of the lamp and the frantic beat of Taehyung's heart. Jungkook's words hung in the air between them, intimate and bewildering.

 

"I believe pages could be written on what your eyes behold."

 

Taehyung's eyes went wide, his breath catching anew. The intensity of the statement, the sheer depth of focus, was overwhelming.

 

"You're getting red and warm again," Jungkook whispered, his observation a soft murmur that felt like a physical touch. He was so close. Taehyung could see every fleck in his dark irises, the long sweep of his lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks in the lamplight.

 

“Your eyes carry the wonder of a newborn—curious, untainted, and lit with a warmth the world has not yet darkened.” Jungkook scoffed then, and looked away, breaking the spell as if he couldn't bear to hold its weight.

 

The moment he looked away, Taehyung felt a desperate, aching loss. He drank in the sight of his master's face, so starkly handsome in the golden glow. The strong jaw, the perfect slope of his nose, the lips that were usually set in a firm, disapproving line. And his eyes, when they had been on him—dark, cold, yet holding some unfathomable fire. Oh, how Taehyung loved that face. It was a secret he kept buried deep, a constant, painful thrum in his chest.

 

And in that suspended moment, with Jungkook's guard seemingly down, Taehyung gave up to the urge. Slowly, carefully, as if moving through a dream, he brought his hand up. His slender fingers trembled slightly in the air, mere inches from Jungkook's jaw.

 

Jungkook's dark eyes, which had been averted, wandered back, drawn to the movement. He watched Taehyung's hand, those pretty, delicate fingers hovering near his face. He didn't move. He didn't flinch back or scowl. He just watched, his expression unreadable.

 

Taehyung kept his gaze locked on Jungkook's face, waiting for the rejection, the cold remark, the sharp withdrawal. But it didn't come. Emboldened by the silence, by the permission he saw in that stilled attention, Taehyung finally bridged the last, impossible distance.

 

His fingertips brushed against Jungkook's jaw. The contact was electric. Then, with more courage than he knew he possessed, he pressed his palm fully, cupping the side of his master's face.

 

The contrast was startling. Taehyung's fingers were wonderfully warm, almost feverish against the early morning chill, a testament to the frantic blood rushing through his veins. Jungkook's skin, however, was cool to the touch, the cold of the house and the night seeming to have seeped into him.

 

At the touch, Jungkook’s eyes fluttered shut. A long, slow sigh escaped his lips, a sound of surrender, of a tension released that Taehyung hadn't even known was there. He leaned, just barely, into the warmth of Taehyung's hand, a silent acceptance that made the world tilt on its axis. In the quiet, chilly hallway, with the lamp held between them like a sacred offering, that single point of contact felt like the most profound conversation they had ever had.

Jungkook’s eyes opened slowly, and Taehyung’s heart ached at what he saw. The cold, imperious mask was gone. In its place was a raw, unguarded vulnerability. Those dark eyes were no longer cold; they were deep pools of sadness, of a yearning so profound it seemed to echo the very melody that haunted Taehyung’s dreams. And Taehyung’s heart ached because he knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than the morning air, that the yearning in Jungkook’s eyes was for another. For her. The woman from the song.

 

A dark strand of Jungkook’s hair had fallen over his forehead, softening the severe handsomeness of his features. Almost without thinking, Taehyung moved his thumb, stroking it gently along the high ridge of Jungkook’s cheekbone in a futile attempt to soothe the sorrow he found there.

 

The touch seemed to break a spell. Jungkook took a shaky, ragged breath, as if surfacing from deep water. Then, in one swift, decisive motion, his hand snapped up and closed around Taehyung’s wrist. His grip was firm, but not harsh—possessive, urgent. Without a word, he turned and began to walk, pulling Taehyung along with him.

 

Taehyung, his own heart a frantic bird in a cage, offered no resistance. He let himself be dragged, his bare feet whispering against the cold runner as they moved through the cavernous, sleeping house. They passed the severe portraits and the dark wood, the shadows stretching and leaping in the lamplight Jungkook still carried.

 

Soon, the heavy front door was opened, and the true, biting cold of the Edinburgh morning rushed in. Taehyung shivered violently, the thin linen shirt offering no protection. Jungkook stopped abruptly. He blew out the lamp, placing it on a hall table, and in the dim pre-dawn light, he shrugged out of his own heavy wool coat. Without ceremony, he draped it over Taehyung’s shoulders, his hands briefly gripping the fabric to pull it tight around him. The coat was immense on Taehyung’s frame, still warm from Jungkook’s body and carrying his scent—sandalwood, crisp air, and something uniquely, essentially him.

 

"Where are we going?" Taehyung asked, his voice small in the vast, silent world.

 

Jungkook didn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the empty, cobbled street ahead, his profile stark against the grey sky. "Nowhere in particular," he replied, his voice low.

 

Taehyung simply nodded, pulling the coat closer. He couldn't believe it. He was with Jungkook. His master. It was just the two of them, wrapped in silence and a shared, unspoken melancholy, while the rest of the world slept on.

 

They walked along the dimly lit pavements of Edinburgh, the city hushed and blanketed in a pristine layer of snow that crunched softly under Jungkook's boots. The world was a study in monochrome, the black cobbles and the white snow, the grey stone buildings, and the deep, velvety pre-dawn sky. Taehyung, engulfed in the master's coat, kept his eyes fixed on the man beside him, a solitary figure of profound sorrow against the sleeping city.

 

"Tell me something, Taehyung," Jungkook asked, his voice quiet, the words forming little clouds in the frigid air.

 

"Yes, sir?" Taehyung replied, his own heart thudding a nervous rhythm.

 

Jungkook was looking straight ahead, his gaze lost on some distant, invisible point. Taehyung was looking only at him.

 

"Is it possible for me to give it all up and run away? Somewhere far, far away," Jungkook said, the words not sounding like a question, but a desperate wish spoken aloud.

 

"Why do you say so, sir?" Taehyung asked, confused and concerned. "I know you grieve her... but giving up everything is not an option." He sighed, the sound lost in the vast silence.

 

"Love is one wretched thing, Taehyung," Jungkook continued, as if he hadn't heard him.

 

"It for sure is, sire," Taehyung took a shaky breath, the cold stinging his lungs, his own yearning for the man beside him a sharp, parallel pain.

 

"If you were to fall in love," Jungkook asked, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his shoulders tense, "and never be with that person... how would you feel?"

 

Taehyung was silent for a long moment, the only sound the crunch of their footsteps. He looked down at the snow, then up at the man he loved, who loved another.

 

"I would feel..." he began, his voice barely a whisper, "like I am a ghost in my own life. I walk through my days, but I am not truly there. The world has color, but I see only in shades of grey."

 

He took another breath, the words coming from a place deep within him, a place he usually kept locked away.

 

"It would be a constant, silent scream trapped behind my ribs. A melody of what could have been, playing on a loop in an empty room of my heart. I would be a book full of words written for a single reader... who will never turn the page."

 

He looked at Jungkook's profile, his own chest tight with the truth of his words.

 

"There would be a soul-shattering ache, sir. Not a sharp pain, but a dull, eternal throb—a heavy stone settled where my heart should be. It is the agony of a forever sunset, beautiful and full of color, but you know it only promises the cold, dark night. You are forever waiting for a dawn that you know, in your very soul, will never come."

 

Jungkook stopped abruptly. The crunch of snow under his boots ceased, and the silence that rushed in was deafening. He turned, his dark eyes searching Taehyung’s face. Taehyung’s hand was unconsciously clutching at the wool coat over his chest, right over his heart.

 

"You say it, Taehyung," Jungkook murmured, his voice low and intense, "as if you have felt it."

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched. He forced a smile, a fragile, brittle thing that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh no, sire," he said, the lie tasting like ash. "How could I?"

 

But Jungkook was not dissuaded. He took a step closer, the space between them charged with unspoken truths. "But you described exactly what I feel," he said, the name a whisper of profound pain on the cold air, "ever since Hikari died."

 

The name hung between them, the ghost that haunted the mansion's halls given form. Taehyung felt a fresh wave of that familiar, helpless ache—for Jungkook’s pain, and for his own.

 

"Then maybe, sire," Taehyung said softly, his smile now a mere ghost of itself, a mask of profound sadness, "you're right." He couldn't bear the intensity of the gaze any longer. He turned and began to walk again, his steps slow in the deep snow.

 

After a moment, he heard the crunch of Jungkook’s footsteps following him.

 

"Tell me something," Jungkook said from behind him, his voice thoughtful, almost weary. "If I were no longer to be the young, rich master. If my mansion burnt and my riches were drained... and I were old. I already am turning old," he added with a slight, self-deprecating chuckle. "Past thirty-five."

 

Taehyung kept walking, listening intently, his heart in his throat.

 

"Tell me," Jungkook asked, his voice dropping, the question hanging in the frozen air like a challenge, a plea. "If I was left with no money to pay you... would you still serve me?"

 

 

The words left Taehyung’s lips with a quiet certainty that needed no fanfare, no grand oath. They were a simple, immutable truth.

 

“I will,” Taehyung nodded, his breath a soft plume in the cold air. “I will always stay by your side.”

 

The silence that followed was different from before. It was less heavy, less sharp. Then, Jungkook spoke, and his words sent a shiver through Taehyung that had nothing to do with the cold.

 

“Since Hikari’s passing… there is a peculiar familiarity I find in your presence. A resonance I cannot account for.”

 

As if on cue, the snow began to fall again. Not a storm, but a gentle, silent descent of crystal milky white snowflakes, each one a unique, fleeting star caught in the glow of the sparse gas lamps. They dusted Jungkook’s dark hair and settled on the shoulders of Taehyung’s borrowed coat as they walked.

 

“One forgets the value of discourse,” Jungkook admitted, his voice softer, more reflective than Taehyung had ever heard it. “It has been an age since I conversed thus. Truly conversed.”

 

Then, the confession came, raw and quiet into the morning hush, yet still framed by his breeding. “I failed in my duties to her. As a lover. As a husband.” The words were laced with a guilt that had clearly festered for years. “My attentions were… elsewhere. The estate, the fortunes. She was owed a far better companion than the one providence allotted her.”

 

Taehyung said nothing. He simply kept walking, a silent, steadfast presence beside him, listening. He offered no empty platitudes, no denials. He just let Jungkook speak, let the words find their way into the falling snow, perhaps lightening the burden they had placed on his soul by even a fraction.

 

 

The world was lightening now, a soft, pearlescent grey eating away the deep indigo of the night sky. The falling snow glittered in the nascent dawn.

 

"You, Taehyung," Jungkook stated, his tone one of detached observation, "are not what one would call manly."

 

Taehyung rolled his eyes, a gesture of familiarity that would have been unthinkable just an hour before. "What is a man supposed to be like, sire? Big? Bulky?"

 

"No," Jungkook said, stopping to look directly at Taehyung's face. The early light caught the delicate lines of his features. "A man is not supposed to colour so easily, nor grow warm so readily in another's presence." A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips.

 

And yet again, as if on command, a flush crept up Taehyung's neck to his cheeks. He looked away, flustered. "There is nothing like that," he stammered.

 

"It is... a novel diversion," Jungkook conceded, his voice losing its teasing edge as they began walking again. "To take the air with you." His gaze drifted down to Taehyung's hands, peeking out from the oversized sleeves of the coat. "You possess hands of a most singular elegance. More so than any society lady of my acquaintance."

 

"I doubt that, sir," Taehyung chuckled, the sound a deep, melodious ripple in the quiet morning air.

 

It was a simple, unguarded sound. But it struck Jungkook with the force of a physical blow. His own heart gave a sudden, frantic thump-thump-thump against his ribs, a wild, runaway rhythm he had not felt in years.

 

He stopped walking, his entire body going rigid with surprise. No. This is untenable.

 

The warmth of a moment ago vanished, replaced by an icy wave of aristocratic disdain, a defence mechanism honed over a lifetime. He shut down, the familiar walls slamming back into place.

 

"We will return to the house," he declared, his voice abruptly cold and imperious, all previous softness voided by command.

 

Taehyung was utterly confused, whiplashed by the sudden shift. Just a second ago, the master was making intimate observations. Now, he was dismissed with a tone fit for a stray dog. He simply nodded, the happiness of the moment draining away, and followed Jungkook's retreating back in silence.

 

 

They reached the mansion, its grand Georgian facade looking stern and unwelcoming in the grey light. Jungkook pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the cavernous entrance hall without a backward glance. The relative warmth of the house felt oppressive after the crisp morning air. He didn't pause, didn't offer a word. His boots echoed with finality on the marble floor as he mounted the stairs, his figure a silhouette of cold authority disappearing into the shadows of the upper hallway, leaving Taehyung alone by the door.

 

Taehyung sighed, the sound swallowed by the immense silence of the house. The brief, beautiful dream was over. He shrugged off the heavy wool coat, and as he held it in his hands, an impulse seized him. He brought the fabric to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

 

It was his scent. Sandalwood and bergamot, the faint, clean starch of his shirts, the crisp, cold edge of the outdoors, and something uniquely, essentially Jungkook. It was the scent of the man he loved, a scent that now held the memory of their strange, intimate walk. He held it for a long moment, committing it to memory, before folding it carefully over his arm to be returned to the master's wardrobe later. Then, with another heavy sigh, he turned to begin his day, to prepare for his duties, the servant once more.

 

 

 

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Jungkook stood staring into the cold fireplace, his mind a tempest.

 

Preposterous.

 

The word was a stark condemnation in his mind, a counterpoint to his still-racing heart. That specific, visceral lurch—a heart not just beating, but commotioned—was a sensation he had entombed with her. With Hikari’s laughter, a sound fit for a drawing room, not the servants' quarters.

 

But today, it was provoked by a man’s laugh. A servant’s laugh. Taehyung’s laugh.

 

A wave of profound confusion, followed by a hot flush of indignation, washed over him. It felt like a grotesque parody—a betrayal of Hikari’s memory and a violation of his own station. He was a man of specific breeding and particular… inclinations. This was an aberration.

 

He replayed the moment: the snow, the quiet street, the way Taehyung had looked in the dawn light, not manly, no, but… aesthetically pleasing. And that sound, that deep, unrefined chuckle that seemed to bypass all propriety and resonate within him directly.

 

Why now? Why this?

 

He clenched his fists, his signet ring biting into his finger. It was an unseemly complication, a dangerous flicker of feeling in a world governed by order and expectation. His grief for Hikari was a known burden, a title he bore. This… this was chaos. The presence of a manservant should not make his heart behave like a startled hare. And yet, it had.

 

He was the master of this house. His control was absolute. Over his holdings, his name, his emotions. This… was a lapse. An illogical, inconvenient, and utterly unacceptable lapse. And it would be quelled.

 

Chapter 11: blizzard

Notes:

Hi babies. here is another chapter. finally he feels something 😭

The study was steeped in the scent of old leather and fine tobacco. Jungkook stood by the large window, a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, its smoke curling towards the high ceiling as he watched the world outside with unseeing eyes.

 

"Sir," Namjoon began, standing respectfully before the mahogany desk, leafing through a file of papers. "You need to meet some new, important people. Potential investors from London. They could be most useful for the business's expansion."

 

Jungkook did not turn. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly for a moment.

 

"What would you conclude," Jungkook asked, his voice contemplative and distant, "if your heart ever started beating frantically when you see a face laughing wholeheartedly?"

 

Namjoon’s hand stilled on the papers. He furrowed his brows, looking up from the file, thoroughly thrown by the non sequitur. "Sir?"

 

"Answer the question, Namjoon."

 

Namjoon cleared his throat, choosing his words with care. "I would conclude... that it happens only in the case that you find someone profoundly beautiful? Or that you... like someone a great deal, sir."

 

Jungkook was silent for a beat, watching the smoke dissipate into the air. "And what if that face," he continued, his tone dangerously even, "is a man's face? What would you say if your heart starts beating like that when you see a man laughing?"

 

Namjoon’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but his demeanor remained professionally composed. He understood the gravity of the confession hidden within the hypothetical. "The... the origin of the face does not change the symptom, sir. That is still a sign of a deep and particular affection."

 

Jungkook nodded slowly, as if a difficult equation had finally been solved. He stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray with a definitive click.

 

"Anyways," he said, his voice shifting back to its usual, imperious business tone, effectively closing the previous subject forever. "What were you saying? I need to meet these people? Very well. Invite them for a grand dinner at my mansion next week. See to the arrangements."

 

"Of course, sir," Namjoon replied, snapping the file shut.

 

"I need to go somewhere," Jungkook announced abruptly. He strode to the stand, sweeping his long, brown overcoat from its perch and draping it over his shoulders with a practiced flick. Without another word, he walked out of the study, leaving Namjoon alone with the lingering scent of smoke and the echo of a startling confidence.

The Daimler’s engine was a low, respectful purr against the profound silence of the afternoon. Jungkook guided the motorcar through the streets of Edinburgh, a city rendered spectral by the weather. The sky was a lid of unbroken leaden grey, a flat, oppressive expanse that seemed to swallow all sound and light. It was the kind of cold that was damp and insidious, seeping through the finest wool overcoat and settling deep in the bones.

 

The snow was no longer the fresh, milky blanket of the early morning. It had been trampled and sullied on the main thoroughfares, churned into a gritty, grey sludge by traffic and footsteps. But on the quieter, cobbled lanes and the high stone walls, it lay pristine and heavy, draping the city in a funerary shroud.

 

He drove through the Canongate, where the sooty, sandstone tenements of the Old Town leaned against one another as if for warmth, their crow-stepped gables and dark, unseeing windows etched sharply against the pale sky. The snow capped every ornate corbel, every stone urn on the bridges, lending the ancient, severe architecture a softened, melancholy grace.

 

Turning towards the cemetery, the world grew even quieter. Here, the snow was utterly untouched, a deep, crisp carpet over the paths and the countless table tombs and obelisks that rose from the ground like the bones of the earth itself. Bare, black branches of ancient yew trees clawed at the sky, their limbs lined with white, while ivy-clad perimeter walls wore thick mantles of snow.

 

Jungkook brought the car to a halt, the sound of the door closing a stark, solitary report in the muffled stillness. His footsteps were the first to break the snow’s perfect surface, crunching with a grim finality as he walked the familiar path. The air was bitterly still, carrying the scent of frost and old stone. Each headstone, each angel with wings weighed down by snow, stood as a silent sentinel to his grief. He was a solitary figure of black wool and solemn purpose moving through a world frozen in time, drawn inexorably toward the one patch of earth that held the source of all his heart’s winter.

He stood rigidly before the polished granite, his posture the only defiance against the crushing weight that sought to bow him. The silence was a presence itself, broken by the ragged pull of his breath.

 

"I refuse to relinquish you," he whispered, the words a raw scrape against the frozen air, strained through a throat constricted by a grief that had not dulled with time. "I will not let go of what remains of your memory, my lady."

 

The snow began to fall again. It was a soft, ghostly descent of delicate flakes, a silent, weeping veil from the leaden sky. They caught in his dark hair like a crown of frost and dusted the broad shoulders of his overcoat, a cold counterpoint to the hot shame of his anguish. They settled on the baroque curves of the stone angels, on the spiked iron railings of the neighbouring plots, and on the bare, thorny branches of the commemorative rose bush, now a stark, skeletal silhouette against the grey. The world was hushed, sanctified, and utterly still, the snowfall deepening the profound silence, as if the entire estate of the dead was observing a moment of perfect, judgmental quiet.

 

"How dare my own heart commit such a betrayal?" he hissed, the words a venomous curse against himself. A single, traitorous tear escaped, its path a searing brand on his cold skin. "Against you? Against our vows? It is an insurrection I will not permit."

 

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but the dam had broken. The tears were a silent, humiliating admission of a fracture in his resolve.

 

"I am divided, Hikari," he confessed, his voice a low, tormented thrum. "Torn asunder by what my heart eternally holds for you and this... this inexplicable stirring for another. The acquaintance is scarcely formed." A bitter, hollow sound escaped him. "The supreme irony is that it is not some society miss. It is a man."

 

As if summoned by his torment, Taehyung's face crossed his mind—not the servant, but the vision from the morning: radiant in the nascent light, his warm eyes alight, a laugh of such unrefined, melodic honesty that it had felt, for a moment, like a reprieve.

 

The image was an agony. The conflict, the disgrace, the sheer illogic of it shattered his famed composure.

 

"What course is left to me, Hikari?" he implored, the words a desperate, choked command flung at the cold stone. His knees buckled, aristocratic pride abandoned, and he sank to the frozen earth before her grave, his forehead pressing against the icy granite as his frame was wracked with silent, wretched sobs.

All day, Taehyung had roamed the mansion, his soft humming a gentle undercurrent to his chores. He dusted the study with particular care, meticulously organized Jungkook’s desk, and saw to every detail. He had even decided to prepare something sweet for his master, planning to present it with his evening tea. He imagined sitting beside him in the study, perhaps even reading to him.

 

Taehyung glanced at the clock. Jungkook usually returned by eight, but it was already nine. A faint unease stirred within him. He went to find Miss Edith.

 

He found her in her room. “Master Jeon isn’t back yet,” Taehyung said. “Oh,he must have gone out with some colleagues. Don’t worry, Taehyung,” she said with a light laugh. “He’ll be back; he’s not a child.” Taehyung nodded slowly.“Well then, goodnight, Miss Edith,” he said, closing her door before walking back to the study.

 

Time slipped by, and soon it was past ten. Outside, a heavy snow had begun to fall. Taehyung couldn’t suppress his growing worry. John, the driver, had returned hours earlier, saying Jungkook had dismissed him for the evening. So where was he? Taehyung decided to call the office.

 

He walked down the hallway, lifted the telephone receiver, and dialed the number for Jeon Firms. The line rang again and again into the empty silence. No one answered. He tried two, three more times, his anxiety mounting with each failed attempt. If no one was at the office, where could Jungkook be? Dreadful thoughts of accidents on icy Edinburgh roads began to plague his mind.

 

Taehyung bit his nail, a nervous habit. Should he go to the firm himself? What should he do? He was truly worried now.

So he decided to go to Jungkook's office. Taehyung pulled on his long white coat and the fine leather gloves Jungkook had once brought for him, a gift he treasured. He wrapped a thick, woolen muffler around his neck, pulling it up to shield his face from the biting cold.

 

Just as he opened the heavy front door, he was hit with a wall of chill air that stole his breath. The snow had been falling constantly, weaving a deep, silent tapestry over the city.

 

Outside, the world had been transformed into a hushed, monochrome landscape. The pavements were buried under a thick, unbroken blanket of white, their edges and kerbs completely smoothed away, leaving only soft, undulating curves. The cobbled streets had lost their rugged texture, each stone rounded and softened by a heavy cap of snow, making the road a treacherous, gleaming expanse of ice and powder. The glow from the gas lamps was muffled and diffused by the relentless fall, casting weak, golden orbs of light that illuminated the frantic dance of countless snowflakes but did little to pierce the oppressive gloom. No carriage or motorcar had dared pass recently; the only marks upon the pristine white were the faint, desperate tracks of a lone black cat, already being rapidly filled in. The world was utterly still, save for the mournful sigh of the wind and the soft, endless hush of the falling snow.

He walked towards the main road, each step a soft crunch in the deep, unbroken snow. The world was a ghostly, silent tableau; no human soul was braving the bitter cold. Windows in the tall, stone buildings were shuttered tight, their occupants undoubtedly tucked safely beneath warm blankets. Taehyung’s cheeks stung, blooming a bright, rosy red against the pale canvas of his skin and the white of his muffler.

 

After what felt like an eternity, the dim, snow-blurred lights of a lone taxi emerged from the swirling whiteness. Taehyung waved frantically, and the motorcar slid to a careful stop beside him. He climbed into the blessedly warm interior, the heat a shock to his frozen limbs.

 

“Jeon Firms, please,” he instructed the driver, his voice muffled by his scarf.

 

The journey was slow and tense, the taxi navigating the treacherous, snow-drifted streets with painstaking caution. Upon reaching the austere stone building that housed the firm, Taehyung’s heart sank. The windows were dark, the grand entrance shrouded in shadow. The entire place was closed up tight for the night. He paid the driver, who quickly pocket the coins and drove away, eager to escape the worsening storm, leaving Taehyung alone on the deserted sidewalk.

 

The wind howled, whipping snow into his eyes. The building looked utterly abandoned. Despair began to claw at him. But then, he noticed a faint, golden glow from a small side window—the guard’s post. Rushing over, he tapped on the glass.

 

An elderly guard, bundled in a heavy uniform coat, opened the door a crack. “What’re ye doin’ out in this, lad? Firm’s closed!”

 

“Please, sir,” Taehyung said, pulling down his scarf. “I’m looking for Master Jeon. He hasn’t returned home. Was he here?”

 

The guard’s face softened with concern. “Aye, he was here. But he left hours ago, just as the snow was startin’ to settle proper. Locked up himself, he did. There’s been no one here since.”

 

Taehyung’s worry intensified into sheer panic. “But he’s not home! The roads are so bad… something must have happened!”

 

The guard shook his head grimly. “Aye, it’s a foul night for it. Not fit for man nor beast.”

 

“Where could he be?” Taehyung pleaded, his voice trembling with cold and fear. “Please, you must have an idea!”

 

The guard thought for a moment, scratching his chin. “Well… if he’s not at his club or a hotel… might’ve gone to Mister Kim’s residence. His associate. He lives just down the alley there, in the red-brick townhouse. Could be they had business to discuss away from the office. It’s the only other place I can think he might’ve sought shelter from this mess.”

"Please, sir, what is Mister Kim's address?" Taehyung asked, his voice tight with urgency.

 

The guard squinted, thinking. "Number twelve, just down this lane. Red-brick townhouse, black door with a brass knocker. Ye can't miss it."

 

"Thank you! Thank you, sir," Taehyung said, his words puffing into the freezing air before he turned and hurried down the narrow, snow-choked alley.

 

The wind seemed to bite deeper here, between the close-set buildings, whipping veils of snow into his face. Each shadow felt ominous, each howl of the gale sounded like a warning. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum of fear. He counted the numbers on the doors, his eyes straining in the dim light until he found it: a handsome red-brick townhouse with a steeply pitched roof laden with snow. A warm, inviting glow emanated from its downstairs windows, and a single gas lamp beside its sturdy black door with a lions-head brass knocker fought valiantly against the storm's gloom.

 

Taehyung didn't hesitate. He grabbed the cold knocker and rapped it sharply several times.

 

After a moment, the door swung open to reveal a sleepy-looking Kim Namjoon, his hair disheveled, dressed in a robe over his pajamas. He blinked in surprise at the snow-dusted figure on his doorstep. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep.

 

"I-I am the steward of Mr. Jeon's house," Taehyung managed, his words tumbling out in a breathless, anxious rush. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, sir, but Master Jeon... he has not returned home. The firm is dark, and the guard said he left hours ago. I... I don't know where he is."

 

The sleep vanished from Namjoon's eyes instantly, replaced by sharp concern. "He's not home?" he repeated, his own worry mirroring Taehyung's. "In this weather? Good heavens. Come in, come in, you're freezing."

 

He ushered the shivering Taehyung into the warm hall, but neither of them could think of comfort. "Wait here," Namjoon said, his mind already racing. "I'll get dressed. We'll take my motorcar. We'll find him."

 

Within minutes, a now fully-dressed Namjoon was leading the way back out into the storm, jingling his car keys. He helped Taehyung into the passenger seat of his own, sturdier motorcar before climbing in himself. The engine coughed to life.

 

"Where do we even start?" Taehyung asked, his voice small and scared as Namjoon carefully navigated the car back onto the deserted, white-blanketed street.

 

"We start looking," Namjoon said, his jaw set with determination, his eyes fixed on the nearly invisible road ahead. "We drive every route between the office and his home. We don't stop until we find him."

Suddenly, a thought clicked in Namjoon’s mind, his eyes widening slightly. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and turned the car abruptly down a side street, the tires sliding for a heart-stopping moment before finding purchase.

 

"Where are we going?" Taehyung asked, his voice laced with confusion and fear as he held onto his seat.

 

"To the cemetery," Namjoon stated, his tone grim and certain as he focused on navigating the treacherous, white-blanketed roads.

 

The drive was a journey through a silent, haunted world. The snow fell in thick, relentless sheets, reducing visibility to mere feet in front of the trembling headlights. The car’s engine labored against the deepening drifts, its growl muffled by the absorbing quiet of the storm. They passed skeletal, snow-laden trees that stood like frozen sentinels, their branches bowing under the weight. The grand buildings of the city were reduced to dark, hulking shapes in the swirling white, their windows sightless and black. It was a world devoid of life, swallowed by the storm.

 

Finally, the high, iron gates of the cemetery appeared, their intricate scrollwork stuffed with snow. Namjoon brought the car to a sliding halt just outside. He killed the engine, and the ensuing silence was profound, broken only by the wind’s low moan through the headstones.

 

Without a word, Namjoon pushed his door open and stepped out into the deep snow. Taehyung scrambled after him. The cemetery was an eerie, beautiful wasteland. Every angel, obelisk, and cross was sculpted from snow, their features softened into anonymous white forms. The pathways had vanished under a smooth, unbroken expanse, and the only light was the faint, diffused glow from the car’s headlights, casting long, dancing shadows.

 

Namjoon trudged forward with purpose, his breath pluming in the air, following a path known only to him. Taehyung followed close behind, his heart in his throat.

 

And then they saw it. A dark, hunched figure silhouetted against the snow, kneeling before a specific gravestone, utterly still, as if he were just another monument frozen in grief.

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched. He knew that silhouette, that coat.

 

"Master Jeon!" he cried out, his voice thin and desperate against the wind.

 

Without another thought, he began to run. He plowed through the deep snow, his legs burning with the effort, his eyes fixed solely on that solitary, vulnerable figure. The world narrowed to the path between them. He stumbled once, righted himself, and pushed forward, driven by a surge of fear and overwhelming relief until he finally reached him, collapsing to his knees in the snow beside the hunched-over form of Jungkook.

Namjoon halted where he was, his own breath catching. He saw Taehyung running through the deep snow, not with the dutiful haste of a steward searching for his missing employer, but with the raw, desperate terror of someone fleeing the loss of their most precious possession. Every frantic step was fueled by pure, unguarded fear.

 

"Sir!" Taehyung shouted again, his voice frayed and muffled by the howling wind and the wool of his muffler.

 

Jungkook heard the noises as if from a great distance. The cold had seeped so deep into his bones that he was almost beyond feeling, his consciousness flickering like a dying candle. He had been sitting there for hours, lost in a vortex of grief and confusion. He turned his head slowly, the movement requiring immense effort. In his blurred peripheral vision, he saw a figure fighting through the blizzard, shouting frantically. Even through the haze, he recognized the eyes—wide, honey-warm, and filled with a panic that was entirely for him. A faint, weary smile touched his blue-tinged lips.

 

"There he comes," he whispered in a hushed, ragged voice, a final confession meant for Hikari alone.

 

Taehyung crashed to his knees in the snow before him just as Jungkook’s body swayed, his strength finally giving out. "Sir!" Taehyung cried, grabbing the frozen lapels of Jungkook's overcoat to steady him, preventing his collapse into the snow.

 

Jungkook’s eyes were fluttering shut, the world dissolving into a blur of white and shadow. The last thing he was aware of was that deep, warm voice, a stark contrast to the chilling storm raging around them—a lifeline in the freezing dark.

 

"Please, stay with me," Taehyung whispered-shouted, his own tears beginning to freeze on his cheeks. He held Jungkook’s collar tightly, his grip the only thing tethering the older man to the world.

 

But it was too late. With a final, shallow breath, Jungkook went completely limp, his dead weight falling forward into Taehyung’s arms.

 

A sob ripped from Taehyung’s throat as he cradled the unconscious man. Namjoon hurried over, his face etched with alarm, and together they lifted Jungkook’s limp form, carrying him through the deep snow back to the waiting motorcar. Taehyung climbed into the back seat, pulling Jungkook against him, holding him close as Namjoon sped through the storm back to the Jeon mansion. The entire way, Taehyung tore his own gloves off, frantically rubbing Jungkook’s ice-cold hands between his own, trying to impart some warmth, some life back into them.

 

---

 

Upon their frantic arrival at the mansion, they half-carried, half-dragged Jungkook up the stairs and into the master bedroom. The house, once a place of cold silence, was now filled with a tense, urgent energy. With efficient, worried movements, Namjoon worked to strip Jungkook of his frozen, snow-soaked outer clothes and his suit, replacing them with dry, warm sleepwear.

 

Meanwhile, Taehyung fell to his knees before the cold hearth, his hands shaking as he arranged kindling and logs. He struck a match, the small flame flaring to life, and held it to the tinder until it caught. He nursed the fledgling fire carefully, blowing on it gently until the flames grew stronger, licking hungrily at the dry wood. Soon, a robust, crackling fire was blazing in the fireplace, its golden light and life-giving heat beginning to push back the deathly chill of the room, casting dancing shadows over the still form of the master in the large bed.

The heavy front door clicked shut behind Namjoon, sealing the mansion once more in silence, though now it was a silence fraught with the aftermath of panic. Taehyung leaned against the door for a moment, his heart still hammering against his ribs. The image of Jungkook, pale and lifeless in the snow, flashed behind his eyes. What if they had been late? The thought was a cold blade twisting in his gut. He couldn't bear to finish it.

 

Taking a steadying breath, he turned and climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. He pushed the door to Jungkook's room open. The space was now warm, the fire crackling heartily in the hearth, its glow washing over the dark wood and rich fabrics. Jungkook was tucked securely beneath a mountain of blankets, only his face visible, pale against the white pillows.

 

Taehyung quietly pulled the wooden chair closer to the bedside and sat down. The frantic energy of the rescue had faded, leaving behind a profound, aching stillness. He simply looked at the man's face, so serene in unconsciousness. The sharp, aristocratic lines were softened by the warm light, the furrow of pain and grief finally smoothed from his brow.

 

He was still so beautiful. Even like this, drained and vulnerable, his presence filled the room, and Taehyung's heart along with it. He reached out, his fingers hesitating just inches from Jungkook's cheek, before he pulled back, curling his hand into a fist on his lap. He would keep watch. He would make sure the master was warm, that he breathed easy. It was all he could do, and so he would do it through the night.

Exhaustion eventually pulled Taehyung into a fitful sleep, his head resting against the high back of the wooden chair, his body angled toward the bed. He woke with a stiff neck just as the first grey light of dawn filtered through the windows. Jungkook was still asleep, his breathing deeper and more even now. Taehyung didn't move, he just watched, ensuring every breath was taken.

 

Just then, a dry, rasping cough shook Jungkook's frame. His eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim light, confused and disoriented. His gaze landed on Taehyung, sitting vigil beside him.

 

"Sir," Taehyung said softly, hurriedly getting up. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. "Here, please drink." Gently, he slid an arm behind Jungkook's back, helping him sit up. Jungkook winced; every muscle ached with a deep, fiery pain, and a feverish heat radiated from his skin.

 

After a few sips, Jungkook's hoarse voice broke the silence. "How... how did you find me?"

 

"You did not return home, sir," Taehyung explained, his voice low with residual worry. "I called the firm, but it was dark. I got so worried... I went out to look for you. I met the guard, who suggested you might be with Mister Kim. Mister Kim... he was the one who knew where to look. He drove us to the cemetery."

 

A profound silence followed his words. Taehyung gently laid him back down. "I will make you some soup," he said, excusing himself quietly and slipping out of the room.

 

Alone, Jungkook stared at the ceiling, Taehyung's simple explanation echoing in his fever-hazed mind. He had gone out into the storm. Taehyung had braved that blizzard for him. He hadn't just sent someone; he had gone himself. He'd enlisted Namjoon's help, tracked him down, and then... he had sat here all night. He hadn't retreated to the safety and warmth of his own room. He had stayed. In case Jungkook needed someone.

 

Why?

 

The question was a drumbeat in his chest, which was beginning to pound again, and not from the fever. John was his servant too. Miss Edith cared for him. But they had not come. Only Taehyung. Only Taehyung had that specific look of sheer terror in his eyes when he found him. Only Taehyung would now be in the kitchen, making soup with his own hands.

 

A terrifying, thrilling possibility bloomed in his mind, fragile and dizzying. Is it possible... does he feel for me what I am beginning to feel for him?

 

The thought was as frightening as it was exhilarating. His carefully constructed walls, the barriers he had fortified after Hikari, seemed to turn to sand whenever Taehyung was near. I can't do this. This cannot happen. Why is this happening? His mind spiraled, a chaotic mix of guilt, desire, and sheer panic.

 

The door creaked open. Taehyung returned, holding a steaming ceramic bowl carefully. He sat back on the chair, his focus entirely on Jungkook. He dipped the spoon into the soup and brought it forward.

 

Jungkook’s eyes, however, weren't on the spoon. They were fixed on Taehyung's face—the gentle concentration, the worry in his brow. He absently parted his lips and took the spoonful.

 

A sharp, pained hiss escaped him as the scalding liquid touched his tongue. He recoiled slightly.

 

"Oh! Forgive me, sir! I am so sorry!" Taehyung gasped, his eyes widening in alarm. "It is too hot."

 

Flustered, Taehyung dipped the next spoonful himself. This time, he brought it to his own lips first, pursing them slightly, and blew a soft, careful stream of air to cool the broth.

 

Jungkook watched, utterly transfixed. His eyes lingered on Taehyung's lips, on the tender, intimate action meant solely for his comfort. The spiral of thoughts in his mind became a whirlwind. The walls didn't just crumble; they shattered.

 

Taehyung, oblivious to the internal storm he was causing, brought the now-cooled spoon to Jungkook's mouth, his eyes full of nothing but sincere concern.

Chapter 12: The masquerade

Notes:

HE CONFESSED. BOGUM MENTIONED 🎀😝

The grand hall of the Jeon mansion was a testament to Georgian opulence, a vast, double-height space designed for exactly this kind of spectacle. Two magnificent crystal chandeliers, each holding dozens of unlit candles, hung from an ornate plasterwork ceiling medallion. The walls were paneled in dark, polished oak, and between them, heavy burgundy damask drapes were tied back with thick silk cords to reveal the large, snow-framed windows.

 

Taehyung stood in the center of the organized chaos, a silent, aching figure amidst the bustling activity. His heart felt like a lead weight in his chest, each beat a dull reminder of Jungkook’s cold dismissal.

 

Around him, a team of hired decorators and the mansion's footmen worked under his quiet direction. A team of two was on tall ladders, carefully dusting every crystal prism of the chandeliers before the candles would be lit later. Another group was unrolling a vast, exquisite Persian rug over the polished parquet floor, its intricate patterns in gold and crimson meant to complement the room’s grandeur. The most prominent feature was the long, mahogany dining table, which was being extended to its full length. It was being draped in a pristine white linen cloth so fine it felt like gossamer, while a separate team polished the sterling silver candelabras and place settings that would soon adorn it.

 

"Be careful with that epergne," Taehyung instructed, his voice soft but firm, as a footman carried an elaborate silver centerpiece. "It's a family heirloom." The man nodded, handling it with renewed reverence.

 

Taehyung’s eyes scanned the room, ensuring every detail was perfect for his master’s guests. He supervised it all with a quiet efficiency that masked his inner turmoil. He directed the placement of fresh green garlands of ivy and holly along the mantelpiece and the staircase banister, their berries like drops of blood against the dark wood. He approved the arrangement of tall, beeswax taper candles in their silver holders.

 

Yet, with every decision he made, he was painfully aware of for whom he was doing this. He was polishing the silver that Jungkook’s important, high-society guests would use. He was fluffing the cushions that lords and ladies would sit upon. He was ensuring the wine was decanted for wealthy businessmen.

 

He was, as Jungkook’s recent behavior had so brutally reminded him, merely the steward. The invisible hand that prepared the stage for his master to shine upon, a man who could not even bear to look at him. The distance between them had never felt wider, the divide of class never more absolute, and Taehyung’s yearning heart ached with the cruel, beautiful futility of his love. He sighed, the sound lost in the clatter of silver and the rustle of linen, and continued his work.

For the entire week leading up to the dinner, Jungkook's mind had been in disarray, his insides a tangled mess of conflict. He, a man who always knew precisely what to do and when, now found himself utterly lost. This internal struggle was unlike anything he had ever faced.

 

On one hand, he could not bear to let go of Hikari's memory, a sacred shrine of grief and love within him. On the other, a relentless force was causing his carefully constructed walls to crumble. And that force was a man—his own steward. He was not supposed to feel a spreading warmth when Taehyung's melodious laugh rang through the hallways of the Jeon mansion, halls that had been silent and dead since Hikari. He was not supposed to feel anything for Taehyung at all.

 

But here he was, trapped in a silent war with himself, agonizingly contemplating the unthinkable: whether it was acceptable to fall in love again. He searched for every absurd reason to explain away the unfamiliar pull in his chest, the involuntary glance toward the door whenever he heard a certain footstep, the way his breath caught not from grief, but from something terrifyingly akin to hope.

The Daimler purred through the gathering dusk of Edinburgh. The streets were bathed in the hazy, orange glow of gas lamps, their light reflecting off the wet, gleaming cobblestones from a recent shower. They navigated the wide, elegant avenues of the New Town, passing stately Georgian buildings whose windows were beginning to shine with warm, inviting light.

 

Namjoon and Jungkook sat in a heavy silence, the only sound the steady hum of the engine. The dinner was at seven, and it was already six; Jungkook needed to be at the mansion to receive his guests.

 

"Sir," Namjoon began, his eyes on the road ahead, "I think you have been somewhat... conflicted for the past few days."

 

"There is no such thing, Kim," Jungkook replied, his voice flat as he stared out the window at the passing city, refusing to acknowledge the truth of the statement.

 

"I only think, sir," Namjoon continued gently, "that one should not restrict their heart. It is not good for the soul."

 

Jungkook turned from the window, his brows furrowed in a mixture of irritation and defensiveness. "Who is restricting their heart?"

 

"I am saying it just in general, sir," Namjoon clarified, clearing his throat and focusing intently on his driving.

 

Just then, they passed an elite dressing boutique, its window a brilliant cube of light in the twilight. Displayed on a lone, elegant mannequin was a breathtaking men's costume for a masquerade ball.

 

The suit was a masterpiece of deep sapphire velvet, cut in a style that blurred the lines between masculine and feminine. It had a fitted, corset-like bodice that tapered to a narrow waist, adorned with subtle silver embroidery that swirled like frost. The real astonishment was the collar and cuffs, which were not of plain fabric, but were delicately embellished with dozens of small, shimmering sapphire and clear rhinestones that caught the light and scattered it into a thousand tiny rainbows. It was bold, artistic, and utterly captivating.

 

Jungkook's breath caught in his throat. His conflicted heart, the very subject of their conversation, seemed to leap toward the window.

 

"Stop the car," he commanded, his voice sharp and sudden.

 

Namjoon, surprised, immediately applied the brakes, bringing the motorcar to a smooth halt just past the boutique. He looked at Jungkook, whose gaze was locked on the dazzling, gem-encrusted suit in the window, his expression one of stunned, yearning fascination.

Without a word, Jungkook opened the car door and stepped into the boutique. The bell above the door chimed softly. He went straight to the display, his fingers, usually so sure and steady, hesitating before they brushed against the exquisite sapphire velvet. The stones felt cool and smooth under his touch. As he examined the delicate silver embroidery, an image flashed in his mind: not of himself at the ball, but of Taehyung. He saw those warm, honey eyes wide with surprise, the elegant line of his neck against the gem-encrusted collar, the way the lights would catch in the stones and make him glow.

 

Without a second thought, he turned to the astounded shopkeeper. "I'll take it. And a pair of gloves to match. The finest you have." The transaction was swift and silent.

 

Back in the car, Namjoon eyed the large, elegant box now resting on the seat between them. "Sir, are you... are you going to wear that? I'm afraid that's not quite your usual taste."

 

Jungkook said nothing, his gaze fixed ahead, a silent storm of resolve and confusion warring within him.

 

---

 

They arrived at the mansion with moments to spare. The transformation was breathtaking. The grand hall glittered under the light of the crystal chandeliers, now ablaze with countless candles. The long mahogany table was a vision of opulence, set with gleaming silver, sparkling crystal, and vibrant floral arrangements. The Persian rug, the polished surfaces, the tasteful garlands—every detail was perfect.

 

Namjoon let out a low, impressed whistle. "It looks magnificent, sir."

 

Jungkook, equally stunned, sought out Miss Edith, who was giving final instructions to a server. "Edith, this is... exceptional. You've outdone yourself."

 

"Oh, no, sir," she said, shaking her head with a warm smile. "This was all Taehyung. He supervised every last detail. He was so careful, so particular about making everything perfect for you and your guests."

 

Jungkook’s heart clenched. Of course it was him. He held out the large box from the boutique. "Then please, give this to him. Tell him..." He paused, the words feeling both terrifying and right. "Tell him he is to attend the dinner as a guest tonight, not as a steward. He has more than earned the right to enjoy the fruits of his labor. See that he gets this."

 

---

 

Edith carried the box up to the servants' quarters and knocked on Taehyung's door. He opened it, a journal still in his hand, his expression softening into a warm smile when he saw her. "Miss Edith? Is everything alright?"

 

"More than alright, dear," she said, her eyes twinkling as she handed him the heavy box. "The master sent this. He told me to tell you that you are to attend the dinner as a guest tonight. He said you've done a wonderful job and you should enjoy it."

 

Taehyung stared at the box, then at her, completely bewildered. "As... as a guest? I don't understand." Slowly, numbly, he took the box from her hands.

Taehyung stood frozen before the open box, the sapphire velvet suit spilling across his narrow bed like a midnight dream. The sheer opulence of it was dizzying. He reached out a tentative hand, his work-roughened fingers hovering just above the fabric, afraid to touch it. Each stitch was impossibly fine, each tiny sapphire and clear rhinestone meticulously set into the silver embroidery, catching the dim light of his small room and scattering it into prisms. It was a garment for a prince, for a figure of fantasy and art, not for a steward. It likely cost more than his annual salary.

 

A war waged within him. Confusion rose like a bitter tide. Why? After a week of cold shoulders, of dismissive glances, of being treated as if he were merely a piece of the furniture—why this? The whiplash was brutal and unsettling. Was this some cruel joke? A way to further highlight the vast, uncrossable chasm between their stations? To give him a taste of a finery he could never truly possess?

 

But beneath the confusion, beneath the hurt, a treacherous, hopeful flutter began in his chest. It was a fragile, desperate thing. He saw this… and he thought of me. The thought was intoxicating. Jungkook, amidst his important business, his high-society worries, had seen this exquisite, unique suit and his mind had flown not to a lord or a lady, but to him. He had chosen it. He had purchased it. For him.

 

The two emotions—the ache of rejection and the thrill of this specific, beautiful attention—twisted together, leaving him breathless. He looked from the magnificent suit to his own reflection in the small, cloudy mirror on his wall: a man in simple, worn sleep clothes, his face pale with shock. Could he dare to step into that vision? And what would it mean if he did?

 

With a trembling breath, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, he began to undress.

The grand hall was a whirl of opulent sound and scent, a symphony of clinking champagne flutes, the rustle of expensive fabrics, and the low, cultured hum of conversation. The air itself smelled of fine French perfume, beeswax polish, and the faint, sweet smoke of cigars from the gentlemen’s cloaks. It was a masquerade, and the mystery hung thick in the air. Upon arrival, each guest had been presented with an elegant mask—feathered, bejeweled, or simple black velvet—heightening the intrigue and allowing identities to playfully blur behind a veneer of anonymity.

 

Jungkook moved through the throng with the practiced ease of a man born to this world, yet his eyes constantly scanned the room, searching for one figure amidst the sea of disguised guests. He had not seen Taehyung. A knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach. Had he been too bold? Had the gift, meant as an olive branch, been perceived as an insult? He didn't know if he had done right or wrong; he had only acted on the overwhelming impulse to see Taehyung adorned in something as beautiful as he was.

 

He himself was the picture of masculine, understated elegance. He wore a tailored black tuxedo of the finest wool, its lines sharp and impeccable. The jacket was single-breasted with a satin shawl collar that caught the light softly. His trousers had a perfect, razor-sharp crease, and his crisp white dress shirt was fastened with simple onyx studs. There was no flamboyance, only the supreme confidence of impeccable taste and breeding. A simple, sleek black domino mask covered his eyes, but did little to conceal the handsome, severe lines of his jaw and the intense, searching gaze he cast over the glittering assembly. He was the elegant, young master of the house, the undisputed center of this universe, yet he felt utterly unmoored, waiting for a single, sapphire-clad star to appear.

Just as he was exchanging pleasantries with a group of new business partners, a figure appeared in the large, open doorway of the grand hall. Jungkook’s words died on his lips. It wasn’t the stunning sapphire velvet that made his breath catch; it was the eyes. Even from across the room, half-obscured by a delicate silver mask adorned with a single sapphire at the corner, he would know those eyes anywhere. They held a unique warmth, a honeyed depth that could be found in no other. He would recognize them in a crowd, in a lifetime, in any universe. It was Taehyung.

 

Taehyung entered the hall hesitantly, the grandeur of the scene striking him like a physical blow. Immediately, a cold wave of regret washed over him. This was a mistake. He should have stayed in his room. He didn't belong here, amidst this glittering, perfumed world of effortless privilege. He was an imposter, a ghost at the feast, and the exquisite suit he wore felt less like a gift and more like a costume highlighting his own inadequacy.

 

He gulped, his throat tight. He knew no one. The laughter and conversation swirled around him, a language he didn't speak. He moved along the periphery of the room, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his nails digging half-moons into his sweating palms.

 

So what if he was wearing the finest suit money could buy? It was a cruel illusion. Wearing the clothes of the elite did not make him one of them. Their easy confidence, their casual grace, the way they held a champagne flute—it was all a birthright he could never claim. His own movements felt stiff and unnatural, his posture too formal, his gaze too wary. He was a painting that had been hung in the wrong gallery, and he was certain everyone could see it. The beautiful suit suddenly felt like a cage, and the mask, a means to hide his burning shame.

Just then, as he tried to melt into the shadows of an enormous potted fern, his shoulder bumped squarely into another. The contact was firm, unyielding.

 

"I apologize," Taehyung said abruptly, panic lacing his voice as he took a quick step back, his head bowed slightly.

 

The man he had bumped into turned. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in an impeccably tailored tuxedo of deep charcoal grey, the fabric rich and subtly textured. A crisp white waistcoat peeked from beneath his jacket, fastened with mother-of-pearl buttons. His mask was not flamboyant but spoke of understated power: a half-mask of black velvet that perfectly followed the strong, masculine lines of his brow and cheekbones, leaving a firm, unsmiling mouth visible.

 

But it was his scent that struck Taehyung most potently—a sophisticated, clean blend of sandalwood, crisp bergamot, and the faint, expensive bite of fine whisky. It was the scent of old money, confidence, and a world Taehyung could only observe from the outside. The man’s masked gaze felt heavy, assessing him from head to toe with a cool, unnerving intensity that made Taehyung’s skin prickle. He did not speak, merely offering a slow, slight nod of acknowledgment before turning away, leaving Taehyung feeling even more exposed and out of place than before.

"Think nothing of it. One can hardly navigate such a crush without the occasional collision," the man said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. A faint, condescending smile touched his lips, less about warmth and more about acknowledging a social nicety.

 

Taehyung's face burned. The man's effortless poise only magnified his own perceived clumsiness. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here.

 

Taehyung offered a hesitant nod, his eyes already darting away to continue their frantic search.

 

"You appear rather disoriented," the man observed, his masked gaze lingering on Taehyung with analytical interest. "Might you be seeking a particular acquaintance?"

 

"No," Taehyung managed, straining to inject a note of casual assurance into his voice, though it rang hollow to his own ears.

 

"Perhaps you would permit me the pleasure of fetching you a drink?" the man inquired, his tone impeccably polite yet underscored with an air of unshakable entitlement.

 

"Oh, I must beg your pardon," Taehyung replied swiftly, the words tumbling out. "I am expected elsewhere presently. But you are very kind."

 

The man offered a brief, shallow nod of acknowledgment, a clear dismissal, before turning and disappearing into the throng with the ease of one who truly belonged.

Jungkook stood amidst a circle of important-looking men, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid held loosely in his hand. Even with half his face obscured by the sleek black domino mask, he was devastatingly handsome. The mask accentuated the sharp, perfect line of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze as he listened to one of the men speak. A faint, polite smile played on his lips, but it was the air of effortless authority that surrounded him, the way he commanded the space without even trying, that made Taehyung's heart beat in a frantic, painful rhythm against his ribs.

 

The sight was both a relief and a fresh agony. Instead of moving toward him, Taehyung’s courage failed. He turned and found a small, lone table tucked away in an alcove, partially obscured by the grand sweep of a curtain. He sank into the chair, feeling utterly defeated. He should just leave.

 

Jungkook wasn't even aware of his presence. Why would he care? This suit, this invitation—it was probably just a token of appreciation, a rich man's reward for a servant who had saved his life. Nothing more. Taehyung scoffed quietly to himself, a bitter sound lost in the din of the party. For the first time, he felt Jungkook was a truly ridiculous man, playing with feelings he didn't understand.

 

Just then, his thoughts were interrupted. A woman, elegant in a gown of emerald silk, her face hidden behind a mask of black lace and peacock feathers, glided up to Jungkook's group. She touched his arm lightly, drawing his attention away from the businessmen. She smiled up at him, saying something Taehyung couldn't hear, then gestured toward the dance floor with a graceful tilt of her head. She was asking him for a dance.

Jungkook’s eyes had been locked on Taehyung from the moment he’d entered, a sapphire ghost in the periphery of his vision. He’d seen the clumsy collision with Park Bogum, the young master of the esteemed Park house. He’d seen them exchange words, seen Bogum’s infuriatingly gentle smile. A hot, possessive coil tightened in his gut, but he’d chosen to ignore it, his expression a mask of cold indifference. He tracked every hesitant step Taehyung took, every anxious glance.

 

And then he saw it—the way Taehyung’s eyes, even from across the room, followed the woman in emerald who was buzzing around him. There was a clear, sharp irritation in that gaze, a flicker of something far more potent than simple annoyance. It amused him. A dark, playful idea took root. Let’s play a little game.

 

With a charm he could summon at will, Jungkook turned his full attention to the woman. “A dance would be most diverting,” he said, his voice a low murmur. He took her hand, his grip firm and assured, and led her onto the polished floor. As the music swelled, he pulled her close, one hand settling possessively on the small of her waist. He was the picture of aristocratic grace, but his eyes were not on his partner. They were fixed on Taehyung, watching for the reaction.

 

He saw it instantly. Taehyung’s posture stiffened. The hurt and sheer, blazing jealousy that flashed in his eyes, even from behind the mask, was more potent than the finest champagne. It was a raw, unguarded emotion that thrilled Jungkook, feeding his amusement and a deeper, more complicated satisfaction.

 

Just then, he saw Park Bogum approach Taehyung’s isolated table. He watched the exchange, his own smile freezing as Bogum evidently asked for a dance. He saw Taehyung’s hesitation, the internal war on his face. Then, a resolve seemed to settle over him. Taehyung gave a gentle, almost defiant nod and placed his gloved hand in Bogum’s.

 

A different, colder fire ignited in Jungkook’s veins. The game had suddenly become far less amusing. The sight of Taehyung’s hand in another man’s, his body being led to the dance floor by Bogum, of all people, made the possessive coil in his gut snap taut. His own steps with the woman in green became automatic, his focus entirely consumed by the two figures now moving together on the other side of the ballroom.

What bothered Jungkook, scraping against his nerves like a blade, was a specific, well-known fact within their circle: everyone knew Park Bogum’s preferences leaned decidedly toward men. He was notorious for it. And now that man’s hand was resting on the small of Taehyung’s waist, guiding him in a gentle, swaying motion.

 

"My name is Park Bogum," the man said, bending his head down to speak close to Taehyung’s ear. Jungkook’s grip on his own partner tightened infinitesimally as he watched the intimate proximity, the way Bogum’s lips were nearly brushing Taehyung’s skin.

 

Why was this bothering him? The question was a furious, silent scream in his mind. He was not into men. Taehyung meant nothing to him. He was a servant, a temporary fascination. So why did the sight make his blood feel like ice and fire simultaneously? And worse, he saw it—the faint, familiar blush creeping up Taehyung’s neck, visible even in the dim, festive light. But it wasn’t for him. It was for another man, whose arms were now holding him.

 

Taehyung only offered a hesitant nod to Bogum’s introduction. What else could he say? ‘I am Kim Taehyung, the steward of this very house’? The lie of his presence here was already a suffocating weight.

 

"You seem to be really beautiful," Bogum murmured, his voice low enough to be for Taehyung’s ears only.

 

However, all Taehyung could think about was the searing image burned into his mind: Jungkook’s strong hand on that woman’s waist, the easy way they moved together.

 

"What is your name?" Bogum asked again, persistent.

 

But that was the precise moment the dance’s pattern dictated a change. The music swelled, and partners were exchanged in an elegant, spinning turn. As Taehyung was guided away from Bogum, the momentum sent him stumbling—not into another anonymous guest, but directly, forcefully, into a solid, familiar chest.

 

He looked up, and his breath vanished.

 

The sleek black domino mask did little to hide the storm of emotions in the eyes glaring down at him. The scent of sandalwood and fine whisky—his scent—filled Taehyung’s senses. He had collided with Jungkook. The music seemed to fade into a distant hum as they stood frozen, the world narrowing to the two of them, the heat of the contact, and the electric, furious tension crackling between them.

Jungkook’s arm snapped around him like a vice, his hand splayed against the small of Taehyung’s back, pulling him flush against his chest. The air left Taehyung’s lungs in a soft gasp. One of his gloved hands was captured in Jungkook’s firm grip, the other came to rest tentatively on Jungkook’s shoulder. They began to move, a slow, deliberate sway that was entirely at odds with the frantic tempo of Taehyung’s heart.

 

The world blurred around them, the other dancers fading into a swirl of color and sound. All Taehyung could feel was the solid strength of Jungkook’s body, the heat searing through the layers of their clothing.

 

“So you came,” Jungkook said, his voice a low murmur meant only for him.

 

“You wanted me to, sir,” Taehyung replied, the words coming out with a brashness he didn't recognize in himself. There was a sharp, defiant edge to his tone that he had never dared use with the master before.

 

Jungkook’s steps faltered for a fraction of a second. He looked down, his masked gaze sharp with surprise. “Are you forgetting I am your master?” he asked, his voice dropping even lower, a dangerous, silken thread as his hold on Taehyung’s waist tightened possessively.

 

Taehyung’s heart hammered against his ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage. But the boldness, born of hurt and jealousy, held firm. He met Jungkook’s gaze, a small, challenging smile playing on his lips. “Are you forgetting I was invited as a guest tonight, sir?” he countered.

 

He didn’t know where the words were coming from, only that the heat of Jungkook’s hand and the memory of him with another was fueling a fire within him.

 

A slow, knowing smirk curved Jungkook’s lips beneath the mask. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Taehyung’s ear. “You didn’t quite like her in my arms.”

 

Taehyung said nothing. He simply looked away, his jaw tightening, but the furious blush that stained his cheeks beneath the mask was a confession louder than any words.

"I need to go back," Taehyung said abruptly, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer contain. He halted their dance, pulling his hand from Jungkook's grasp as if burned. "I have to sleep and work again tomorrow."

 

The fantasy was shattering. The music, the lights, the feel of Jungkook's arms—it was all becoming too much, too painful. He didn't belong here. Tomorrow, he would wake up, and Jungkook would treat him with cold indifference once more. Tomorrow, Jungkook would retreat behind the fortress of his grief for Hikari. Tomorrow, Taehyung would be brutally reminded that a master and his steward could never be.

 

The thought was a physical ache, a crack widening in his chest until he could hardly breathe. Hot, traitorous tears welled in his eyes, blurring the glittering ballroom. He couldn't let Jungkook see. He turned and hurried out of the hall, a splash of sapphire velvet fleeing the golden light.

 

"Taehyung—" Jungkook called out, confusion knitting his brow. It had been fine a moment ago. He tried to stop him, but Taehyung was already disappearing into the crowd. Without a second thought, Jungkook broke into a run, pushing past startled guests to follow him.

 

Taehyung tore the beautiful, confining mask from his face as he ran, the cool air hitting his tear-streaked cheeks. He didn't stop until he burst through a side door and out into the vast, dark garden.

 

The February night in Edinburgh was brutally cold, the air a sharp, crystalline bite that seared the lungs. A biting wind whipped across the barren grounds, rattling the skeletal branches of the sleeping rose bushes. The moon, a pale, thin sliver, offered little light, casting the world in shades of deep blue and black. The remnants of the earlier snow lay in dirty, frozen patches on the frost-hardened earth. It was a landscape of utter desolation, which mirrored the emptiness inside him perfectly.

 

He stumbled to a stop, his shoulders hunched, his body shaking with silent, wrenching sobs that were torn away by the wind.

 

Jungkook ran out after him, his own breath pluming in great white clouds. His eyes scanned the stark darkness until he found him—a solitary, heartbroken figure crumpled in the middle of the frozen garden.

 

"Taehyung," Jungkook said, his voice softer now, carrying on the frigid air.

 

Taehyung didn't turn. He just stood there, shaking, utterly lost to his grief.

"What is it?" Jungkook demanded, his voice cutting through the bitter wind as he approached. "Why would you run away in such a manner?"

 

"I do not belong there. That is why," Taehyung turned around, swiping at his tears with a harsh, angry motion. His nose was flushed red from the cold and his weeping, his cheeks stained with tears. Under the stark, bright moon, his honey-colored eyes glistened, each tear that fell catching the pale light. He looked utterly shattered, yet to Jungkook’s shame, he had to admit there was a devastating, mesmerizing beauty in his anguish.

 

"I am weary," Taehyung began, his voice trembling but clear, rising with a raw, aristocratic formality that belied his station. "I am exhausted beyond measure of enduring this affliction each day—of reminding myself, without cease, of the insurmountable divide that ensures you and I can never be, sir."

 

He took a shaky breath, the words pouring out like a long-contained flood. "If it were within my power, I would have long since excised my own heart and cast it away, if only to cease this… this torment of loving you. But one cannot command such a thing. One cannot restrict the heart's inclination, no matter how grievous its choices may be. And that… that is the most profound misery of all."

"And I know you are devoted to spending the rest of your life grieving Lady Hikari," Taehyung continued, his voice breaking on her name, "but I cannot help but wish... I cannot silence the part of me that desperately wishes you would devote the rest of your life to a love for me. I know it cannot be." His composure shattered completely, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his impossible desire.

 

Jungkook stood as if turned to stone. The cold night air seemed to still around them. Did Taehyung just confess his love for him?

 

"You speak of a heart shattered by loving one who is not even here," Taehyung wept, the words raw and unfiltered. "What of me, sire? I love someone I see every single day. I serve him his tea, I mend his clothes, I ensure the very roof over his head is sound... and yet the chasm between us is so vast I might as well be loving a star. It breaks me anew each dawn. Every night, I gather the pieces of myself, I try to put myself back together with gentle hands. And every morning, I see your face, and I am utterly undone yet again." He pressed his palms to his face, shame and exhaustion burning through him. He was laid bare now before his master, vulnerable and expecting to be shattered. He expected cold dismissal, to be thrown out, to never see Jungkook again. But he had to say it. Just once.

 

Suddenly, the frigid air around him was replaced by a shocking warmth. A strong arm encircled him, pulling him forward. His head collided with a solid chest, and a firm hand cradled the back of his neck, holding him in place. The world tilted. Jungkook had pulled him into an embrace. It was not gentle, but fierce, almost desperate, as if he were anchoring them both against the storm. The scent of sandalwood and night air filled Taehyung's senses, and for a moment, the world consisted of nothing but the solid beat of Jungkook's heart against his ear and the overwhelming shock of being held.

Jungkook’s own heart ached with a bitter, cruel agony. He held the trembling man tighter, as if he could absorb his pain, even as he inflicted more of his own. The feel of Taehyung against him felt both like a salvation and a condemnation.

 

Was taking Hikari not cruel enough? The thought was a silent scream to a fate he had thought he understood. Had he not paid his penance in grief? Had he not been devoted to his loss? Why now was he being tested like this? Why was he being offered a glimpse of a different kind of life, a different kind of love, only to have duty, memory, and the entire structure of his world scream that it was forbidden?

 

To feel this pull, this terrifying, exhilarating need for his own steward—a man—was a torment he didn't know how to navigate. To admit it would be to betray the love he had sworn was eternal. To deny it felt like tearing out a part of his own soul that had only just begun to wake

Chapter 13: I want to leave but also stay

Notes:

Double update today because 😭 I writing is therapeutic for me.
I hope you guys like where the story is going.
thank you for your support dearest readers.💗

The course of true love never did run smooth.

___________ William Shakespeare 

 

The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on Taehyung’s chest until he could barely breathe. He felt utterly ridiculous, laid bare. He had stripped his soul naked in front of Jungkook, sobbing out a love that was never meant to be spoken. And Jungkook… Jungkook had pitied him. That hug wasn’t an acceptance; it was a mercy offered to a breaking servant.

 

He couldn’t stay. He would suffocate on the memory of his own humiliation.

 

As the first grey light of dawn filtered through his small window, Taehyung finished packing his single, worn suitcase. He sat at his small desk, his hand trembling as he scribbled a few formal lines on a piece of paper.

 

To Master Jeon, Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from the post of steward. I thank you for your kindness during my employment. Sincerely, Kim Taehyung.

 

The words were sterile, giving nothing away. They were the absolute opposite of the torrent of emotion he’d unleashed hours before.

 

He took the letter and went to find Miss Edith, finding her in the morning room with her tea.

 

“Miss Edith,” he said, his voice unnaturally calm. “I must give you this.”

 

She took the letter, her eyes scanning the words. Her kindly face immediately furrowed with concern. “Taehyung? What is this? Why?”

 

“I… I wish to leave. To visit a friend. I miss them,” he lied, the words tasting like ash. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

 

“A friend? But…” she trailed off, studying his pale, determined face. She sighed softly. “If that is your wish, dear, then you must give this to Master Jeon yourself. It is only proper.”

 

Taehyung’s heart plummeted. Face him? Now? After last night? The embarrassment was so acute it felt like a fever. But he nodded, his throat too tight to speak. There was no other way.

 

He walked the long, familiar hallways to Jungkook’s room, each step feeling like a march to the gallows. He knocked softly on the heavy wood.

 

“Come in.” The voice from the other side was cold, clipped.

 

Taehyung pushed the door open. Jungkook was standing before his mirror, his back to the door, finishing his attire for the day. He was buttoning a finely tailored waistcoat over his crisp white shirt, his posture rigid and unapproachable.

 

Taehyung bowed slightly, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Sir,” he whispered.

 

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to Taehyung’s reflection in the mirror for a brief second before returning to his task. “What is it?”

 

With a trembling hand, Taehyung stepped forward and held out the folded letter. “This is for you, sir.”

 

Jungkook finished with the last button and finally turned, plucking the paper from Taehyung’s fingers. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the short, formal lines. For a second, he was completely still, his expression unreadable. Then, he processed it.

 

“What is this?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

 

“It is… it is my resignation letter, sir. I wish to leave the mansion. To retire from this job.” Taehyung’s own voice was a thin, reedy thing.

 

“Why?” The single word was like a shard of ice.

 

“I… I just must, sir. I cannot stay.” Taehyung’s composure began to crack. He could feel the hot press of tears behind his eyes, the familiar ache building in his throat.

 

“You are not allowed to leave,” Jungkook stated, his tone flat and final, as if discussing the weather. He crumpled the letter slightly in his hand.

 

The cold dismissal, the utter lack of regard for his feelings, was the final blow. A sob broke free from Taehyung’s lips. “Please, sir,” he begged, his voice breaking completely. Tears streamed down his face now, unchecked. “Please, you must let me go. I am begging you. I cannot be here anymore. Every second is agony. Please, just let me leave.”

 

He was crumbling right there on the Persian rug, his shoulders shaking, his entire being laid waste by a love that had nowhere to go. He was a servant begging for his freedom from a master who held his heart captive without even wanting it.

 

Jungkook watched him, his face a mask of distant, impenetrable coldness, offering no comfort, no understanding, only the stark, unyielding authority of his station. The gulf between them had never seemed wider, or more cruel.

The cold authority in Jungkook’s voice fractured, replaced by a tone of raw, aristocratic incredulity. “You stand before me, having bared your soul and confessed your devotion mere hours ago,” he stated, the words laced with a nobleman’s bruised pride, “and now you present me with this… this letter of resignation? You wish to take your leave?”

 

Taehyung kept his back turned, a servant’s posture even in his defiance. “It is an unrequited affection, sir,” he whispered, the title a formality that underscored the distance between them. “It is a path that leads to no destination but an abyss. Before that darkness claims me entirely… I must take my leave.”

 

He moved to go, but a firm, unyielding hand encircled his wrist, not with brutality, but with the commanding grip of a master.

 

“I am a fractured man, Taehyung,” Jungkook’s voice was a low, strained admission, the cadence of his class giving weight to the confession. “These walls around my heart were constructed to be impregnable—a fortress to ensure I never again endure the loss I suffered with Hikari. My heart is a tangled web of grief and… something else I find myself terrified to give name to.” He drew a sharp, unsteady breath. “But the notion of your departure… it is an untenable prospect. It feels akin to a fresh bereavement. You will not leave. You will remain at my side. You gave me your word that you would always serve.”

 

Serve. The word echoed, a bitter reminder of his station. That was his only purpose. Yet, the sheer, shattered quality in Jungkook’s usually imperious tone was his undoing. His heart gave a painful, traitorous throb. His resolve crumbled, his feet becoming leaden, refusing to carry him from the room.

 

He remained, a statue of conflicted anguish.

 

Then, the world shifted. Two arms, strong and sure, wrapped around his waist from behind, pulling him back against the solid expanse of a chest clad in fine wool and linen. Taehyung’s breath caught. Jungkook rested his chin on Taehyung’s shoulder, his voice a hushed, intimate murmur fit for a confessional.

 

“I cannot promise I shall ever be capable of loving you in the manner you merit. I cannot swear I will ever fully relinquish Hikari’s memory,” he avowed, each word a carefully measured concession. “But of this, I am certain… I will not tolerate your absence from my side.”

 

Taehyung felt the faint, warm proof of tears against his skin.

 

“Fate is a cruel artisan, Taehyung,” Jungkook breathed, his voice crumbling at the edges with a raw, unvarnished pain he would never show another soul. “Look upon the wretched masterpiece it has made of us.”

Taehyung wiped his face roughly with the sleeve of his shirt, the simple cotton a stark contrast to the fine fabrics surrounding them. He then turned around, his gaze lifting to meet Jungkook's. His eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, held a devastating vulnerability.

 

"So, you are telling me to willingly choose death, sir?" Taehyung asked, his voice barely a whisper, the honorific a painful formality.

 

"You have beautiful eyes," Jungkook murmured, his own voice thick. He reached out, and with a tenderness that belied his earlier coldness, he wiped the lingering wetness from Taehyung's cheeks with his thumbs. Taehyung’s eyes fluttered shut at the sudden, intimate contact, a sharp, quiet gasp escaping him.

 

"Is residing by my side truly a living death for you, Taehyung?" Jungkook asked softly, his hands still cradling Taehyung's face.

 

Taehyung let out a watery, broken scoff, a sound caught between a laugh and a sob. This man surely knew the power he wielded. But how could he blame him when his own heart was the greatest traitor? He wanted to leave, to flee, but his feet were rooted, his will broken. He decided, unwillingly, to stay—to exist as a living man shadowed by the ghost of the woman Jungkook would forever love.

 

"Put on my tie for me?" Jungkook whispered, his request a peace offering, a return to a familiar ritual that now held an entirely new, profound meaning.

 

Taehyung nodded, a silent acceptance of his complicated fate. He fetched the silk tie from the wardrobe and returned. Standing close, his fingers worked with a practiced ease, looping and knotting the dark fabric around Jungkook's neck, his focus entirely on the task.

 

Time changes everything. Just a few months ago, Taehyung had stood in this very spot, tying this very tie, feeling a confusing, flustered heat whenever his master was near. Today, he performed the same duty after having bared his soul and confessed a love that would likely forever be unrequited.

 

Jungkook watched him intently, his gaze tracing the delicate line of Taehyung's brow, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. He is so beautiful, Jungkook thought, and the realization made his heart ache with a fresh, sharp pain. Time was such a cruel thing. Months ago, when this same thought—that his steward was beautiful—had first, absurdly, crossed his mind, he had dismissed it instantly. Today, he not only accepted the thought but allowed it to settle heavily in his chest, a permanent, aching truth. He had accepted that this man held a piece of his fractured heart, and it terrified him.

The crisp morning air held a faint bite as Jungkook shrugged into his overcoat, the wool heavy and familiar. Taehyung stood by, a silent, attentive figure against the grand backdrop of the mansion's foyer.

 

"I shall take my leave now," Jungkook stated, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious hall.

 

Taehyung offered a slight, formal nod of acknowledgment. "Very good, sir."

 

Jungkook’s hand was on the polished brass of the door handle when he paused. He half-turned, a seemingly casual afterthought. "How would it be if I were to take you out somewhere today?"

 

Taehyung’s breath caught, his carefully maintained composure faltering for a single, visible second.

 

"Let us visit a suitably agreeable café upon my return from the firm," Jungkook continued, his tone leaving no room for debate, yet carrying an unfamiliar, almost tentative note.

 

"Whatever you require, sir," Taehyung replied, the words automatic, a servant's programmed response, even as his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

 

With a final, unreadable glance, Jungkook stepped out into the grey morning. Taehyung stood frozen until the deep purr of the Daimler's engine faded into the distance, leaving him alone with the thunderous silence of his own racing thoughts. The grand door felt less like an exit and more like a promise hanging in the air.

 

My Dearest Jimin,

 

I fear my heart has led me into a gilded cage of my own making. In a moment of unforgivable weakness, the dam within me broke, and I confessed it all to him—the love that has been my silent companion for so long. I laid my soul bare before my master, and what was his reply? A silence more deafening than any rejection.

 

This morning, with my shame as my only luggage, I resolved to leave. I penned my resignation, my ticket to freedom, to coming to you. I was ready to sever the tie that feels more like a chain.

 

But he… he has a way of unraveling me with a few well-chosen words. He did not accept my resignation. He did not proclaim any love in return. Instead, he spoke of his own brokenness, of walls built around a heart that still belongs to a ghost. He said he does not know what he feels for me, that he may never be able to love me… but that he cannot bear the thought of my absence.

 

And I, the greatest fool in all of Edinburgh, agreed to stay. I chose the agony of his proximity over the peace of distance. Do not blame him entirely, Jimin. My own heart is a traitor, refusing to take the step my mind knows is right.

 

It feels like being poisoned slowly. Each day, I die a little piece at a time. I am a man living in the shadow of a memory, tending to a love that is mine to give, but never his to receive. He offers me crumbs from his table, and I, in my starvation, mistake it for a feast.

 

If it were within my power, I would strike a match and set the very concept of love ablaze. Let it turn to ash and be carried away by the wind. For love is not universally beautiful. Its beauty is a lie to those of us who love without being loved in return. It is a masterpiece painted only for those fortunate enough to have it reflected back at them.

 

I remain here, in this beautiful mansion that is my prison, waiting for him to return… so he can take me to a café.

 

Yours, in sorrow,

Taehyung.

Taehyung sighed, a quiet, weary sound in the stillness of his room. He laid the pen aside, the weight of his confession to Jimin settling upon him. With precise, somber movements, he folded the letter and sealed it within its envelope, entombing his anguish.

 

He sought out Miss Edith in the kitchen, finding solace in the methodical rhythm of her domain. Without a word, he selected a knife and began assisting with the vegetables, the sharp tap-tap-tap against the board a counterpoint to his turbulent thoughts.

 

"Taehyung," she began, her tone carrying a gentle, observational quality.

 

"Yes, Miss Edith?" he replied, glancing up. He offered a smile, but it was a hollow gesture, failing to reach the profound melancholy in his gaze.

 

"It is a peculiar tragedy of fate," she remarked, her hands working a firm dough, "to encounter the right soul, yet at a profoundly wrong time."

 

Taehyung’s knife hesitated for a mere second. "Then what is the purpose of the encounter at all, madam?" he inquired, the formal address underscoring the depth of his despair.

 

"Life's purpose is not solely in possession or achievement, Taehyung," she stated, her voice soft yet certain. "At times, it is in the experience of a profound sentiment, however fleeting. It is the experiencing of a thing that enriches the spirit, not merely its keeping."

 

The knife stilled. "I do not wish for him to be a mere experience," he confessed, the words a raw, quiet fracture in his composure.

 

Miss Edith ceased her work, regarding him with a look of deep empathy. "From the moment you entered this house, I have observed the effect. I have seen the formidable fortifications around Master Jeon's heart begin to show their first cracks. I have noted his gaze... lingering. A man who has endured such a loss requires a considerable period to relearn the architecture of his own heart. He requires time to perceive what is directly before him."

 

Taehyung lowered his eyes, a single, traitorous tear betraying him. "And what if his realization arrives a moment too late?" he whispered, the fear he carried given voice. "That is my terror. That his epiphany will come only once the chance for it has already expired."

 

On the crisp, heavy letterhead of Park & Sons, Solicitors

 

Master Jeon,

 

I hope this letter finds you well following last evening’s most agreeable gathering.

 

I write to you with a matter of some curiosity. During the course of the evening, I had the brief yet striking pleasure of encountering a most intriguing individual. A young gentleman, I should think no more than twenty, possessed of a singularly elegant and refined demeanor.

 

He was attired in a most remarkable ensemble—a suit of the deepest sapphire velvet, I believe, of a most exquisite and unconventional cut, adorned with what appeared to be delicate silver embroidery and a rather dazzling array of gemstones at the collar. A truly singular fashion statement.

 

My curiosity is piqued, for our conversation was, regrettably, cut short. I could not help but observe that you yourself seemed rather intently focused on this same individual, and indeed, followed him with some urgency when he departed the ballroom.

 

I should be immensely grateful if you could satisfy my curiosity. Might you be acquainted with this gentleman? I should be very keen to know his identity and, if it is not too great an imposition, how I might make his further acquaintance.

 

Any intelligence you could provide would be received with the utmost appreciation.

 

Yours, faithfully 

Park Bogum

 

Jungkook’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the fine paper. A cold, possessive fury, sharp and immediate, flared in his gut. The detailed description of his suit, on his Taehyung, being so openly admired and inquired after by a man of Bogum’s known proclivities, felt like a profound violation.

Jungkook scoffed, a short, derisive sound, and flung the elegant letter onto his desk as if it were a piece of refuse. Namjoon stood by, his brow furrowed in confusion.

 

"That insufferable bastard," Jungkook bit out, his jaw clenched so tight the words were barely audible.

 

"Might I inquire as to the nature of the correspondence, sir?" Namjoon asked, his tone carefully neutral.

 

"He is making inquiries regarding Taehyung," Jungkook replied, his voice dangerously flat.

 

"And what of Taehyung, sir?" Namjoon pressed, genuinely perplexed.

 

"You are acutely aware of the situation, Namjoon," Jungkook retorted, his gaze darkening. "The man has taken a… a fancy to him. He now seeks an introduction. He presumes to ask me for such a thing."

 

"Is that not… a favorable thing, sir?" Namjoon ventured, his confusion mounting. It was no secret that Park Bogum's tastes inclined toward men, and Taehyung's beauty was, to any objective observer, undeniable.

 

"How… ridiculously shameless," Jungkook seethed, his composure cracking to reveal the raw possessiveness beneath. "The sheer audacity to write to me directly and demand intelligence on my person."

 

"Pardon, sir?" Namjoon said, the specific phrasing striking him with force. "Your… person?"

 

"My person," Jungkook repeated, his voice dropping to a low, imperious growl as he fixed Namjoon with a piercing stare. "Taehyung is in my employ. He serves this household. He is, by every conceivable measure, my person. Is that not correct, Kim?"

 

The words were not a question but a declaration, a stark, territorial claim laid bare in the quiet of the study.

The Daimler purred through the rain-slicked streets of New Town, its headlights cutting a silent path through the Edinburgh gloom. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with a tense, unspoken anticipation. Taehyung sat stiffly in the passenger seat, his hands clasped in his lap, staring out at the graceful, illuminated facades of the Georgian townhouses. He was wearing the only suit he owned that wasn't his steward's livery—a simple, well-tailored black affair. He felt acutely out of place.

 

Jungkook navigated the streets with a focused intensity, his profile stark and handsome in the intermittent light. He had said little since his quiet command for Taehyung to join him, the invitation to dinner hanging in the air not as a question, but as a fact.

 

The restaurant, The Gilded Thistle, was an institution of hushed exclusivity. A severe-looking maître d' recognized Jungkook instantly and bowed them inside with a murmured, "Master Jeon, your table awaits."

 

The interior was a vision of understated opulence: dark wood paneling, crisp white linens, crystal glassware that caught the light from low-slung art deco chandeliers. The air hummed with the discreet murmur of conversation. Every eye in the room, however subtle, flickered to them as they were led to a secluded corner booth. The sight of the reclusive Master Jeon with a stunning, unknown young man was a spectacle.

 

Once seated, a bottle of exceptionally expensive Bordeaux was brought and poured without a word. Jungkook dismissed the sommelier with a slight nod. He finally looked across the table at Taehyung, who was studying the menu with intense concentration.

 

"Have you a preference?" Jungkook inquired, his voice a low baritone that seemed to absorb the room's noise.

 

"Whatever you deem suitable, sir," Taehyung replied, his eyes still downcast.

 

"Look at me, Taehyung."

 

Taehyung’s gaze flickered up, wide and uncertain.

 

Jungkook held it for a moment before speaking again. "You look remarkably well this evening." The compliment was delivered with a formal grace, yet it felt utterly intimate.

 

A faint blush coloured Taehyung's neck. "You are too kind, sir."

 

The first course arrived—seared scallops on a bed of pea puree. They ate in a silence that was not quite comfortable, but charged.

 

After a sip of wine, Jungkook broke it. "I find myself curious. Do you have an appreciation for poetry? A particular poet you favour?"

 

The question was so unexpected, so divorced from their usual dynamic, that Taehyung nearly faltered. He took a moment to compose his answer.

 

"I find a certain... melancholy resonance in the works of Lord Tennyson, sir," he said, his voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "There is a depth to his verse that I admire."

 

"An interesting choice," Jungkook mused, swirling the wine in his glass. "A preoccupation with loss and longing. Do you find yourself drawn to such themes?"

 

Taehyung dared to meet his eyes. "I believe the most profound art often springs from a place of deep feeling, sir, be it joy or sorrow. It is the honesty that moves me."

 

A ghost of a smile touched Jungkook's lips. "A perceptive analysis."

 

The main course was served, and the conversation continued, weaving through topics of literature and art with a careful, formal elegance. It was a dance, each of them choosing their steps with precision, yet beneath the polished surface, an entirely different conversation was happening in the glances they shared, in the slight tremor in Taehyung's hand as he reached for his glass, in the intense, unwavering focus of Jungkook's attention.

 

The Daimler’s return journey was undertaken in a silence far more comfortable than the one that had begun the evening. It was a silence of shared experience, of a barrier momentarily crossed.

 

The car came to a stop before the mansion. Jungkook turned off the engine, and the quiet of the night descended upon them. He turned to look at Taehyung, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the portico light.

 

"The evening was a most agreeable diversion. Thank you for your company."

 

"The pleasure was entirely mine, sir," Taehyung replied, his voice soft but steady.

 

"Taehyung."

 

The single word held him in place. Jungkook leaned over, closing the small space between them. He did not kiss him. Instead, he reached out and, with a touch so gentle it was almost imperceptible, straightened the lapel of Taehyung's jacket, his knuckles brushing against the fabric over his heart. The gesture was possessively intimate, yet achingly proper.

 

"Goodnight," Jungkook murmured, his voice rough around the edges.

 

Then he withdrew, the moment dissolving.

 

Taehyung alighted from the car, his legs feeling unsteady. He stood in the cool night air and watched the Daimler glide towards the garage, the place where Jungkook’s knuckles had brushed his chest burning like a brand. He was more entangled, more confused, and more hopelessly devoted than ever. The night had been a masterpiece of unspoken words, and his heart was its captive audience.

 

Chapter 14: To whom do I do the biggest apology

Notes:

Hi hi babies.
One thing I want to say is that don't be like how taehyung is in this story. don't keep waiting for someone who is still haunted by the ghosts of their past. Someone who refuses to let go of you but also doesn't accept you. always choose yourself over anyone or anything else.

HERE'S ANOTHER CHAPTER I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.💗

To whom do I owe the biggest apology? No one's been crueller than I have been to me .

___________ Alanis Morissette

 

The knock on the servants’ entrance was unexpected. When Taehyung opened it, the sight of Jimin and Yoongi standing a the door their expressions a mix of worry and determination, was both a balm and a fresh wound.

 

“Jimin? Yoongi?” he breathed, ushering them inside quickly before leading them through the silent, back corridors to the small sanctuary of his room.

 

Once the door was closed, the pretense fell away. Jimin took Taehyung’s hands in his, his artist’s fingers gripping tightly. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, were dark with concern.

 

“We are here to take you away from this place, Taehyung-ah,” Jimin said, his voice soft but urgent, a poet’s plea. “I cannot stand by and watch you let yourself be eroded, day by day, by a love that gives you only shadows in return. You must not allow him to be the architect of your ruin. You must choose yourself. You must come away with us.”

 

Taehyung’s shoulders slumped, the weight of his friend’s words pressing down on him. He looked from Jimin’s determined face to Yoongi’s quiet, supportive one.

 

“I want to,” Taehyung whispered, the confession torn from a deep well of exhaustion. “With every fiber of my being, I see the abyss this path leads to. But I cannot. My feet are shackled not by iron, but by this… this relentless, foolish love. It is a chain of my own forging.” He looked at them, his eyes brimming with a terrible, beautiful agony. “If I stay, I fear I will slowly lose myself. But if I leave… I lose him. And that, somehow, feels like a more final death. So I choose to lose myself.”

 

Jimin’s face tightened with frustration. “Love is not a cage, Taehyung-ah. It is not a shackle. It is meant to be a window, thrown open to the light. If it only hurts you, if it only asks you to diminish yourself… then you must find the strength to pick up a blade and sever it at the root. You must kill it before it kills you.”

 

Yoongi stepped forward then, his voice a low, calming rumble. “He’s right, you know. This isn’t living. It’s a slow decay. Come with us. Let this house hold its ghosts. You don’t have to be one of them.”

 

Taehyung offered a smile so sad it could break a heart. “You speak reason, and my mind knows you are right. But my heart… my heart is a traitor that will not surrender. It clings to a foolish hope that someday, he might finally lay the memories of her to rest. That he might look at me and see not a reminder, but a future.”

 

Seeing the immovable resolve in their friend’s eyes, Jimin and Yoongi shared a look of resigned understanding. The battle was lost.

 

“Then there is nothing more to say,” Jimin sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

 

“Actually,” Taehyung said, a flicker of something else crossing his face—a need for a different kind of connection. “The song I sent you… were you able to decipher it?”

 

Yoongi nodded, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper. “We were. It’s… something else.” He handed it over.

 

Taehyung unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the translated lines, and as he read, his breath caught. The words were not just a love song; they were a desperate, all-consuming ode, a vow written in blood and starlight. It spoke of a love that was a fate, a madness, a homecoming.

 

“Whoever wrote this,” Taehyung murmured, his voice full of awe, “was so very deeply in love. Thank you. Both of you.”

Sometimes, people leave. They exit the world, or they simply exit our lives. In the raw, gaping silence they leave behind, we clutch their memory to our chests as if it were the last ember of a dying fire, convinced our very survival depends on its warmth. In the beginning, the idea of letting go feels like a profound act of betrayal—a blasphemy against the love we shared. How dare anyone, who knows nothing of the sacred space they occupied, suggest we move on? How dare they ask us to forget, to release our grip on the only thing we have left?

 

Yet time, that relentless and impartial healer, does its work. The sharp, jagged edges of our grief are slowly worn smooth. We learn, breath by painful breath, to accept the unacceptable: they are not coming back. We must now learn the architecture of a life built around their absence. The memories, once so vivid they were a torture, begin to soften, to recede into a gentler, more distant past.

 

But then, we meet someone.

 

Someone new who, with a glance or a word, makes our heart perform a forgotten rhythm. And in that thrilling, terrifying moment, the past comes flooding back. Those quieted memories roar to life with a deafening intensity. The love we thought we had carefully laid to rest stirs, and with it comes a swift and punishing tide of guilt. It feels like a betrayal of the highest order. How can we feel this flicker of light for another when we swore our heart belonged to someone else? We are betraying a ghost, a memory—someone who is no longer here to witness it, who likely would not even care. And yet, the guilt is crushing, because our love for them was great, and greatness, we feel, demands a loyalty that extends even beyond the grave.

The fire in the office hearth crackled, its light dancing over the spines of leather-bound ledgers and casting long, shifting shadows across the room. Jungkook sat in his high-backed chair of worn brown leather, a crystal tumbler of amber whisky held loosely in his hand, untouched. On the broad, mahogany desk before him, papers were neatly stacked beside a heavy brass lamp, its green shade casting a pool of light that did little to dispel the gloom in the corners. Outside the large window, the last brittle days of February were giving way to the tentative, damp promise of March, the city lights of Edinburgh beginning to glitter through a faint, chilly mist.

 

A deep, weary sigh escaped him. The turning of the seasons felt like a personal taunt.

 

"I endured the fall without you, Hikari," he murmured to the silent, portrait-lined walls, his voice a hushed, raw thing. "I survived the deep, dark winter. And now, I am to face the spring… all without you." He took a slow breath, the air feeling too thin. "The world, in its endless, indifferent cycle, will continue to bloom and wither. The seasons will return, one after another, faithful and predictable. Yet you alone… you alone will not return."

 

The familiar, hollow ache expanded in his chest, a cold space he had learned to carry with him. But then, unbidden, another image surfaced in his mind’s eye: not of Hikari’s gentle smile, but of Taehyung’s face from that morning—his eyes warm with a concern he tried to hide, the careful way he had set down the tea tray, the slight flush on his cheeks when their fingers had brushed.

 

A soft, almost imperceptible smile touched Jungkook’s lips, a reflex he didn't try to stop. It was a smile that held a complex cocktail of grief, guilt, and a startling, newfound warmth.

 

The realization settled over him, quiet and profound. He had spent the fall and winter consumed by Hikari’s absence. But he had not spent them entirely alone. There had been another presence, a constant, quiet light in the periphery of his grief. Someone who admired him from a respectful distance, whose care was expressed not in grand declarations, but in a thousand unspeakable ways—a perfectly prepared cup of tea, a fire built against the chill, a silent, understanding presence in the dark hallways, the unwavering promise to always stay.

He was not just grieving a loss. He was being offered a lifeline, and for the first time, he was truly allowing himself to see the hand that held it. The ache for the past remained, but it was no longer the only thing he could feel. He took a slow sip of the whisky, its burn a familiar comfort, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames as he contemplated the unsettling, quiet revolution taking place within his own heart.

Taehyung decided to go out with Jimin and Yoongi for the dinner and then come back .

The decision felt both rebellious and necessary. For a few hours, he would not be Master Jeon’s steward; he would simply be Taehyung, out with his friends.

The pub, The Howling Hound, was a comfortable, well-worn establishment tucked away on a cobbled side street. It was the kind of place beloved by university professors, artists, and locals—neither opulent nor poor, but perfectly respectable, with polished brass, dark wood, and the comforting smell of hearty stew and good beer.

 

Jimin, ever the sun, commanded their corner booth. He flagged down the server and ordered a round of dark local ale for them all with the easy confidence of a regular. "And a basket of your chips, extra crispy!" he added with a winning smile.

 

He immediately launched into a story, his hands painting pictures in the air. "Do you remember," he began, his laughter already bubbling under the words, "that time at St. Margaret's, when Sister Agnes caught us trying to sneak a stray dog into the dormitory? We named him Hobbs, right before she tanned our hides!"

 

Taehyung snorted into his ale, the memory vivid and warm. "You were the one holding the squeaking bundle, Jimin! back then I couldn't even see a bit. I was blind remember Jimin all 19 years of my life."

 

Yoongi, the calm moon to Jimin’s sun, took a slow sip of his ale, observing both. yoongi was not so fond of talking.

 

As the laughter subsided, Jimin nudged Yoongi. "Go on, then. Tell him about the new piece. The one you've been muttering about for weeks."

 

Yoongi set his glass down with a soft thud. "It's nothing finished," he demurred, but a spark of passion lit his eyes. "It's just... this city. The way the fog rolls off the Firth of Forth and swallows the castle whole in the morning. The sound of rain on grey slate roofs. I'm trying to capture that... that damp, beautiful melancholy in a cello suite. Call it 'Edinburgh Grey.'"

 

Taehyung found himself laughing, a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign and wonderful. He told them about the eccentric vendors at the Edinburgh market, leaving out any mention of who he was shopping for. For those few hours, the constant, aching weight of his unrequited love was lifted. He was just a young man in his twenties, sharing a meal and easy companionship with his oldest friends. They teased him, they listened to him, and they made him feel, for a precious moment, like himself again—not a servant, not a shadow in love with a ghost, but Kim Taehyung.

 

They stayed until the pub’s windows were black with night and their cheeks ached from smiling. It was a simple, unremarkable evening by most standards, but for Taehyung, it was a lifeline—a vivid, joyful reminder of a world that existed beyond the gilded cage of his own heart. The warmth of the pub, the taste of the ale, the sound of his friends' laughter—it was a balm, and he stored the feeling away carefully, knowing he would need to draw on its memory later.

 

The door to his private office at the firm opened without a preceding knock, a breach of protocol that immediately put Jungkook on alert. In walked Park Bogum, his expression one of polite determination.

 

"Greetings, Mr. Jeon," Bogum said, offering a gentle, yet calculated smile.

 

Jungkook raised a single, imperious brow. He knew precisely why Bogum was here. "Good evening, Mr. Park," he replied, his voice cool and even. "Have a seat, please."

 

Bogum settled into the leather chair opposite the expansive mahogany desk, his posture relaxed but his eyes intent. "What would you like? Tea? Coffee?" Jungkook asked, the offer curt and devoid of genuine hospitality.

 

"I would only like the whereabouts of the young man I described in my letter," Bogum stated, bypassing the pleasantries entirely.

 

"Oh, that," Jungkook chuckled, a low, humorless sound. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Believe me, Mr. Park, you have no business concerning yourself with him."

 

"So that means you do know who he is, and where he is," Bogum pressed, a note of triumph in his voice.

 

"Of course," Jungkook replied, a dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips. "He resides in my mansion. He wakes there and sleeps there. He is under my protection."

 

"I see," Bogum replied, undeterred. He took a steadying breath. "Then I will be forthright. I wish to court him. I have never felt such a compelling attraction. Since I saw his eyes... I want to marry him."

 

For a brief, stunning second, Jungkook was utterly taken aback. Then, a cold, pure rage ignited within him, burning away any pretense of civility.

 

"You can't," Jungkook stated, his voice flat and final.

 

"Why can't I?" Bogum challenged, leaning forward.

 

"Because he belongs to me," Jungkook responded flatly. He picked up a cigar from a polished box on his desk, clipped the end, and lit it, the act a deliberate show of nonchalance.

 

"As far as society knows, you have no interest in men, Jeon," Bogum countered, a hint of frustration seeping into his tone. "Do not play games with me. I am entirely serious about him. You cannot fathom how I yearn for him." His voice held a desperate edge, nearing a plea.

 

Jungkook took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung between them like a challenge. "It is not a question of my interest," he said, his voice a low growl.

 

"Then what is it?" Bogum demanded, his patience thinning.

 

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, the intensity in his gaze pinning Bogum to his seat. "Tell me something, Bogum. What is it about him that has you, a Park heir, practically begging at my desk?"

 

Bogum held his gaze, his answer simple, earnest, and utterly infuriating. "His eyes," he said without hesitation. "They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen."

Jungkook rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace that was more threatening than any sudden movement. He walked around the desk, each step measured, until he loomed over Bogum, who was still seated. He bent at the waist, bringing his face perilously close, his eyes dark pools of cold fire.

 

"I will say this once, and for all," Jungkook's voice was a low, venomous whisper, devoid of its usual aristocratic polish, stripped down to a raw, primal warning. "Stay. Away. From. Him."

 

The air in the room went frigid. Bogum held the intense gaze for a moment longer, a flicker of surprise—and then defiance—crossing his features. He slowly stood up, smoothing his jacket, a smirk playing on his lips that didn't reach his eyes.

 

"Let's see, Jungkook," Bogum said, his voice deceptively light. He gave a slight, mocking nod before turning and walking out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound of finality.

 

The moment he was gone, the rigid control in Jungkook's posture snapped. He turned and drove his fist into the rich leather of his desk chair, a muffled thud of suppressed violence. A raw, guttural curse tore from his lips.

 

"That motherfucker," he hissed, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he paced, a tempest of possessiveness and fury swirling within him.

 

The clarity of his own thought was as shocking as it was undeniable: He did not love Taehyung. He couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

 

But that was irrelevant.

 

Taehyung still belonged to him. To him alone. He was his steward, his responsibility, a fixture of his home. The idea of another man—especially a man like Bogum—looking at him, wanting him, was an intolerable violation. It was a challenge to his authority, a stain on his property. The possessiveness was a cold, hard stone in his gut, and it had nothing to do with the fragile, confusing warmth he felt in Taehyung's presence and everything to do with the fact that Jungkook Jeon did not share what was his.

Jungkook’s return to the mansion was met with an unusual stillness. “Miss Edith,” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the grand foyer as he shrugged off his overcoat. “Send Taehyung to my study with tea.”

 

Miss Edith appeared, wringing her hands slightly on her apron. “I am sorry, sir, but Taehyung is not here. He had some visitors earlier—two young gentlemen from the city, I believe. He went out with them.”

 

The words landed with a dull thud in Jungkook’s chest. Went out with them. His mind, usually so orderly, began to spin into frantic, unwelcome circles. What if he doesn’t come back? Who were they? Did Taehyung have a family he’d never mentioned? No, he was an orphan, he’d said so himself. A cold, unfamiliar knot of anxiety tightened in his gut. He had never considered that Taehyung had a life, connections, outside the walls of this house.

 

Nevertheless, he gave Miss Edith a curt, dismissive nod and ascended the stairs to his room. He freshened up, the silence of the house feeling oppressive. His tea was brought to his study not by Taehyung, but by Miss Edith again, her presence a reminder of the one who was absent.

 

He tried to busy himself with the firm’s ledgers, but the columns of numbers blurred before his eyes. His attention was stolen by the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Each tick was an accusation, each toll of the hour a deeper cut of… what? Worry? Irritation?

 

Why was he not home yet?

 

Abandoning the pretense of work, he began to pace. The restless energy was foreign to him, a caged tension that had his muscles coiling. The study felt too large, too empty. He realized, with a jolt, that he missed the soft sound of the door opening, the gentle clink of the tea tray being set down. He missed the quiet, steadying presence that seemed to absorb the room’s shadows. He missed the way Taehyung’s eyes would flicker to him, full of a warmth he was only beginning to acknowledge. He was, undeniably, missing him. He wanted him here. Now.

 

Driven by a compulsion he couldn’t name, he strode to the large window of his study that overlooked the drive. The evening was deepening into dusk, painting the world in shades of violet and grey.

 

And then he saw them.

 

There, at the end of the long drive, just beyond the iron gates, was Taehyung. He was waving goodbye to a man Jungkook didn’t recognize. But it wasn’t the man that arrested Jungkook’s attention; it was Taehyung. His face was alight, transformed by a giggle that shook his shoulders, his smile was wide and unreserved, reaching the corners of his eyes. He looked… genuinely happy. Radiant. It was a version of Taehyung Jungkook had never seen—a version that existed independently of him, of this house, of his grief.

 

Jungkook stood frozen at the window, his hand resting against the cold glass. The sight should have been innocuous, a young man saying goodbye to a friend. But to Jungkook, it felt like a violation. That smile, that happiness—it belonged here. It belonged to him. The cold knot of anxiety in his gut twisted sharply, morphing into something darker, something fiercely and irrationally possessive. He watched until the man disappeared from view and Taehyung turned to walk back toward the house, the fading smile still on his lips. Jungkook remained at the window, his own reflection a stark, severe mask against the gathering night.

Taehyung climbed the grand staircase, the echo of his own laughter with Jimin and Yoongi still a pleasant hum in his veins. The day had been a blessed respite, a pocket of normalcy where the weight of his silent love and the shadow of the mansion had lifted. He was tired, but it was a good tiredness, and he looked forward to the solitude of his room.

 

He was midway down the dimly lit corridor leading to the servants' quarters when a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows near the study door.

 

"Taehyung."

 

The voice was low, cold, and cut through the peaceful haze around him like a shard of ice. Jungkook stood there, his posture rigid, his face an unreadable mask in the faint light.

 

"You will follow me to the study. Now."

 

It was not a request. It was a command delivered with a quiet authority that brooked no argument. Without waiting for a response, Jungkook turned and walked into the study, expecting obedience.

 

Heart hammering, the last remnants of his good mood evaporating, Taehyung followed. The study was as it always was: a room of imposing mahogany, towering bookshelves, and the faint, elegant scent of leather and old paper. A single green-shaded banker's lamp cast a pool of light on the desk, leaving the rest of the room in deep, shifting shadows from the dying fire.

 

Jungkook did not sit. He positioned himself before the cold hearth, turning to face Taehyung, his hands clasped behind his back.

 

"You will provide an account of your evening," he began, his voice dangerously calm. "Where have you been? With whom did you consort? And what possible business could have necessitated such a late return to your duties?"

 

Taehyung met his gaze, his own calm a fragile shield. "I was in the city, sir. I was with my friends. There was no 'business.' It was a social engagement." Does he believe he has purchased me along with this furniture? I serve him, but I am not his chattel.

 

"Your friends," Jungkook repeated, the word dripping with skepticism. "These… individuals who solicit your company without regard for your professional obligations. You seem to forget your position. You cannot simply vanish at whim and reappear as it suits you. There is a standard of conduct to be maintained."

 

The words, so cold and dismissive, shattered Taehyung’s fragile composure. The injustice of it, after the man had held him so intimately just days before, ignited a spark of long-suppressed anger.

 

"You have not purchased me, sir," Taehyung said, his voice trembling but clear, rising in the silent room. "You may treat me as nothing, but I assure you, I am very much something. I am not answerable to you for whom I choose to meet or where I spend the few hours that are my own. My time, beyond my duties, is my own."

 

A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Jungkook’s lips. He took a step forward. Then another. He advanced until Taehyung was forced to retreat a step, his back meeting the unyielding cold of the paneled wall.

 

Jungkook caged him there, one hand planted on the wall beside Taehyung’s head, his body a line of warm, intimidating strength mere inches away. The smell of his cologne—sandalwood and crisp night air—clashed with the old-book scent of the room, creating a dizzying, intimate atmosphere.

 

"Is that so?" Jungkook murmured, his voice a husky, predatory whisper. His eyes roamed Taehyung’s face, taking in the defiant glint in his eyes, the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat. The smirk never left his lips. "You possess a rather bold tongue for my something."

 

The air crackled with a tension so thick it was suffocating. It was no longer an argument about curfews or friends. It was a raw, primal clash of wills, of possession and rebellion, held in the breathless space between the cold wall and Jungkook’s warm, overwhelming presence.

Taehyung’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, its rhythm loud in his ears. What is this man’s purpose at such an hour? he thought desperately, his mind reeling. A telltale blush was already creeping up his neck, a traitorous heat that spread under the intensity of Jungkook’s gaze. He felt weak, his knees threatening to buckle, surrounded by the intoxicating, sharp scent of sandalwood and crisp night air that clung to Jungkook like a second skin.

 

"S-sir," he gulped, the word a fragile plea in the charged silence.

 

"Hmm," Jungkook mumbled, the sound a low vibration that seemed to resonate deep within Taehyung’s bones. His dark eyes were intent, searing, and Taehyung couldn't bear it. He turned his face away, seeking refuge in the shadows of the room.

 

With a movement both impossibly gentle and utterly commanding, Jungkook hooked a single finger under Taehyung’s chin. He turned his face back, forcing their eyes to meet. The touch was electric, branding his skin.

 

Jungkook’s voice was a hushed, almost reverent whisper, quoting the line as if it were a long-forgotten prayer suddenly remembered. "‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies;’" His thumb stroked a faint, absent-minded path along Taehyung’s jawline. "‘And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’" He wasn't looking at a 'she'; he was looking only at Taehyung.

 

Taehyung’s breathing became shallow, each gasp a small, desperate thing. This was pure torture. Jungkook was a master of it. He would profess no love, yet demand Taehyung’s presence with a possessiveness that left no room for doubt. He would claim disinterest in men, yet take him on an outing that felt like a courtship and then corner him in the dark, close enough to share breath. He would mourn a ghost, yet offer Taehyung fleeting touches and whispered poetry that felt like a promise. He would touch him, but not in the way that truly mattered—never crossing the final, defining line.

 

Jungkook was a labyrinth of contradictions, a storm of unresolved grief and burgeoning desire, and Taehyung was hopelessly, utterly lost in him.

Jungkook was far too close, his breath a whisper against Taehyung’s lips, the heat of his body a palpable force in the cool, shadowed study.

 

“S-sir,” Taehyung stammered, his voice barely audible, a fragile thread of resistance. “I must insist you maintain a proper distance.”

 

A dark, amused glint flickered in Jungkook’s eyes. “Do you truly wish for that, Taehyung?” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate caress.

 

He loved this. For a fleeting moment, the gnawing, ever-present agony of losing Hikari was silenced. Taehyung was like a skittish, beautiful creature. At the barest hint of attention, he would bloom with a radiant, helpless hope. At the faintest touch, he would unravel, and Jungkook was utterly captivated by the power to orchestrate his unraveling.

 

Then he saw it—the sheen of unshed tears welling in Taehyung’s beautiful, wounded eyes. Jungkook’s brow furrowed in genuine, if confused, surprise. “Are you weeping, Taehyung?” he asked, his voice losing its teasing edge as a single tear traced a path down the curve of Taehyung’s warm, flushed cheek.

 

Taehyung’s hands came up, not to push him away, but to clutch weakly at the fine wool of Jungkook’s waistcoat. “Why do you persist in this torment?” he breathed, his voice breaking. “If your heart holds no affection for me, if it is incapable of such an emotion… then why demand my constant presence? Why insist I remain ever at your side? For what purpose?!”

 

The raw, whispered plea hung in the air between them.

 

Jungkook sighed, a sound of profound weariness and internal conflict. In a sudden, decisive motion, he pulled Taehyung into an embrace, crushing him against his chest. Taehyung stiffened for a second before melting into the hold, his own resolve shattered.

 

“I possess no answers,” Jungkook confessed, his voice a hushed, ragged whisper against Taehyung’s hair. “I am painfully ignorant of my own heart’s desires. I am acutely aware of my own cruelty towards you. I can only beg your forgiveness.”

 

Taehyung broke then, great, silent sobs shaking his frame. In the depths of his mind, he mocked himself. How can I expect him to be anything but cruel to me, when I am the greatest perpetrator of cruelty upon myself? He clung to the man who was both his sanctuary and his prison, lost in the exquisite pain of it all.

 

Chapter 15: I know

Notes:

My heart is aching for taehyung and also Jungkook.

😭💔

anyways here is a chapter with soft moment between them..I hope you like it.

“I’ve always loved you, and when you love someone, you love the whole person, just as they are and not as you would like them to be.”

__________ Leo Tolstoy 

 

Taehyung pulled open the grand, heavy door of the mansion, the hinges giving a soft, familiar groan. Standing on the top step, silhouetted against the damp warm Edinburgh afternoon, was a man he had never seen before.

 

He was undoubtedly a young master of the elite society, his attire a testament to understated wealth and impeccable taste. He wore a tailored herringbone overcoat of charcoal grey, unbuttoned to reveal a cable-knit cashmere sweater in a soft cream hue and tailored trousers. A pair of thin, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, adding an intellectual air to his handsome features. He held a leather portfolio in one gloved hand.

 

His face was a study in gentle masculinity, a stark contrast to Jungkook’s severe, dark intensity. Where Jungkook was all sharp angles and brooding dominance, this man had a softer, more approachable handsomeness. His eyes, behind the lenses, held a warm, curious light, and his mouth was shaped into a naturally kind, almost smiling line. He was, Taehyung estimated, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six.

 

The young man offered a slight, polite bow of his head. "Good afternoon," he said, his voice pleasant and well-modulated.

 

Taehyung, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected and refined visitor, found his voice. "Yes? May I help you, sir?"

Bogum stood on the threshold, his breath momentarily stolen. This was him. The man whose fleeting image at the ball had captivated him completely. The only word that formed in his mind was ethereal. Taehyung was like the first, precious ray of sunshine in spring after Edinburgh’s long, cold winter. He was a sudden, breathtaking rainbow against the city’s perpetual grey.

 

“You don’t recognize me?” Bogum asked, his voice gentle, hoping to spark a memory.

 

Taehyung looked at him, his elegant brows drawing together in polite confusion. “No, sir, I do apologize, but I do not. Are you someone I should know?”

 

“Might I come in?” Bogum asked, his tone remaining calm and calculated, a contrast to the sudden racing of his heart. “I need to have a word with you.”

 

Taehyung’s gaze instinctively flickered over Bogum’s shoulder. Parked elegantly on the cobblestone drive was a luxurious, deep green motorcar. A man dressed in a sharp black uniform and cap stood stoically beside the driver’s door—a chauffeur and bodyguard. The evidence of significant wealth was unmistakable.

 

“Sir, if you are here to meet Mr. Jeon, he is at his firm at present,” Taehyung explained, his steward’s professionalism taking over. “He is expected to return by eight this evening.”

 

Just then, Miss Edith’s voice floated from the depths of the hallway. “Taehyung? Who is it at the door?”

 

She appeared behind him, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes landed on their visitor, and a look of recognition—and slight surprise—crossed her face. She offered a quick, respectful bow. “Master Park.”

 

Bogum offered her a warm, familiar smile that seemed to light up his gentle features. “Good afternoon, Edith.”

 

Taehyung watched the exchange, his confusion deepening. Miss Edith knew him. And she addressed him with the respect afforded to a frequent and esteemed guest. 

Taehyung slid aside, allowing the visitor to cross the threshold into the grand foyer.

 

“Make him comfortable in the drawing-room, Taehyung. I shall prepare the tea,” Miss Edith instructed before bustling away towards the kitchen.

 

Taehyung gave a slight bow of acknowledgment and led the way to the formal drawing-room. “Please, have a seat, sir,” he said, his voice polite and meticulously neutral.

 

Bogum settled into a velvet armchair, his posture relaxed yet inherently elegant. He waited until Taehyung was standing before him before he began.

 

“I shall not engage in stupid useless conversation, Taehyung,” he stated, his tone direct yet refined.

 

Taehyung regarded him with a politely confused expression. “Sir?”

 

“We had a… collision during the masquerade,” Bogum elaborated. “And subsequently shared a dance. Albeit briefly.”

 

A flicker of recognition passed through Taehyung’s eyes. It all coalesced—the brief encounter, the masked man whose name he had instantly dismissed from his mind, as no name held weight beside that of his master. “I see,” Taehyung replied, his voice carefully even.

 

“From that moment onward,” Bogum continued, his gaze intense behind his glasses, “my constitution has been quite altered. Sleep eludes me. My appetite has deserted me. I find myself gazing at my ledgers, and it is your countenance I see imprinted upon the pages. I move through the city, and it is your image that haunts every street. I have yearned for nothing more than to behold your face in its entirety, having been so utterly captivated by your eyes alone. It has been a singular form of torture.”

 

He offered a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “I even penned a letter to Jungkook, inquiring if he might grant me an introduction. I presume he discarded it, as no reply was forthcoming.”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed in profound confusion. What, precisely, was this gentleman attempting to imply?

 

“How, pray tell, may I be of assistance, sir?” Taehyung asked, maintaining his deferential tone despite his inner bewilderment.

 

Bogum rose from his chair and closed the distance between them, though he respectfully maintained a proper space. His voice was low, gentle, yet laced with an intensity that was both disarming and alarming.

 

“Come away with me,” he implored. “Consent to be my husband. Share your life with me.”

 

Taehyung was utterly taken aback, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief. What is this man articulating? Has he taken leave of his senses?

 

“I am acutely aware of what you must be thinking,” Bogum continued, his expression earnest. “That I have succumbed to madness. I beheld you but once, and only your eyes at that. We are strangers to one another. I cannot furnish a logical explanation, Taehyung. There has been an unbearable weight upon my chest, a sensation of suffocation born from my inability to be near you, to confess the profound spell you have cast over me. I know it seems a deranged fancy. I am entirely cognizant of that fact. But I assure you, upon my honor, none of this is a falsehood.”

 

“Sir, this is…” Taehyung stumbled, truly at a loss for words. What possible response could there be? He grasped for the most fundamental, unassailable truth of his station. “This is… an impossibility. You are a gentleman of standing, and I… I am merely a servant in this household. The chasm between our circumstances is… is absolute.”

 

Taehyung’s voice was soft, yet firm, laced with a practicality born of his station. “And also, sir… the union of two men… it is not a thing accepted in our society. It is not so simple a matter as you suggest.” He clutched at the excuse, a final, rational barrier to place between himself and Bogum’s bewildering proposition.

 

“That is not your concern to bear,” Bogum countered, his gaze unwavering. “The management of society’s opinions falls to my purview, and I shall handle it. I require only your affirmation.” His eyes, behind the delicate wire frames, held a desperate, pleading intensity that was both foreign and unsettlingly familiar to Taehyung.

 

A fleeting, painful thought crossed Taehyung’s mind: Is this the very expression my face wears when I lay my own maddening love bare before Master Jeon?

 

The door creaked open, and Miss Edith entered, balancing a silver tea tray. She paused, her eyes darting between the two men standing so intently close in the middle of the drawing-room.

 

“Master Park, your tea,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity.

 

“Thank you, Edith. That will be all for now,” Bogum stated, not unkindly but with an authority that brooked no argument. “Taehyung and I have a matter of some importance to discuss.”

 

Miss Edith’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. She gave a short, confused nod, set the tray down on a side table, and retreated, casting a last, bewildered glance at a deeply embarrassed Taehyung. What in heavens is this man doing?

 

Once the door clicked shut, Taehyung cleared his throat, summoning a resolve he did not feel. “Sir,” he began, his voice gaining a new steadiness. “I shall make no further excuses. Therefore, I must speak plainly. My heart is already, and most ardently, engaged elsewhere.” He forced himself to meet Bogum’s gaze, letting him see the truth of it.

 

It was as if a silent, invisible blade had been driven into Bogum’s chest. He absorbed the blow without flinching. “And does this person… do they return your affections?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

“No,” Taehyung admitted, the word a hushed, painful sigh. “And perhaps he never shall. But my choice is made. It will always be him.”

 

A bitter understanding dawned on Bogum’s face. “It is Jungkook, is it not?”

 

Taehyung could only offer a meek, confirming nod.

 

Bogum let out a short, derisive scoff. “Taehyung, is he even… inclined toward men?”

 

“It is of no consequence,” Taehyung replied, his voice gaining a strange, tragic strength. “There comes a point in devotion where such labels, such definitions, cease to hold meaning. All that matters is proximity. To be near him, to serve him. If my fate is to remain by his side as his steward, and for him to only ever be my master, then I shall endeavor to be content.” The words were the biggest lie he had ever told himself, a bitter pill of forced acceptance.

 

Bogum stood, the fight leaving his posture. The conversation was over. He walked slowly to the door, but paused on the threshold, turning back for a final moment.

 

“Taehyung,” he said, his own words seeming to prick at his throat. “Someday, when that resolve of yours wavers, when it all becomes too much and you crumble… seek me out. I will hold you.”

 

Taehyung offered a small, warm, yet profoundly sad smile. “That is a most kind offer, sir.”

 

And with that, Park Bogum turned and walked away, leaving Taehyung alone in the silent, opulent room with the ghost of his own words and the chilling echo of a future he had just willingly condemned himself to.

The call from Edith, her voice laced with nervous confusion, had been a spark to tinder. Master Park is here… he asked for Taehyung specifically… they are speaking alone. Jungkook had thrown down his pen, not even pausing for his coat, and stormed from his office.

 

Now, the Daimler roared through the streets of Edinburgh, a black streak against the warm afternoon of an early March afternoon. A fine, chilly mist hung in the air, beading on the windscreen even though it was already march .He wasn't driven by a fear that Bogum would succeed; the very idea was absurd. It was the sheer, unmitigated audacity of the man—to approach what was his after being explicitly warned.

 

As he swung the car onto the long, tree-lined drive that led to the mansion, another vehicle—a sleek, forest-green motorcar—was approaching from the opposite direction, having just departed the house. Jungkook recognized it instantly. With a sharp, furious twist of the wheel, he cut his own car across the drive, blocking the other's path. The green motorcar screeched to a halt, mere inches from the Daimler's polished flank.

 

The scene was one of sudden, violent stillness amidst the genteel landscape. The skeletal branches of the ancient oaks lining the drive clawed at the leaden sky. The only sound was the impatient tick-tick of a cooling engine and the distant cry of a gull.

 

Jungkook threw his door open and emerged, a figure of towering, barely contained rage. Simultaneously, the door of the other motorcar opened, and Park Bogum stepped out, his expression initially one of annoyance, which quickly hardened into cold defiance upon seeing who had waylaid him.

 

Jungkook didn't bother with greetings. He stalked forward until they were mere feet apart on the wet gravel, the mist clinging to the shoulders of his dark suit.

 

“How utterly pathetic you are, Park,” Jungkook bit out, his voice a low, venomous growl that cut through the damp air. “The entire story is written on your face. He has rejected you. Thoroughly.”

 

Bogum’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground. "You are aware, I presume, that you are orchestrating his ruin," Bogum's voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet opulence of the study. "You dangle a future before him that you have no intention of granting. It is a most cruel form of false hope."

 

"Hope is a notion I ceased to traffic in,  Park. There was never any hope to be had, false or otherwise. He is in possession of all the facts. His continued presence is a choice he has made with open eyes."Jungkook’s interruption was sharp as a whip crack. “I warned you to stay away. You possess not a shred of dignity, do you? To skulk to my home, to importune a member of my staff with your… your absurd fantasies after being expressly forbidden?”

 

Bogum’s composure began to fracture, a flush of anger rising on his neck. “Forbidden? You speak as if you own him. You, who parades your disinterest for all of society to see. What claim do you possibly have?”

 

“A claim you could never comprehend,” Jungkook shot back, taking another step closer, his height and presence becoming intimidatingly dominant. 

 

"If you cannot reciprocate his regard, then grant him his freedom. Release him." Bogum’s tone was icy, each word precisely enunciated. "Taehyung possesses a gentility of spirit that should not be met with such calculated coldness. It is a fragility you seem determined to exploit. I see the conviction in his gaze—that fool clings to the belief that one day you will entomb your memory of Lady Hikari and in its place, raise a palace for him alone. He is convinced his devotion will remake you."

 

A heavy silence descended upon Jungkook. He knew this but he wouldn't give up to bogum so began coldly. “Now, you will get back in your vehicle, and you will leave. And if you ever approach him again, you will answer directly to me. The consequences will extend far beyond a conversation on a damp driveway.”

 

The threat hung in the misty air, cold and absolute. Bogum stared at him, a maelstrom of humiliation, anger, and defeat warring in his eyes. Without another word, he turned on his heel, slammed back into his motorcar, and reversed with a spray of gravel before speeding away down the drive.

 

Jungkook stood alone, his chest heaving, watching the green car . The silence that returned was deafening, broken only by the frantic, triumphant beating of his own heart.

 

The distinctive, commanding purr of the Daimler settled into a resonant idle as Jungkook brought the elegant roadster to a halt on the crushed seashell gravel of the manor's drive. The car, a testament to modern British design, was as severe and beautiful as its owner, its long bonnet and minimalist chrome gleaming against the grey Edinburgh stone.

 

The heavy oak door swung inward, and Taehyung appeared, his posture a study in impeccable discipline. Only the slight, almost imperceptible widening of his eyes betrayed his surprise.

 

"Good afternoon, sir. I had not expected your return from the firm so early ," he said, his voice carefully modulated to a tone of respectful neutrality.

 

Jungkook alighted from the vehicle, removing his driving gloves with a deliberate slowness. He did not pause for pleasantries.

 

"The day's affairs concluded earlier than anticipated," he stated, his voice a low, flat baritone. He closed the distance between them in a few strides. Before Taehyung could process the action, Jungkook’s hand, now bare, encircled his wrist. The touch was firm, cool, and utterly incontestable. "We are taking a drive. The air is… oppressively still within the house."

 

"Sir, I—" Taehyung stammered, a flush of heat rising swiftly up his neck. His carefully maintained facade crumbled under the suddenness of the command and the startling intimacy of the skin-on-skin contact. He was acutely aware of the few groundskeepers who might be watching. "My duties—the inventory for the wine cellar—"

 

"Will keep," Jungkook interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. He began to draw Taehyung towards the low-slung motorcar. "They are not so pressing as my current need for diversion."

 

Taehyung, his heart performing a frantic, humiliating rhythm against his ribs, found himself being guided directly to the passenger door. Jungkook released his wrist only to open it for him, a gesture that was both gallant and utterly imprisoning.

 

"Get in."

 

"Sir, I am hardly presentable for a public outing," Taehyung managed, a final, weak protest as he gestured to his steward's waistcoat, a uniform meant for the shadows of the house, not the open light of day.

 

"You are presentable enough for my company, are you not?" Jungkook replied, the question soft but layered with a complex, unreadable weight. It was not quite a compliment, yet it stole the breath from Taehyung's lungs.

 

Flustered beyond all capacity for coherent thought, Taehyung slid into the low passenger seat, the scent of rich leather and Jungkook's signature sandalwood cologne enveloping him entirely.

 

Jungkook took his place behind the wheel, his movements fluid and assured. With a deft turn of the key, the Daimler’s engine roared to life once more, a powerful beast answering only to its master. He engaged the gear with a precise click and pulled away from the house, the tires crunching authoritatively on the gravel.

 

Taehyung clutched the polished walnut dashboard as they accelerated onto the coast road, the force pressing him back into the supple leather. He dared a glance at his master.

 

Jungkook’s profile was stark and beautiful against the passing landscape, his focus absolute. Yet, in the set of his jaw and the distant look in his eyes, even as he commanded the powerful machine, Taehyung could see the profound sorrow that was his master's constant companion. He was not seeking joy on this drive, but an escape from the grief that haunted the silent, opulent rooms of the mansion—and for reasons Taehyung could not fathom, he had chosen him as his sole companion for the flight.

Jungkook guided the Daimler with an almost preternatural certainty, leaving the soot-stained grandeur of New Town and its business far behind. The road narrowed, winding its way eastward until the city's hum faded into a profound silence broken only by the car's purr and the whisper of a gentle breeze through new leaves.

 

Then, they turned a final bend, and the world transformed.

 

Taehyung’s breath caught in his throat, all prior fluster forgotten in a wave of pure, unadulterated awe. Before them stretched a pathway, a secret tunnel woven from light and blossom. On either side, ancient cherry trees stood in silent vigil, their gnarled, silver-grey branches stretching across the narrow lane to intertwine overhead, creating a vast, breathtaking canopy.

 

The sun, clear and bright in a vast blue sky dotted with soft, milky clouds, filtered through this living ceiling. It dappled the asphalt with shifting coins of light and illuminated the countless blossoms in a breathtaking spectacle. They were a cascade of the palest pink, so delicate they seemed to glow with an inner light, each petal a perfect brushstroke against the azure canvas above. A gentle wind stirred the branches, sending a slow, silent shower of petals drifting down around the car like scented snow, collecting in soft pink drifts along the edges of the path.

 

Beyond this tunnel of flowers, the world was a riot of spring greenery—emerald grasses, the darker green of budding ferns, and the vibrant yellow of wild daffodils nodding in the shade.

 

And at the end of this ethereal pathway, standing atop a gentle rise, were the high, imposing walls of the abandoned palace. Its sandstone façade was warmed by the sun, its empty windows gazing out over the miraculous bloom like the sightless eyes of a forgotten king. It was a scene of sublime, melancholic beauty—nature reclaiming its dominion in the most glorious way possible, a sanctuary untouched and utterly silent save for the rustle of leaves and the fall of petals.

 

"Sir..." Taehyung whispered, his voice hushed with reverence, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the enchantment. "I... I had no idea such a place existed."

 

He turned to look at Jungkook, his eyes wide with wonder, the reflection of the pink blossoms dancing in his dark irises. In that moment, he was not a steward, but a man utterly captivated by a miracle.

The Daimler’s door clicked shut, the sound swallowed by the profound silence of the blossom-shrouded lane. Jungkook alighted, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the very picture of aristocratic restraint. He began to walk slowly down the petal-strewn path, and Taehyung fell into step a respectful half-pace behind, his heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

 

The cherry petals, stirred by a gentle breeze, floated around them in a silent, pink snow, catching in their hair and on the dark wool of their coats.

 

After a long moment of heavy quiet, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps, Jungkook spoke, his voice low and without turning.

 

“Did  Park call at the house today?”

 

Taehyung started slightly. “He did, sir. How did you know?”

 

“It is my estate, Taehyung,” Jungkook replied, his tone flat and omniscient. “I am aware of all who pass through its gates. I assume he came to profess, once more, his rather… ardent and passionate regard for you?” The question was laced with a weary, almost satirical edge.

 

“He did, sir,” Taehyung confirmed, his voice soft.

 

Jungkook stopped walking, though he kept his gaze fixed on the distant, crumbling palace walls. “And what was your answer? Do you wish to leave? If your heart inclines you toward him, or simply away from this… mausoleum… I grant you your full freedom. I realize the untenable nature of your position. I cannot, in good conscience, continue to hold you here only to witness a… a deterioration of spirit.”

 

The words were a lance through Taehyung. It was the final, cruelest kindness—the confirmation that Jungkook saw his own effect and was offering him an escape. It was the act of a master dismissing a loyal servant, and it shattered him.

 

“I am staying because it is my wish to do so, sir,” Taehyung said, his voice wavering despite his struggle to control it.

 

Jungkook finally turned to face him, his expression a mask of carved stone, though his eyes held a terrifying turmoil. “ Park intimated that you cling to a belief. A belief that I will, one day, entomb my memory of Lady Hikari and in its place, erect a palace for you. That I will forget her and learn to love you.”

 

“I hold no such belief, sir,” Taehyung refused, his gaze dropping to the petals at their feet.

 

“Do not lie to me, Taehyung,” Jungkook’s voice was sharp, a crack in his composure. “Do not cultivate a hope within yourself that has no hope of flowering. Do not nurture a dream in a soil that is… that is barren. It is a cruelty you inflict upon yourself, and I am forced to witness it.”

 

As he spoke, a profound ache bloomed in Jungkook’s own chest. He was forced to admit a terrifying truth: the prospect of Taehyung’s departure filled him with a dread that was entirely selfish. The thought of those halls without Taehyung’s quiet presence, without the love that shone so openly in his eyes, was a new form of desolation. He was conflicted, a man torn between two altars.

 

To forget Hikari—to allow another to occupy the sacred space she held—felt like the most profound betrayal. Was the love they had cultivated since their youth so ordinary that it could be so swiftly supplanted? The very idea filled him with a guilt so consuming it shamed him.

 

Yet, the alternative—to continue subjecting Taehyung to this limbo, to his own unresolved grief—was its own form of barbarism. Taehyung deserved certainty. He deserved a love that was given freely and wholly, not this fractured, shadowed thing Jungkook possessed. This was the only honourable course: to offer freedom, even if the granting of it felt like a self-inflicted wound.

 

And so he stood, a lord in a storm of petals, offering the one thing he feared most to lose, terrified that it would be accepted.

Taehyung halted in his steps. Jungkook stopped too and turned, his stern expression faltering as he truly looked at the man before him.

 

The sun, filtering through the lacework of cherry blossoms, fell upon Taehyung’s face in shifting patterns of light and shadow. In that moment, he was ethereal. The gentle rays caught the honeyed warmth of his brown eyes, making them glow with an inner light. His face, usually a mask of respectful composure, was now calm, open, and breathtakingly beautiful, illuminated by a smile that was both tender and unbearably wise. Jungkook’s heart ached with a piercing intensity, a sorrowful recognition of the love he was too conflicted to claim.

 

"In your valiant attempt to keep the dead alive, sir," Taehyung said, his voice soft yet clear, "you condemn the living to perish."

 

With that devastatingly simple truth hanging in the petal-filled air, he offered another warm smile and began to walk again, leaving Jungkook rooted to the spot, grappling with the profound accuracy of the statement. He knew it was what he was doing, but the guilt was a chain he could not break.

 

After a few paces, Taehyung paused and half-turned, his demeanor shifting from solemn to something lighter, almost impish. "Let us not talk of love and its consequences, sir," he whispered, the breeze carrying his words. "Let us simply enjoy the beauty nature has so generously provided."

 

Before Jungkook could form a response, Taehyung closed the distance between them. In a move of breathtaking audacity, he leaned in and gently, oh so gently, pressed his lips to Jungkook's cheek. The touch was fleeting, warm, and as soft as the petals falling around them.

 

Jungkook froze, his entire world narrowing to the spot where Taehyung’s lips had been. His breath hitched, his aristocratic composure shattered into a million pieces of pure, unadulterated shock. He stood utterly still, processing the unprecedented breach of protocol, the stunning intimacy of the gesture.

 

A soft, cheeky laugh broke the silence. Taehyung had already retreated a few steps, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You are getting old, sir," he teased, a playful smirk gracing his lips. "Your reflexes are not what they used to be."

 

The familiar, mocking challenge broke the spell. A flicker of indignant pride flashed in Jungkook’s eyes, cutting through his shock. "I am not old, Taehyung," he retorted, his voice a low growl.

 

"Is that so?" Taehyung called back, his smirk widening. "Then how about you prove it? How about you catch me?"

 

And with a laugh that was pure, unburdened joy, he turned and dashed down the blossom-lined path, his coat flapping behind him.

 

For a heartbeat, Jungkook remained still. Then, a sound he hadn't heard from himself in years escaped his lips—a breathless, incredulous laugh. And he ran. He ran after Taehyung, his longer strides quickly eating up the distance between them on the carpet of pink petals. The sun dappled their figures as they weaved between the ancient trees, their breathless laughs—Jungkook's a low, chasing rumble, Taehyung's a higher, melodic sound of delight—mingling together and filling the sacred, silent sanctuary with a sudden, vibrant pulse of life.

Taehyung glanced over his shoulder, his laughter trailing behind him like a ribbon in the wind. The sight that met his eyes made his breath catch. Jungkook was running, truly running, not with the measured gait of a lord but with the abandon of a youth. The sun gilded his raven hair and illuminated his face—a face free, for this single, stolen moment, of its usual burden of grief. The hollowness was gone, replaced by a vibrant, breathless intensity. Taehyung's heart clenched with a painful, yearning ache. Could we not be like this forever?

 

Dear reader, when I looked at that man's handsome, fine features, lightened by the sun rays and devoid of the shadow that perpetually haunted them, I fell so in love with my master yet again.

 

Distracted by the thought, Taehyung’s steps faltered. It was all the hesitation Jungkook needed. With a final, powerful surge, he closed the distance and collided with him, his arms wrapping tightly around Taehyung’s torso to keep them both upright. The force of the impact sent them stumbling, and with a soft thud, they tumbled onto the thick carpet of cherry blossoms.

 

"Caught you," Jungkook breathed, a triumphant, breathless smirk gracing his lips as they landed.

 

Taehyung found himself on his back, cushioned by the soft petals, with Jungkook hovering over him, his arms still a firm band around him. The world narrowed to this small, fragrant space. A single strand of Jungkook’s raven hair had fallen over his forehead, disrupting his impeccable appearance. Acting on an impulse sweeter than reason, Taehyung reached up and gently brushed it aside. His hand lingered, his palm cradling Jungkook’s jaw, his thumb gently stroking the sharp line of his cheekbone.

 

The playful energy vanished, replaced by a tension so palpable it stole the air from their lungs. The sound of their ragged breaths was loud in the silent grove.

 

"I love you, sir," Taehyung whispered, the confession a fragile, sacred thing in the space between them. His heart beat a wild, erratic rhythm against his ribs, a frantic drum against the stillness.

 

Jungkook’s own heart began to hammer in a frantic, answering rhythm. He looked down into Taehyung’s face, so open and vulnerable and filled with a devotion that terrified him. The words I love you too burned on his tongue, a sweet, desperate poison. But the ghost of a memory, the weight of a ring on a chain in his pocket, sealed his lips. The guilt was a swift, cold tide, extinguishing the brief, brilliant light of their game.

 

His voice was a husk of a sound, filled with a pain that mirrored the ache in Taehyung’s chest. "I know," he whispered back.

 

The two words were an acknowledgment, a confession of their own, and a heartbreaking farewell to the moment all at once. He knew. And he could not say it back.

Chapter 16: He is so beautiful

Notes:

Double update today .
thank you for reading loveliesssss 💗

“Love… it’s like a knife. It can wound more deeply than anything else.”

____________ Leo Tolstoy 

 

The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in a masterpiece of fiery orange and deep rose, the hues scattering across the high, milky clouds. The warm rays that had gilded their afternoon were now fading, their warmth retreating before a cooler, more insistent breeze that whispered through the cherry boughs.

 

Jungkook sat with his back against the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, Taehyung settled beside him, his head resting gently against Jungkook's arm. A comfortable, weary silence stretched between them, filled only with the soft sigh of the wind and the distant call of a bird.

 

Jungkook looked down at the man beside him. In Taehyung's messy, wind-swept hair, a few stray cherry petals were caught like delicate pink jewels. A soft, almost unconscious smile touched Jungkook's lips as he reached over and carefully plucked them out, one by one.

 

"Taehyung," he whispered, his voice low and quiet in the twilight.

 

Taehyung looked up, his honey-brown eyes questioning. "Hm?"

 

"You are so beautiful," Jungkook said, the words leaving him with a quiet honesty that the dimming light allowed.

 

Taehyung's heart clenched, a bittersweet ache spreading through his chest. The words, so longed for, were also a painful reminder of what couldn't be. Before he could stop himself, the thought escaped in a soft, sad whisper. "Still not beautiful enough to make you fall in love with me."

 

Jungkook sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the setting sun. He didn't deny it. Instead, he said, "It's getting colder." With a tenderness that made Taehyung's breath catch, Jungkook unwound the thick, cashmere muffler from around his own neck. He leaned forward and wrapped it carefully around Taehyung's, his fingers briefly brushing the skin of his neck. Taehyung was immediately enveloped in the rich, familiar scent of sandalwood and Jungkook, a sensation so heavenly he had to suppress a contented purr.

 

Jungkook rose to his feet, brushing petals from his coat. "Let's go." He extended his hand. Taehyung placed his finer, dainty hand into Jungkook's stronger, larger one, and allowed himself to be pulled up. Together, they strode back towards the waiting Daimler, their figures long shadows in the amber light.

 

The drive back was spent in the same comfortable silence, the purr of the engine a soothing hum. Taehyung looked out the window, watching the secluded landscape gradually give way to signs of civilization. Instead of turning towards the mansion, however, Jungkook navigated the car through the elegant Georgian streets of New Town, finally pulling up before a charming café nestled between grand sandstone buildings.

 

The establishment, "The Caledonian Rose," was a beacon of warm light in the deepening evening. Its large, multi-paned windows were steamed slightly from the warmth within, offering a hazy glimpse of a cozy interior. Stepping inside was like entering a different world. The air was rich with the aroma of freshly ground coffee and baked goods. Dark wood panelling lined the walls, and the low ceiling was supported by exposed beams. Small, intimate tables with crisp white linens were occupied by couples and gentlemen reading evening papers under the soft glow of brass wall sconces. A gentle murmur of conversation and the soft clink of porcelain filled the air.

 

Jungkook guided Taehyung to a secluded booth in the corner. Without asking for his preference, Jungkook went to the counter and returned moments later with two steaming cups of black coffee placed on delicate saucers.

 

Taehyung looked at the dark, bitter-looking liquid. He had never acquired a taste for coffee, always preferring tea, but he couldn't bring himself to refuse anything offered by Jungkook. He wrapped his hands around the warm cup, brought it to his lips, and took a cautious sip.

 

The effect was immediate and involuntary. The intense, bitter flavor hit his tongue and his entire face contorted into a grimace of pure distaste, his nose scrunching up and his eyes squeezing shut. A small mustache of the dark liquid clung to his upper lip.

 

A sound from across the table made him open his eyes. Jungkook was laughing. It wasn't his usual quiet, sardonic chuckle, but a genuine, breathy laugh that lit up his entire face. "You look like a startled kitten," he said, his voice warm with amusement. He reached across the table and gently wiped the coffee from Taehyung's lip with his thumb, his touch lingering for a heartbeat. "You don't like coffee, do you?"

 

Taehyung could only shake his head, his cheeks flushing a deep pink that rivaled the cherry blossoms they'd left behind.

The warmth of the café and the lingering amusement of Taehyung’s coffee reaction faded as they stepped back out into the crisp Edinburgh evening. The city was bathed in the soft, hazy glow of gas lamps beginning to flicker on, casting long, dancing shadows on the cobblestones.

 

As they walked the short distance to where the Daimler was parked, they passed a small, fenced green. A few children, bundled against the chill, were playing a last, spirited game of tag before their mothers called them home. One of them, a little girl with bouncing curls, tripped and fell right near the pavement, her bottom lip trembling in preparation for a wail.

 

Before Jungkook could even process it, Taehyung had instantly knelt beside her, his movements gentle and unhurried. "There now, that was a mighty tumble," he said, his voice soft and melodic, so different from the respectful tone he used at the mansion. He helped her up, brushing the dirt from her coat. "But look! Not a single scratch on such a brave girl." He produced a single, slightly crumpled cherry blossom from his pocket—a petal he must have saved from their afternoon—and tucked it behind her ear. The little girl’s tears vanished, replaced by a dazzled smile before she scampered back to her game.

 

Jungkook watched, motionless. The sight of Taehyung—so naturally kind, so effortlessly warm with the children—sent a violent, unexpected ache straight through his chest. His thoughts scattered, spiraling into a future he had never allowed himself to envision: Taehyung in a sun-drenched garden, not as a steward, but as… more. Laughing, his arms full of children with honey-brown eyes, a home filled with the warmth that was so inherently him. The image was so vivid, so painfully beautiful, that it stole Jungkook’s breath. A raw, possessive urge surged within him—a desperate need to pull Taehyung into his arms, to hold him tight and never, ever let go, to claim that future for themselves.

 

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. The ghost of Hikari’s laughter echoed in the memory of this very street, and the guilt descended like a shroud, cold and smothering. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, the brief fantasy dissolving into ash.

 

The drive back to the mansion was utterly silent. The comfortable quiet of before was now charged with everything left unsaid, the image of Taehyung with the child hanging heavily between them in the confines of the car.

 

The Daimler crunched to a halt on the gravel drive. The mansion loomed before them, its windows dark, a monument to the past. Taehyung moved to get out, his fingers going to the soft cashmere muffler still wrapped around his neck.

 

"Wait, sir, your—" he began, starting to unwind it.

 

"Keep it," Jungkook said, his voice rough, almost harsh in the stillness. He hadn't moved to exit the car.

 

Taehyung’s hands stilled. "But it's yours—"

 

"I said keep it," Jungkook repeated, his tone brooking no argument. Then, he shifted. He leaned across the center console, closing the small space between them in the dim light of the dashboard.

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched. His heart began to thunder against his ribs, a frantic, hopeful drum. This is it, he thought, his eyes fluttering shut. He’s going to—

 

But the expected touch never came. Instead, he felt Jungkook’s lips brush against his temple in a whisper-soft kiss, a gesture of heartbreaking tenderness and finality.

 

"Good night, Taehyung," Jungkook murmured, his voice a low, aching whisper directly by his ear.

 

And then he was gone, pulling away, opening his door, and striding towards the house without a backward glance.

 

Taehyung sat frozen in the passenger seat, the muffler still held tightly in his hands. A furious, confused blush heated his cheeks and neck. His heart, which had been beating with such wild hope, now ached with a familiar, crushing weight. He was left alone in the dark, surrounded by the scent of sandalwood, his soul trembling from a touch that felt like both a blessing and a farewell. He was always hoping, and his hope was always, always, shattered against the unyielding stone of Jungkook’s grief.

The following morning, a rare stillness settled over the mansion. Jungkook did not depart for his offices in the New Town. Instead, he retreated to his study, the heavy velvet drapes drawn back to allow the pale morning light to illuminate the room. He was ensconced in a high-backed leather armchair, a volume of economic theory open but largely ignored on his lap. The only sounds were the gentle crackle of the fire in the marble hearth and the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. He stared into the flames, the memory of a cherry blossom caught in dark hair and a laugh ringing in a silent grove disrupting the dry text before him.

 

Meanwhile, in the vast, sunlit kitchen below, Taehyung decided action was preferable to contemplation. Dressed in a simple, soft sweater and trousers, he had commandeered the domain of the staff, who had been given the day’s tasks elsewhere. His mission: a vanilla sponge cake, something light and sweet to perhaps coax a true smile onto his master’s somber face. He moved between the great oak table and the cast-iron range, a picture of focused concentration, measuring flour and sugar with meticulous care.

 

The sound of measured footsteps on the flagstone floor made him look up. Jungkook stood in the doorway, having abandoned his book. He leaned against the frame, observing the scene with an unreadable expression.

 

"Attempting to make something ?" he inquired, a faint, almost imperceptible amusement in his tone.

 

Taehyung started slightly, a dusting of flour already gracing his wrists. "I thought a change of fare might be welcome, sir. I did not mean to disturb your reading."

 

"You did not disturb me," Jungkook said, stepping fully into the warm, fragrant room. He rolled up the sleeves of his fine linen shirt, an oddly domestic gesture. "I shall assist you."

 

Taehyung couldn't help the small, incredulous laugh that escaped him. "You, sir? Forgive my impertinence, but have you ever even set foot in a kitchen before today? I rather doubt it. Your expertise lies in ledgers and accounts and the running of empires, not in the sifting of flour."

 

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed playfully. He picked up a pristine white apron from a hook and tied it around his waist with an air of defiance. "Do not underestimate me, Taehyung. I am a man of many capabilities. If I decide to master the art of confectionery, I shall."

 

"Very well, sir," Taehyung said, biting his lip to hide a smile. "You may start by sifting that bowl of flour. The sieve is there."

 

Jungkook approached the task with the grave seriousness of a man reviewing a legal contract. He picked up the sieve, loaded it with a generous amount of flour, and gave it a firm, decisive shake. The result was immediate and catastrophic. A great cloud of white powder erupted from the bowl, covering the front of his apron, his shirt, and settling in his dark hair like a dusting of early snow.

 

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then, Taehyung clapped a floury hand over his mouth, but it was too late. A wholehearted, melodic laugh burst forth, echoing off the stone walls. He moved forward without thinking, his earlier restraint forgotten in the sheer delight of the moment.

 

"Oh, sir," he giggled, reaching up. "You are a disaster." His fingers gently ruffled Jungkook's hair, attempting to dislodge the flour. Then, with the soft sleeve of his sweater, he began to gently wipe the powder from Jungkook's cheeks, one hand coming to rest gently on the side of his jaw to steady him.

 

Jungkook stood perfectly still, slightly embarrassed but utterly captivated by the sight of a laughing, unreserved Taehyung. As Taehyung tended to him, his touch tender and intimate, Jungkook’s hands came up of their own volition, settling firmly on Taehyung’s waist, drawing him a fraction closer.

 

"Were you just laughing at me, Taehyung?" Jungkook asked, his voice a low, playful rumble that vibrated through the space between them.

 

Before Taehyung could answer, Jungkook, his expression mischievous, leaned forward and deliberately rubbed his flour-streaked cheek against Taehyung's. He left a perfect, powdery white mark on the steward's flushed skin.

 

Taehyung gasped in mock outrage, his blush deepening. "Sir!"

 

With a breathless laugh, he twisted out of Jungkook's grasp and darted away around the great oak table.

 

"Now you shall pay for this!" Jungkook declared, the aristocratic command laced with genuine mirth, and he gave chase around the kitchen, the grand room filled with the sound of their laughter and the sweet, promising scent of vanilla.

From the shadowed hallway, Miss Edith, the long-serving housekeeper, paused on her rounds. The sound of unbridled laughter—a sound so foreign to these halls—had drawn her to the kitchen doorway. She peered through the crack to see a scene that made her hand fly to her heart. There was Master Jeon, his fine shirt and hair dusted in flour, a boyish grin on his face as he chased a blushing, laughing Taehyung around the great oak table.

 

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she smiled, a deep, heartfelt smile that softened her worn features. It had been years since she had seen the young master look so… light. So free of the grief that had become his second skin. She clasped her hands together, offering a silent, fervent prayer. May he find it in his heart to truly love that boy. May they be blessed and stay happy forever. This house has been a tomb for too long. It deserves to be filled with laughter again.

 

 

Later, after Jungkook had retired to his chambers to bathe away the evidence of his culinary misadventure, Taehyung finished the cake. He presented it on a simple porcelain plate, a modest but perfectly golden slice, and carried it carefully to the study.

 

He found Jungkook back in his armchair, his damp hair tousled, smelling faintly of sandalwood soap, and once again immersed in his book. The fire crackled warmly.

 

"Your cake, sir," Taehyung said softly, placing the plate on the table beside him.

 

He turned to fetch a chair from near the fireplace to sit properly, as was appropriate. But before he could take a step, a hand shot out and encircled his wrist.

 

"Leave it," Jungkook murmured, his eyes still fixed on his book. With a gentle but firm pull, he drew Taehyung down—not onto a separate chair, but directly onto his lap.

 

Taehyung gasped, his entire body stiffening with shock. "S-Sir! I couldn't possibly—"

 

"Would you mind feeding me, Taehyung?" Jungkook interrupted, his voice a study of casual nonchalance, though he still refused to meet Taehyung's wide-eyed gaze. He gestured faintly with his book. "I am rather occupied with my reading."

 

Liar, Taehyung thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was perched precariously on Jungkook's solid thighs, the heat of the man's body searing through his trousers. It was utterly improper, a dizzying fantasy made real.

 

Hesitantly, his fingers trembling slightly, Taehyung picked up the small fork and cut a delicate piece of the cake. He raised it to Jungkook's lips. Jungkook finally glanced away from his book to accept the bite, his lips brushing against the tines.

 

He chewed slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It is exceptionally tasty," he pronounced. He then nudged the plate with his finger. "You should have a taste as well. Ensure the flavor is consistent throughout."

 

Blushing furiously, Taehyung cut a small piece for himself. As he ate it, Jungkook watched him, his dark eyes intense.

 

"You shall make a fine house wife, Taehyung," he remarked, his tone laced with a playful, aristocratic tease.

 

The comment made Taehyung blush an even deeper shade of crimson, and he dropped his gaze to his lap. Jungkook’s low, rich laugh filled the study, a sound of pure delight at his steward's flustered state.

 

"Here," Jungkook said, his voice softening. He took the fork from Taehyung's limp hand, cut another piece of cake, and held it up. "My turn."

 

Feeling as if he were in a dream, Taehyung parted his lips and allowed Jungkook to feed him. The gesture was impossibly intimate, a silent sharing that spoke volumes in the firelit quiet of the room. The sweet vanilla tasted like hope on his tongue.

The fire in the study’s marble hearth had burned down to a bed of glowing embers, casting a warm, pulsating light that danced across the shelves of leather-bound books. The remains of the cake sat forgotten on its plate. A comfortable, drowsy silence had settled over them, thicker and sweeter than the silence of grief that usually filled the room.

 

Taehyung had settled on the thick Persian rug before the fire, his back against the armchair. Jungkook, moving with a languid ease that spoke of deep contentment, had followed him down. Without a word, he had stretched out his long form on the rug and laid his head in Taehyung’s lap, closing his eyes with a soft, almost inaudible sigh.

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched. The weight of Jungkook’s head was a tangible, breathtaking trust. He sat perfectly still for a moment, then, tentatively, he brought his hand up and began to card his fingers gently through Jungkook’s still-damp hair. The action felt both wildly intimate and as natural as breathing.

 

On a small table beside them lay a volume of poetry, its pages gilded and soft with age. Seeing it, an impulse seized Taehyung.

 

"Would you care for me to read to you, sir?" he whispered, his voice barely louder than the crackle of the embers.

 

Jungkook didn’t open his eyes, but a faint, peaceful smile touched his lips. "I would," he murmured.

 

Taehyung carefully reached for the book, his movements slow so as not to disturb the man resting on him. He opened it to a random page, and the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese met his eyes. His heart stuttered. It felt like fate.

 

He began to read, his voice a low, melodic murmur that wove seamlessly with the sound of the fire.

 

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace…”

 

As he read, his fingers never stilled their gentle rhythm in Jungkook’s hair. He poured every unspoken feeling, every ounce of his devotion, into the words. He spoke of love’s quiet dignity, its enduring strength, its simple, pure freedom.

 

“I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

 

As the last line faded into the warm air, Taehyung let the book rest in his lap. He looked down at Jungkook’s face, relaxed in the firelight, the harsh lines of grief smoothed away. For this moment, he was not a master and his steward. They were just two souls, anchored in the quiet intimacy of the poetry and the fire’s dying light.

 

Jungkook didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He simply brought his hand up and laid it over Taehyung’s heart, feeling its steady, frantic beat beneath his palm—a silent answer to every word that had just been read.

The final words of the poem seemed to hang in the air, a sacred, aching truth that left a profound silence in their wake. The only sound was the soft crackle of dying embers and the unsteady rhythm of two hearts beating too close.

 

"I wonder why destiny is so cruel," Jungkook whispered into the quiet, the words torn from a place deep within him he usually kept locked away.

 

Taehyung’s hand stilled in his hair. "It surely is," he agreed, his voice thick with a shared, unspoken understanding.

 

In the firelight, Taehyung was breathtaking. The soft glow gilded the curve of his cheek, the elegant line of his throat, the gentle bow of his lips. His eyes, downcast and luminous, held a tenderness that felt like a balm and a brand all at once. He looked like a painting—beautiful, serene, and utterly kissable.

 

The thought struck Jungkook with the force of a physical blow. A sudden, violent urge surged through him—a desperate need to tilt that face down to his, to finally learn the taste of those lips, to lose himself in the warmth and devotion that Taehyung offered so freely. The desire was so intense, so foreign, and so wrong that it sent a jolt of pure panic through his system.

 

What is this? his mind screamed. He had never, not once, allowed himself to think of Taehyung in such a way. It felt like a betrayal of Hikari so profound it made him nauseous. Yet, the image wouldn't leave him: the press of his mouth against Taehyung's, the feel of that slender body in his arms, not for comfort, but for passion.

 

Terrified of his own impulses, of what he might do if he stayed a second longer in that hypnotic, intimate space, Jungkook moved. He sat up abruptly, dislodging Taehyung’s gentle hand, and got to his feet in one fluid, agitated motion.

 

Taehyung looked up, his expression shifting from peaceful contentment to confusion and hurt. "Sir?"

 

Jungkook didn't look back. He strode quickly to the study door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hand was on the doorknob when he paused. He half-turned, his profile stark and tense in the dim light, unable to grant him even a full glance.

 

"Go to sleep, Taehyung," he said, his voice strained, almost harsh. "Have a goodnight."

 

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Taehyung alone on the floor amidst the ghosts of poetry and the ashes of a dying fire.

 

---

 

Taehyung sat in the sudden silence, the warmth of Jungkook’s head still a phantom weight on his lap. The whiplash from profound intimacy to cold dismissal was so brutal it stole the air from his lungs. The hope that had blossomed so brightly in the kitchen, that had warmed him as Jungkook lay in his lap, shattered completely. He was yet again left heartbroken and profoundly lonely. Slowly, mechanically, he tidied the study, extinguishing the lamps before making the long, lonely walk to his small, cold room in the servants' wing. Once the door was closed, he sank onto his narrow bed, buried his face in his hands, and finally let the silent, wrenching sobs tear through him. He was so near to the man he loved, yet an entire universe of grief kept them eternally far apart.

 

---

 

In his own grand chambers, Jungkook paced like a caged animal. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind a chaotic storm. Why? Why did that thought come to me? He felt restless, consumed by a guilt that was now laced with something new and terrifying: desire. He was ashamed of the urge, horrified by his own weakness. To kiss Taehyung would be to finally step over a line from which there could be no return. It would mean admitting that Hikari was truly gone, that his heart was capable of wanting someone else. The conflict was a tempest within him, tearing him in two. One part of him yearned for the warmth and life Taehyung offered; the other clung desperately to the sacred memory of his dead wife, believing that to let go, to move on, would be the ultimate act of betrayal. He was trapped, and in his fear, he had once again left the one person who brought him light alone in the darkness.

Chapter 17: I give him up

Notes:

Hi hi hi. I couldn't sleep so I thought I'd just write.

"I had hoped for a long time, for something that I had lost before I ever found it."

______________ Ernest Hemingway 

 

The following days were a torment of Jungkook’s own making. A relentless conflict raged within him, fueled by the memory of Taehyung’s lips in the firelight and the terrifying urge to claim them. To quiet the chaos in his mind, he had enforced a strict, cruel distance. He departed for his firm before dawn and returned long after nightfall. He had instructed Miss Edith, in a tone that brooked no discussion, that she was to bring his tea, not the steward. Each glimpse of Taehyung’s sad, confused face was a fresh wound, but Jungkook believed it was a necessary cruelty—he could not offer hope where he had none to give.

 

Guilt and shame were his constant companions. How could he so dishonor Hikari’s memory by yearning for another? The very thought felt like a desecration.

 

This particular afternoon, his office was shrouded in a thick, hazy gloom, the air heavy with the pungent scent of expensive tobacco. Jungkook stood by the window, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, his waistcoat undone, his hair disheveled—a portrait of aristocratic distress.

 

The door opened without ceremony, and Namjoon, his most trusted advisor and friend, stepped inside. He waved a hand dismissively through the smoky air, his expression one of stern concern.

 

“Sir, I think that’s quite enough,” Namjoon stated, his voice firm.

 

“It is not, Kim,” Jungkook retorted without turning, his voice gravelly with smoke and exhaustion. “You do not know… my head has been going haywire.”

 

“With all due respect, sir, you are being excessively harsh on yourself. And on him.” Namjoon took a step further into the room. “I have observed you. Your entire countenance alters in his presence. It brightens. You display a marked… possessiveness when others express an interest in him. You clearly desire his company, yet you refuse to acknowledge the sentiment for what it is.”

 

“I do not love him, Kim,” Jungkook snapped, finally turning to face him, his eyes flashing with irritation. “I am incapable of it. I am a firm believer that one is granted a single great love in a lifetime. Mine has been concluded.”

 

“And how can you be so certain that what you shared with Lady Hikari was that singular, great love?” Namjoon challenged, his tone respectful yet unyielding. “Perhaps, sir, perhaps it is Lord Kim.”

 

“Do not dare,” Jungkook’s voice dropped to a dangerous, low whisper as he advanced, slamming his palm down on the elegant mahogany desk. “Do not dare question the love I shared with my wife.”

 

“I question nothing, sir,” Namjoon held his ground, though his posture remained deferential. “I merely urge you to observe the devotion he shows you. Destiny is not being cruel to him; you are. Anyone with eyes can see it. You are in a state of profound denial. You harbor a deep sentiment for that young man.”

 

He pressed on, his words deliberate. “When you are with him, even momentarily, you become… youthful. You laugh without restraint. You are playful. It is a transformation. Tell me, sir, were you ever so… unburdened in Lady Hikari’s presence?”

 

“Enough!” Jungkook’s shout echoed through the room. He could bear the insinuation no longer. He stormed past Namjoon, barging out of the office and leaving the heavy door swinging in his wake.

 

What absolute nonsense Kim is spouting, he fumed, striding through the corridors of his firm. He has clearly taken leave of his senses.

 

He practically threw himself into the back of the waiting Daimler, his jaw clenched tight.

 

“John,” he commanded, his voice sharp. “Take me to the cemetery.” He needed to see Hikari. He needed to beg her forgiveness for the traitorous thoughts that plagued him and for the friend who dared suggest his love for her was anything less than eternal.

The Edinburgh cemetery was bathed in the soft, golden light of a mid-March sun, its rays filtering through the high, scattered clouds to gild the ancient landscape. Though the air remained crisp and carried a distinct, chilly bite, it was undeniably spring’s touch that warmed the edges of the day. A gentle, cool breeze whispered through the grounds, carrying not the scent of rain, but the fresh, promising aroma of damp earth and new growth. The bare branches of towering yew trees were now etched against a canvas of delicate blue, and below, clusters of brave crocuses and early daffodils dotted the mossy grass with vibrant purples, whites, and yellows, their faces turned eagerly toward the light. It was a place of serene majesty, filled with the quiet hum of awakening life—a poignant, beautiful contrast to the winter still raging within Jungkook’s heart.

He stood before an elegant marble tomb, its surface etched with the name Hikari Jeon. His posture was rigid, a lord facing a sovereign, but his composure was crumbling from within. His hands, clenched into fists at his sides, were numb from the cold—or perhaps from the effort of holding himself together.

 

“Hikari,” he began, his voice a raw, husky whisper that was swallowed by the vast, silent expanse. It was the voice of a man speaking in a sacred confessional.

 

“I am… so profoundly conflicted.” He swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. “I am lost in a way I have never been before.”

 

A gust of wind rustled the leaves, and he took it as a sign to continue, his aristocratic diction fraying at the edges with emotion.

 

“This… sentiment that threatens to disrupt my peace… pay it no mind. It is a fleeting madness, a weakness of a lonely spirit. I do not love him, Hikari. I cannot. I will not permit it. You must believe that. You are my one and only. You shall always be my one and only.”

 

The words felt like ash in his mouth. A single, hot tear escaped the rigid control he held over his features, tracing a path down his cold cheek. He made no move to wipe it away.

 

“I will… I will remedy this distraction. I shall restore order.” His voice hardened, as if trying to convince himself through force of will. “I will tell him to leave the mansion today. I will accept his resignation. I will send him away. It is the only… the only proper course.”

 

But as he spoke the decree, a brutal, searing pain lanced through his chest, so acute it nearly stole his breath. The thought of those halls without Taehyung’s quiet presence, without the light in his eyes, felt like a new, more desolate kind of death. He was being willfully blind, choosing the comfort of a ghost over the warmth of a living, breathing heart that beat for him alone.

 

He reached out a trembling hand, placing it against the cold, unfeeling marble. The contrast between the lifeless stone and the memory of Taehyung’s warm cheek beneath his fingers was devastating.

 

“Forgive me,” he pleaded, his head bowing, his broad shoulders slumping in defeat. “Forgive this wretched confusion. Forgive my… my traitorous heart.”

 

He stood there for a long time, a solitary, crumbling figure in the mist, seeking absolution from a silence that could offer none, while willfully turning his back on the solace that awaited him at home.

A restlessness, born from days of bewildering distance and coldness from Jungkook, compelled Taehyung to seek solace in exploration. He found himself ascending the final, narrow staircase to the uppermost floor of the grand Georgian townhouse, a part of the mansion rarely visited, reserved for forgotten memories and stored relics.

 

The air here was still and carried the faint, sweet scent of old wood and undisturbed dust. This was the attic space, but unlike any common loft; it was a vast, finished room running the entire length of the house, with a high, vaulted ceiling supported by elegant beams. Dormer windows, set deep into the slanted roof, allowed slanted shafts of the pale afternoon light to cut through the gloom, illuminating countless dancing dust motes. The architecture spoke of a time when every inch of space, even this one, was designed with intention. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, their titles faded by sun and time. Mahogany chests, inlaid with brass, were pushed against the walls, and elegant but sheet-draped furniture stood like silent ghosts—a chaise lounge, a carved writing desk, a pair of wingback chairs.

 

It was a museum of a life paused, beautiful and melancholic.

 

Taehyung moved quietly through the aisle of forgotten things, his fingers gently brushing over the dusty surfaces. And then, in the far corner, positioned to catch the light from the largest dormer window, he saw it: the shape of a grand piano, its majestic form entirely shrouded in a heavy, white dust sheet.

 

A pull, an irresistible curiosity, drew him towards it. He took hold of the sheet and, with a soft whoosh, drew it away. A cloud of dust blossomed into the sunbeams, and the instrument was revealed. It was a beautiful piece, its dark rosewood finish dulled by a thick layer of grey powder, its ivory keys yellowed with age but still promising music.

 

Something in Taehyung’s heart clenched. It looked so lonely, so abandoned. Without a second thought, he found an old, relatively clean cloth from a nearby chest and began to gently wipe away the dust from the lid, the music stand, and finally, the keys. The fine wood began to gleam dully beneath his care.

 

Finished, he pulled the matching stool closer and sat down. He lifted the fallboard, revealing the full keyboard. He hesitated for only a moment, then, with a tenderness born of deep feeling, he placed his fingers on the cool ivory and began to play.

 

The first chord was hesitant, the notes slightly flat from disuse, but as he continued, a melancholic, beautiful melody began to fill the silent attic. It was a piece he knew by heart, one that seemed to echo the bittersweet ache in his own soul—a quiet lament for something beautiful that was just out of reach. The music swelled, soft and sorrowful, pouring out of him and into the lonely, sun-drenched space, a secret confession played for an audience of ghosts and dust.

Jungkook paused at the threshold of his chamber, his hand stilling on the doorknob. A faint, haunting melody drifted down from the uppermost floor, a sound so alien to the mansion’s long-standing silence that it made his breath catch. His brow furrowed in profound confusion. That portion of the house had been sealed away, a tomb within a tomb, ever since Hikari had passed. No one went up there. No one dared.

 

Driven by a compulsion he could not name, he turned and followed the sound, his footsteps silent on the thick carpets. As he ascended the final staircase, the music grew louder, clearer—a familiar, heartbreakingly beautiful piano piece. Then, a voice, soft and melodic, began to sing:

 

“Mitsumeteru kurayami sae mo So beautiful Boku wo shinjite hoshii…”

 

Jungkook froze on the top step, his heart seizing in his chest. That was his song. Their song. The one he had composed for Hikari. The one no one else in the world knew.

 

He moved as if in a trance, drawn toward the open door of the attic room. The setting sun streamed through the dormer window, casting the space in a warm, ethereal glow. And there, at the rosewood piano, sat Taehyung. His eyes were closed, his face serene and gilded by the light, his dainty fingers moving with sure grace over the ivory keys. The words, so full of longing, flowed from him as if they were his own:

 

“Mitsumeteru sono manazashi wa So colorful Subete wo sasageru yo…”

 

A memory, vivid and brutal, flashed behind Jungkook’s eyes: Hikari, her laughter like bells, spinning around this very room as he played, her skirts whirling. The joy. The light. The unbearable, crushing weight of its loss.

 

“Taehyung!” he barked, the name tearing from him like a gunshot in the sacred quiet.

 

Taehyung flinched violently, his hands crashing down on the keys in a discordant jangle. His eyes flew open, wide with shock. “Sir! You’re back,” he said, quickly rising to his feet and moving toward Jungkook.

 

“No,” Jungkook commanded, his voice sharp, his hand gesturing for him to stay where he was. “Stay there.”

 

Taehyung halted immediately, confusion and a flicker of alarm on his face. “What happened, sir? Have I… have I done something wrong?”

 

Jungkook could barely form the words, the past and present colliding violently within him. “How,” he began, his voice low and strained with a mixture of fury and disbelief. “How do you know that song?”

 

Taehyung’s brows drew together in genuine puzzlement. “This song? The one I was just playing, sir?”

 

“Yes,” Jungkook bit out, the single word laced with a pain he could not conceal.

 

Taehyung stood a little straighter, though his hands trembled slightly. “I have known it forever, sir. "

The air in the dusty attic grew thick, charged with a revelation that seemed to suck the very oxygen from the room. Jungkook’s gaze remained fixed on Taehyung, his aristocratic composure cracking under the weight of a impossible truth.

 

“Since when, exactly, Taehyung?” Jungkook pressed, his voice a low, urgent demand.

 

Taehyung’s eyes grew distant, seeing not the attic but a memory from a dream. “Six… seven months back, sir. I began to dream of this… this particular scene. I would see a man’s back, sitting at a piano, playing this song. And I would hear… a woman’s laughter. Melodious. Airy. Light.” He paused, his vision blurring as he saw it again but now clear vivid. It was Jungkook. The man he could see his face.

 

His breath hitched. He looked directly at Jungkook, his expression  horrified .

 

A wave of dizziness washed over him. He swayed, lifting a hand to his temple. “My head…”

 

Instinctively, Jungkook surged forward, his own confusion forgotten in a wave of concern. He caught Taehyung by the elbows, steadying him. “Taehyung? What is it?”

 

But as the dizzying memory released him, a new, more profound shock took its place. Taehyung’s eyes flew open wide. He pushed against Jungkook’s chest, shoving himself away as if burned by the contact.

 

“No,” he whispered, then louder, more frantic, “No, no, no! It cannot be!”

 

“What cannot be?” Jungkook asked, his own heart beginning to race with a nameless dread.

 

“That is my song, Taehyung,” Jungkook explained, his voice hollow with the ghost of a past life. “Our song. I composed it for Hikari after a terrible quarrel. She returned to Japan for a fortnight, and I… I was going mad with longing. She adored it. I would play it for her right here, in this very spot, and she would dance…” His voice broke as he gestured to the sun-drenched space around them, now a stage for a haunting.

 

The pieces clicked into place with a devastating finality. The dreams began after the transplant. They weren't dreams at all. They were echoes. Hikari’s memories. Her favorite moments, imprinted on her eyes, now seeing the world through Taehyung.

 

A terror colder than any Edinburgh chill seized Taehyung. He looked at Jungkook, his voice a terrified whisper. “Sir… did you… did you donate Lady Hikari’s eyes when she passed?”

 

Jungkook slowly nodded, the action feeling monumental. And then he remembered. The kind, insistent Dr. Seokjin from St. Margaret’s, speaking of a promising, grateful recipient. A blind orphan who had been given a miraculous gift. And he remembered Taehyung himself, weeks ago, speaking of his life-long blindness, cured only recently.

 

The truth landed between them, immense and unignorable.

Uncontrollable tears welled in Taehyung’s eyes—Hikari’s eyes—and spilled over, tracing paths down his cheeks. He brought a trembling hand up, covering them as if he could hide the truth.

 

“I have her eyes,” he choked out, the words a raw, broken whisper that seemed to tear his throat. The instrument through which he saw his master, through which he fell in love with him, belonged to the very woman whose memory held Jungkook captive. He was not just a steward in love with his master; he was a living, breathing monument to Jungkook’s greatest loss.

 

 

Taehyung took a staggering step back, his hand flying to his mouth as a broken, disbelieving sound escaped him. "How much more cruelly can Fate twist the knife?" he whispered, his voice trembling with a horrifying realization. "When I received this gift of sight, I vowed I would be eternally indebted to the soul who granted it and to the family who consented. I am indebted... to her." He looked at Jungkook, his expression one of utter torment. "How can I, in good conscience, harbour these feelings for her husband? How can I wish for you to forget her, when it is through her very eyes that I see you?"

 

Jungkook’s own heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, erratic drumbeat of shock and confusion. He could only stare, rendered speechless by the grotesque poetry of it all. The eyes he had loved in one face now looked back at him from another, filled with a love he both craved and reviled.

 

A bitter, choked scoff escaped Taehyung. "The person I selfishly wished you would learn to release... is a part of me. She is woven into my very perception of the world. Of you." He gestured wildly to his own face, tears now streaming freely from the eyes that had once been Hikari's. "How exquisitely, viciously cruel."

 

Jungkook found no words. The revelation was too immense, too shocking.

 

"Perhaps, sir," Taehyung continued, his voice rising in despair, "this is Fate's definitive decree. Perhaps the universe is commanding me to relinquish my claim. To let go of her husband, to depart, and to surrender this foolish dream." A raw, anguished cry was torn from him. "What a mockery! What a vile foolery this is!"

 

He stood there, weeping openly, a living, breathing contradiction—a monument to Jungkook's past and a heartbreaking embodiment of a future he could not allow himself to have. The eyes that had witnessed Jungkook's greatest love now wept tears of despair for a love that seemed cursed from its inception.

The devastating logic of it settled over Jungkook with the weight of a tombstone. His own resolve to send Taehyung away and Taehyung’s decision to leave had converged into a single, desolate path. Fate, it seemed, had spoken its final, cruel verdict.

 

“Taehyung,” Jungkook began, his voice uncharacteristically rough.

 

But Taehyung spoke first, his words formal yet fractured by a tremor he could not control. “I shall be eternally grateful to you, sir, for the incomparable gift you bestowed upon me. The gift of sight. It is a debt I can never repay.”

 

He drew a shaky breath, forcing the words out. “It would seem… it renders everything else pointless. There is no further reason for me to remain.”

 

A painful, wistful smile touched his lips, though his eyes—her eyes—shone with tears. “And I shall not be so presumptuous as to claim that no one will ever love you as I do, or after me. You, sir, are a man of great beauty and admirable stature. A hundred others would surely love you. But…” his voice dropped to a heartbroken whisper, “none of them will be me.”

 

With that, he could bear it no longer. He turned and ran past Jungkook, the back of his hand pressed fiercely to his mouth, descending the stairs in a frantic, hurried rhythm. He fled to his room, and the sounds of drawers opening and closing, of a suitcase being packed with desperate haste, echoed through the silent hall. He could not stay a moment longer.

 

Jungkook remained statue-still in the attic, his heart a cold, aching stone in his chest. Taehyung has Hikari’s eyes. Taehyung is leaving forever. A part of him screamed to follow, to stop him, to demand he stay. But his feet remained rooted to the spot, his mind a scattered whirlwind of conflict and grief.

 

He descended the stairs slowly, each step heavy with finality, and went directly to his study. He lit a cigar with unsteady hands, its acrid smoke doing little to calm the tempest within, and took his post by the large glass panes overlooking the drive.

 

The door opened without ceremony. Miss Edith stood there, her face pale with distress. “Master Jeon… Taehyung is leaving. He has his suitcase.”

 

“I am aware,” Jungkook replied, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion, his back still turned to her.

 

“You will not stop him?” she pleaded, her own voice breaking. “Sir, I beg of you, do not let him go. This house… it will become a tomb once more. You will wither away inside it, grieving a ghost. Do not let him leave.”

 

Jungkook’s shoulders tensed. “I am afraid, Edith, that this is simply… the conclusion of his part in this household,” he stated, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat. “I cannot continue to injure him further. What is transpiring… is for the best.”

 

His tone was frigid, aristocratic finality, a stark contrast to the terrible ache that was tearing his heart apart.

 

From his window, he watched the figure of Taehyung, small and determined, walking down the long gravel drive, a single suitcase in his hand. He did not look back.

 

He was gone.

 

Taehyung was simply… leaving. And Jungkook, bound by a grief he could not overcome and a guilt that now had a new, horrifying dimension, let him go.

The elegant streets of New Town blurred into a watercolour misery. Each step was a fresh fracture in his soul, the weight of the suitcase an anchor dragging him into the depths of a sorrow he could no longer bear. His legs, once strong enough to carry him through a grand mansion, buckled beneath the weight of a broken heart. He collapsed onto the cold, unfeeling pavement, folding in on himself like a letter meant to be burned, never sent.

 

A raw, guttural sound was torn from him, a sob that seemed to scrape his very throat raw. His body convulsed, wracked by the tempest within.

 

This is the epilogue, the thought echoed, a bleak and final sentence in the story of them. This is the dust that remains after the palace has crumbled. There will never be an ‘us’ sculpted from this ruin.

 

A dark, desperate thought flickered—a wish to pluck these eyes from their sockets, to return the cursed vision that had made him fall in love with a ghost’s husband. But just as swiftly, a wave of profound, shameful gratitude washed over him, for they had granted him a season in the sun of Jungkook’s presence. He was a walking contradiction, a sonnet of devotion written in the ink of despair.

 

---

 

He arrived at the familiar door a hollow man in a solid world. The knock he offered was a ghost of a sound.

 

When the door opened, revealing Jimin’s concerned face, the last vestige of his composure shattered.

 

“Taehyung? Tae?”

 

At the sound of his name spoken with such tenderness, the dam broke. The suitcase fell from his numb fingers, its clatter on the stone step the sound of a life abandoned. He stumbled forward, collapsing into the sanctuary of Jimin’s arms.

 

A torrent of agony was unleashed, his body trembling like a leaf in a storm. He buried his face in Jimin’s shoulder, his words a broken, poetic lament against the fabric.

 

“I am laying down my arms, Jimin,” he wept, his voice a ragged whisper. “I am surrendering the battlefield of my heart. I relinquish him… I set him free back to his ghosts.”

 

A sharp, physical pain seized his chest, and he cried out, the sound muffled and desperate.

 

“Oh, jimin… it feels as though my heart is being unstitched from my very being. There is an ache in my chest… a hollow where my love for him used to reside.”

Jimin caught him, his own vision blurring with tears as he held his friend tightly. "Breathe, Taehyung-ah, just breathe," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his hands rubbing soothing circles on Taehyung's shuddering back. "I'm here. I've got you."

 

He tried to guide him inside, but Taehyung's legs were pillars of salt, dissolving into nothing. They collapsed together just inside the doorway, a tangle of limbs and heartbreak on the polished floor. The sound of frantic, gasping sobs brought Yoongi running from the kitchen, his usually stoic expression shattered by the scene before him.

 

"Jimin, I love him," Taehyung wailed, the confession a raw, open wound. "I love him with every shattered piece of me." He clutched at his own chest, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt as if he could physically tear the pain out. "It hurts, Jimin. It feels like my heart is breaking in two. And I have... I have her eyes."

 

Jimin held him tighter, his own heart breaking. He had never seen Taehyung like this. Through the grey, grinding poverty of the orphanage, through the profound darkness of his blindness, Taehyung had been their steady light. He was the one who would find a sliver of sun on a rainy day, who would smile and whisper, "It's okay, Minnie. We have each other. That's enough." He bore his burdens with a quiet grace that made others feel strong.

 

He was their kind, calm Taehyung, who never cried, only hoped.

 

But this was a pain too profound for hope. This was a sorrow too deep for his gentle spirit to bear with a smile. He cried until his voice was a ragged, broken thing, until his body was drained of everything but the hollow, aching truth.

 

He had finally fallen in love. And it was a love that had built its home in a house of tragedy, a love that could never, ever be. For the first time in his life, it was not okay. This time, it would never be okay.

Chapter 18: Acceptance and endurance

Notes:

Hi my lovely readers.
here is another chapter.

sometimes you get the clarity through distance and a clean fresh beginning. taehyung has finally accepted that Jungkook is not for him and Jungkook has finally accepted he is so very much in love with taehyung.

Here when time skips 2.5 years have passed.

“Never again will you come with me… the knowledge that you will never come is more than my heart can bear.”

_____________ Thomas Hardy

The small garden behind Jimin and Yoongi’s cottage was a meticulously kept haven, a testament to spring’s tender reign. Neatly bordered beds overflowed with a profusion of daffodils and delicate bluebells, while a venerable cherry tree bestowed a shower of pale blossoms onto the immaculate lawn. The sun, generous and warm, filtered through the fresh canopy, casting a dappled, golden light upon the scene. The air itself was perfumed with the sweet scent of early roses and the quiet hum of industry. It was a picture of serene, cultivated beauty.

 

Yet, standing amidst this vitality was Taehyung, a solitary figure embodying a profound winter. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, a futile defense against a chill that emanated from within. His gaze, fixed upon the brilliant blooms, was utterly vacant. The spring flourished around him, but the landscape of his heart was a frozen, desolate tundra, every memory a layer of permafrost. He felt utterly numb, insulated from the world’s beauty by a shroud of grief.

 

From the window of the morning room, Jimin observed him, his expression pained. Yoongi approached from behind, encircling Jimin’s waist with a firm yet gentle embrace, his hands coming to rest over Jimin’s. He followed his husband’s sorrowful gaze to their friend’s still form.

 

“It wounds me to see him in such a state, Yoongi,” Jimin murmured, his voice strained. “His countenance… it has lost all its warmth. He appears so utterly hollowed out. This is not the Taehyung I know.” His voice caught, and he swallowed thickly. “It is as if in relinquishing him, he has surrendered his very will to live. I desire only to have my Tae returned to me.”

 

Yoongi pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to Jimin’s temple. He held him closer, his own resolve hardening as he contemplated the shattered man in their garden.

 

“We should consider a removal,” Yoongi stated, his tone measured and decisive.

 

Jimin turned slightly within his embrace, a question in his eyes.

 

“He cannot be expected to heal in the very environment that caused such injury,” Yoongi elaborated, his gaze steady. “This city is now a gallery of his heartache. Every prospect will serve as a painful reminder of that gentleman. He requires a complete severance. He requires an atmosphere untainted by such poignant memories.”

 

He had developed a deep, fraternal affection for Taehyung. Witnessing the desolation of one normally so vibrant and gentle was intolerable. “We shall take our leave of this place,” Yoongi declared, his decision final. “We will find a new residence altogether, a fresh beginning where the season may truly have a chance to penetrate his solitude.”

Jimin gave a slow, solemn nod, his eyes still fixed on Taehyung’s desolate form in the garden. The decision, though drastic, felt like the only possible salve for a wound that would not close.

 

---

 

Eversince Taehyung’s departure, the mansion had reverted to its true state: a mausoleum. The silence that returned was not one of peace, but of absence, profound and deafening. The elegant rooms, once brightened by a spontaneous smile or a quiet melody, now stood in cold, perfect order, each a monument to loss.

 

Jungkook’s heart ached with a constant, dull throb. In the deepest, most honest recesses of his soul, he admitted it—he missed Taehyung desperately. The emptiness of the house was a physical weight, and there were moments, often in the twilight hours, when a wild, desperate impulse would seize him. He would even decide, with a sudden jolt of resolve, to find him, to go to him, to simply look upon that beautiful, kind face once more and beg…

 

But the memory would always follow, swift and cold: the hurt in Taehyung’s eyes, the devastating revelation in the attic, the certainty that his own presence was a poison. He would only hurt him again. He was incapable of offering the wholeness Taehyung deserved. And so, the resolve would crumble into ash. The thought was abandoned before it could fully form, extinguished by a guilt that was his oldest and most loyal companion.

 

His days became a wretched cycle. The study was once again perpetually shrouded in a haze of expensive cigar smoke, a futile attempt to fog the pain. His nights were drowned in amber liquor, a desperate pursuit of a numbness that always, always receded by morning, leaving only the sharp edges of a hangover and a deeper, more profound misery. He would complain of headaches, of fatigue, of the chill in the house—any excuse that disguised the true source of his suffering.

 

He remained, stubbornly and utterly, in denial. To acknowledge that what he felt for Taehyung was love would be the ultimate betrayal of Hikari. He clung to the belief that she would not want this for him, that her memory demanded his perpetual fidelity to a ghost, even as a living heart languished in the same house.

 

Namjoon could only observe the tragic spectacle, his visits met with a cloud of smoke and a wall of bitter deflection. He would sigh, shake his head in quiet despair, and take his leave. There were no more arguments to be made, no more truths to be spoken. His friend was choosing to starve to death in a room full of banquets, and there was nothing left to do but mourn the wilful, self-imposed destruction.

Jimin offered a soft, tentative knock on Taehyung’s bedchamber door.

 

“You may enter,” came the reply, a low, lifeless murmur from within.

 

Jimin pushed the door open, his face arranged into a carefully constructed brightness. “Taehyung-ah!” he chimed, his tone artificially cheerful, a deliberate performance meant to pierce the gloom. “I’ve come to see you.”

 

Taehyung offered a faint, fleeting smile, a mere ghost of expression that failed utterly to touch his eyes, which remained distant and dull.

 

Jimin crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, taking one of Taehyung’s limp hands in his own. “Tae,” he began, his voice softening into sincerity. “A decision has been reached. Yoongi is to secure a transfer. We are removing to London. The three of us.”

 

Taehyung’s gaze, which had been fixed on nothing, slowly shifted to Jimin’s face. “Why?” he asked, the single word laden with a profound, unhappy confusion that made Jimin’s heart constrict.

 

“You know why, Taehyung,” Jimin replied gently, his own composure beginning to fracture under the weight of his friend’s sorrow.

 

The effect was immediate. Tears welled in Taehyung’s eyes, brimming over and tracing silent paths down his pale cheeks. He slid from the bed, his movements devoid of grace, and crumpled to the floor at Jimin’s feet, sitting back on his heels. He pressed a hand to his chest, his breath catching in ragged hiccups.

 

“I cannot bear this sensation, Jimin,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I do not wish to entertain these thoughts of him… the pain is… it is utterly insufferable.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Jimin’s knees, his shoulders trembling.

 

Jimin’s throat tightened painfully. Do not succumb, he commanded himself. You must be his strength. He placed his hands on Taehyung’s shoulders, attempting to coax him upright. “Do not be like this , Tae,” he whispered, his own heart aching terribly. “Get up please. Why do you insist on positioning yourself on the floor?”

 

Taehyung lifted his head. The look he gave Jimin was one of utter devastation—his eyes hollow, red-rimmed, and spilling over with unchecked tears.

 

“I desired for him to return my affections, Jimin,” he wept, the words a raw, desperate plea. “I want him to love me in return. Please… go to him. Tell him to love me. I beg of you.”

Jimin’s heart shattered at the raw, poetic agony in Taehyung’s plea. He carefully gathered his friend into his arms, lifting him from the cold floor and holding him tightly, as if he could physically shield him from the anguish.

 

“You have been weeping for a week now, Taehyung-ah,” Jimin whispered into his hair, his own voice thick with unshed tears. “Your eyes… they have become unending springs of sorrow. They simply will not cease.”

 

Taehyung clung to him, his body wracked with hiccuping sobs that seemed to tear through his very soul.

 

“H-how can a heart be so fashioned,” he gasped, his words a broken, beautiful lament against Jimin’s shoulder, “that it is capable of absorbing such insufferable pain… and yet… and yet its deepest, most desperate wish is to be loved… only by the very hand that carved it so hollow?”

 

He trembled violently, his grip tightening on Jimin’s shirt. “I feel as though I am a book whose every page he has dog-eared and underlined, only to leave me forever unfinished on a shelf,” he cried, the metaphor spilling from him in his despair. “He has memorized the topography of my sorrow but claims no citizenship in my heart.”

 

A fresh, gut-wrenching sob escaped him. “M-make him… make him love me back, Jimin. Please,” he begged, his voice a mere shred of sound, fragile and desperate. “I am a garden he walked through once, and now every flower only knows how to bend toward the memory of his shadow. I cannot grow in any other light.”

 

The confession was so profoundly heart-breaking, so layered with unbearable love and pain, that Jimin could only hold him tighter, rocking him gently, offering the only solace he could: the silent, steadfast assurance that he would not let him shatter completely alone.

 

October 1967

University College London

 

A persistent, gentle drizzle misted the air outside the tall, arched windows of the lecture hall, painting the world in a soft, smoky grey. The sky was a low ceiling of woolen clouds, and a cool, damp breeze whispered against the glass, stirring the fiery leaves of a venerable London plane tree. They trembled—crimson, amber, gold—before letting go, spiraling down to blanket the slick, black cobbles below. The air held the crisp, clean scent of rain and decay, the quintessential perfume of a London autumn.

 

Inside, the hall was a bastion of warmth and quiet concentration. The hushed atmosphere was thick with the smell of old paper, woolen blazers, and chalk dust. Rows of students—young men in tweed and corduroy, women in neat twin-sets and pearls—listened intently, their pens scratching a soft, syncopated rhythm against foolscap paper.

 

From his seat near the back, Taehyung listened, his posture slightly stooped, his focus absolute. A pair of simple, wire-rimmed glasses was perched on his nose, helping him decipher the dense text of his anthology open on the wooden desk. He was dressed with a student’s careful, slightly rumpled elegance: a fine-gauge, cream-coloured wool sweater over a button-down shirt, its collar neatly pressed. His trousers were a dark, sensible flannel, and a worn leather satchel rested against the leg of his chair.

 

The elderly professor, Dr. Albright, paced slowly before the blackboard, his voice a dry, reedy instrument as he expounded on the metaphysical poets.

 

“Donne argues,” the professor intoned, tapping a piece of chalk against the board for emphasis, “that the love between two souls creates a single, new entity. A separation is not merely a distance between two people, but a tearing asunder of this unified soul. It is, therefore, a violation of the natural order.”

 

Taehyung’s pen stilled. He looked down at the page, the words blurring slightly. A tearing asunder. The phrase lodged in his chest with a familiar, aching precision. He wasn’t thinking of Donne. He was thinking of a grand Edinburgh mansion, of a cherry blossom lane, of a love that had felt so entire it had seemed its own entity. Its end had not felt like distance; it had felt like an amputation.

 

He slowly took off his glasses, polishing the lenses with a soft cloth from his pocket, a futile attempt to clear more than just his vision. Outside, a gust of wind sent a fresh cascade of leaves tumbling past the window, a silent, beautiful echo of the fall he had experienced within himself years ago. Here, in this city of millions, he was just another student. But the map of his heart, much like the poems he studied, still held its old, painful coordinates.

The lecture concluded with a final, dry remark from Dr. Albright, and the hall immediately filled with the rustle of closing books, the scrape of chairs, and the low hum of conversation. Taehyung was carefully placing his anthology into his leather satchel when a sudden weight draped over his shoulders.

 

“Kim Taehyung! There you are!” a voice sang out, bright and infectious. “I was starting to think you’d dissolved into metaphysical theory back here.”

 

Taehyung looked up, a genuine, if weary, smile touching his lips. It was Jung Hoseok, a beam of human sunshine in the gloomy autumn afternoon. Hoseok was everything Taehyung was not—effervescent, openly cheerful, with a laugh that seemed to startle the sober university air into something lighter. His grin was wide and immediate, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he wore his absurd happiness like a perfectly tailored coat.

 

“Hoseok,” Taehyung greeted, his voice quiet but warm.

 

Hoseok kept his arm slung companionably around Taehyung’s neck as they joined the stream of students flowing out of the hall. “Right, so, a bunch of us are heading out to Hampstead Heath tonight,” he announced, his energy barely contained. “There’s a bonfire, some… questionable wine, and guaranteed fun. You’re coming. No arguments.”

 

Taehyung’s smile became a little sad at the edges. “Ah, Hoseok-ah, that sounds… lively. But I have a mountain of reading to get through for the Donne seminar. Another time, I promise.”

 

Hoseok pouted dramatically, shaking Taehyung gently. “You and your books! They’ll still be there tomorrow! You’re going to turn into a ghost, haunting the library stacks. Live a little!”

 

“I am living,” Taehyung protested with a soft laugh, gently extricating himself from Hoseok’s hold. “I’m living quite intensely with John Donne and his ‘twin compasses’.”

 

Hoseok groaned. “Boring! Fine, fine. But I’m not giving up on you. Next time, I’m not taking no for an answer.” They continued their playful banter about professors and parties until they reached the university’s grand gates. With a final, bright wave, Hoseok bounded off towards his more boisterous friends, leaving Taehyung alone on the pavement.

 

He adjusted the strap of his satchel and began the walk home. The autumn-stricken streets of 1967 London enveloped him. The air was crisp and carried the smoky scent of coal fires from a thousand hearths. The pavement glistened from the earlier drizzle, reflecting the warm, buttery glow of the newly lit gas lamps. Leaves, in every shade of fire, crunched softly under his shoes, and the occasional red double-decker bus rumbled past, its sound muffled by the damp air.

 

He walked, hands in his pockets, his breath forming faint plumes in the cooling air. Then, he gently smiled, tilting his head back to look up. The gnarled branches of the trees were etched like black lace against the twilight mauve of the sky, a few stubborn golden leaves still clinging on.

 

In that quiet moment, a profound peace settled over him, a hard-won understanding that had taken years to cultivate. He had accepted that some affections are sacred secrets, to be kept close to one’s own heart. He had learned that you do not stop loving someone simply because you stop seeing them, and love is never shaken by mere distance or time.

 

In loving Jeon Jungkook, he had once gone far beyond love into the territory of want—a selfish, aching desire to be loved in return. But as the raw emotions had settled and the days had stretched into a quiet, steady continuum, he had realized the purest truth: love is not, and should never be, conditional.

 

So what if we are not meant to be? he thought, the smile on his lips softening into something serene and timeless. I can always, and forever, keep on loving my handsome master. That is my choice. That is my peace. The love was no longer a shackle; it had become a quiet, constant companion, a part of the man he had become, as intrinsic as the autumn air he breathed.

 

The Jeon Estate Edinburgh

October 15, 1967

 

My beautiful Taehyung,

 

I hope this letter finds you. I write these words not knowing where you are, if you are safe, or if you would even wish to hear from me. I send them out into the silence, a foolish attempt to bridge a chasm I myself created.

 

I have been… fine. The estate runs with its usual efficiency. The ledgers are balanced, the investments are sound. I tell everyone I am fine, and in the way that matters to them, I suppose it is true. But it is a lie I wear like a fine coat, and it hangs heavy on my shoulders.

 

The truth is, I miss you terribly.

 

There is a silence in this house that I never noticed before you came, and now it is all I can hear. It echoes in the halls you used to walk, it sits in the chair where you would read by the fire, it mocks me from the kitchen where you baked a cake and filled the air with a sweetness that had nothing to do with sugar. I find myself turning corners, expecting to see you, hoping to hear your voice. The absence of you is a physical ache, a constant, hollow weight in my chest.

 

I long to look upon your beautiful face. I torture myself with the memory of it—the warmth in your eyes, the kindness of your smile, the way the light would catch your features and make me forget to breathe. I was a fool, Taehyung. A blind, grieving fool who could not see the living, breathing miracle standing right before me because I was so determined to worship a ghost.

 

I understand now. The love I had for Hikari was real and true, but it was of its time. It does not preclude another. It does not make what I feel for you any less profound. What I feel for you… it is different. It is a quieter, steadier flame, but it has proven itself to be inextinguishable. It survived my cruelty, my denial, and your departure. It survives still.

 

Sometimes distance makes us realize what we have lost. I have lost you, and in doing so, I have lost the best part of myself.

 

I do not know if you can ever forgive me. I do not know if you would ever consider returning. I have no right to ask it of you. I only needed to tell you. I am sorry. I am so desperately sorry for the pain I caused you. You, who only ever offered me kindness and a love I was too broken to accept.

 

Wherever you are, I hope you are happy. I hope you are surrounded by light and joy, things I failed to give you. I hope you know that you are, and will always be, loved.

 

Yours, in regret and enduring affection,

 

Jungkook.

 

 

Namjoon entered the office, the familiar scent of cigar smoke and despair hanging in the air. He found Jungkook at his desk, not with ledgers, but sealing an envelope with a slow, deliberate press of his signet ring.

 

“Another one?” Namjoon asked, his voice soft with a pity he could no longer conceal.

 

Jungkook didn’t look up, simply adding the letter to a growing mahogany box on the corner of his desk. It was filled with identical envelopes, each addressed simply to Taehyung, with no direction.

 

“I thought you had finally gone mad when you started,” Namjoon sighed, shaking his head. “I still believe it.”

 

It had been months after Taehyung’s departure that the dam within Jungkook had finally broken. He had closed the door on his haunting past, not to forget Hikari, but to finally make room for his present. He had confessed it to Namjoon, his voice raw with a shocking clarity. “I love him, Namjoon. I am in love with him.”

 

When Namjoon had sighed, saying, “It’s too late,” Jungkook had refused to believe it. He had tried to find him. He had gone to the cottage, only to be met by new tenants who knew nothing of the previous occupants save that they had left for London, no forwarding address left behind.

 

Ever since that day, Jungkook wrote. A letter every day. Letters full of confessions, apologies, and a love that had bloomed too late. Letters that were never sent. Letters to which he would never, could never, get a reply. It was his penance, and his only solace—the futile, heart-wrenching ritual of speaking to a ghost who was very much alive, but forever out of his reach.

Chapter 19: The reunion

Notes:

Hi loveliesssss. here the fic finally comes to an end. I'm grateful to my readers who supported me through this story and motivated me. this was my first ever fiction ever. I hope you all liked it.

I love you all.💗

"And at home by the fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there you will be."

_____________ Thomas Hardy 

 

The scent of kimchi jjigae filled the cozy London flat, a familiar comfort that usually brought a smile to Taehyung’s face. But today, it was just a scent. He placed the last bowl on the table with a quiet clink.

 

“Taehyung,” Jimin began, his voice soft but persistent as he arranged the spoons. “He came again today.”

 

A sigh, worn thin by repetition, escaped Taehyung’s lips.

 

Two and a half years. The initial, gut-wrenching agony had subsided, leaving behind a quiet, hollow ache that had slowly, over many months, been filled with new things. University lectures on Wordsworth and Keats, the steady hiss of an espresso machine, the uncomplicated joy of children’s laughter at the orphanage. He had built a life here, brick by careful brick, on a foundation that had once felt like complete ruin.

 

In the darkest nights, he had sobbed until his body shut down, cursing the vision that allowed him to see a world without Jungkook in it. He’d wished for the comforting darkness back, believing it was better to have never seen love at all than to have it ripped away. Wished to never had gained sight But Jimin and Yoongi had been his anchors, their voices a steady mantra: They are yours, Taehyung. You might have her eyes, but you don't have her sight. You see things differently.

 

And he did. He saw the world through his own pain, his own healing, his own strength. He was grateful to Hikari, but the debt was paid. He was his own person.

 

Then, Bogum had found them. Like a ghost from a past life he’d almost forgotten, he’d appeared with his unwavering love and impeccable timing. His proposal was softer this time—a request for dating, for time—but Taehyung’s answer remained the same. He was working on himself.

 

Yet, Bogum was adamant. His monthly visits, chalked up to business in London, were a constant, gentle pressure. A reminder of a path not taken. Taehyung had offered friendship, the only thing he had the capacity to give. He’d told Bogum that to love is to wait, a truth he had learned in the most painful way.

 

Bogum’s reply still echoed, sharp and clear: Someone who loves you wouldn’t make you wait. He didn't even look for you.

 

And with those words, the last, fragile hope that Jungkook might ever cross oceans to find him finally dissolved into nothing.

 

“Jimin, you know I can’t be with him,” Taehyung said, his voice barely a whisper.

 

Jimin put down the napkins and turned, his expression a mix of love and frustration. “He is a good man, Taehyung. He’s gentle, and he loves you dearly. He’s rich, he has everything…”

 

“He has everything but I don't have what  he wants,” Taehyung countered softly. “And I can’t give it to him.”

 

Jimin stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Taehyung’s shoulder. “It’s time you move on. How much longer? 2.5 years have passed.”

 

Taehyung looked at his best friend, his gaze clear and heartbreakingly calm. “I have moved on, Jimin.” He saw the disbelief in Jimin’s eyes and continued. “What is moving on? It’s not forgetting someone. It’s simply accepting that they have departed from your life and they are never coming back.  The moments, the time… it’s all in the past now. I’ve accepted that. But I fear… I fear I can’t love anyone else that way again. That part of me… it’s just not available anymore.”

 

Jimin’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “You haven’t accepted it, Tae. You say you have, but you still roam around with his big portrait hung in your heart. You’ve just put a curtain over it.”

 

The truth of it stung. Taehyung looked away, toward the window overlooking the rain-drizzled London street. “Let’s not talk about it, Jimin,” he whispered, the fight leaving his voice.

 

He gently pulled away from Jimin’s grip and walked into the kitchen, his movements mechanical as he picked up the pot of stew. The portrait in his heart remained, not as a source of active pain, but as a permanent exhibit in the museum of his life—a beautiful, closed chapter he had no intention of revisiting, but one that prevented any new exhibits from opening. He had found a fragile peace, but it was a peace that required him to be alone.

 

The Jeon Estate

Edinburgh Winter, 1967

 

Sir,” Namjoon began, stepping into the office and finding Jungkook not amidst a cloud of smoke, but simply staring out the window at the frost-licked gardens. The mahogany box of unsent letters sat prominently on his desk, a silent testament to his daily ritual.

 

Jungkook hummed, looking up. The deep, perpetual sorrow that had once clouded his features had, over the months, settled into a quieter, more resolved melancholy. The sharp edges of his grief had been worn down by the constant, grinding weight of regret.

 

“We are required to fly to London,” Namjoon stated, placing a portfolio on the desk. “The Henderson group wishes to meet in person to finalize the merger. They’re insisting.”

 

Jungkook nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to the window. “London,” he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. A city of millions. A world away from the haunted halls of Edinburgh.

 

A silence stretched between them, filled with the unspoken. Jungkook’s thoughts, as they so often did, spiraled inward. The memory of Taehyung was a constant, aching presence—the ghost of his laughter in the kitchen, the shadow of his form curled by the fire, the devastating clarity in his eyes the last time they’d spoken. He regretted it all with a ferocity that sometimes stole his breath. He regretted his denial, his fear, his cruel adherence to a past that had already ended. He had been given a second chance at life, at love, in the form of a kind, beautiful man, and he had thrown it away out of a misguided sense of loyalty to a ghost.

 

“You know,” Jungkook said, his voice low and introspective, still not looking at Namjoon. “I have this… feeling. This unshakable certainty.”

 

Namjoon remained quiet, allowing him to speak.

 

“I just know that we are going to meet again someday,” Jungkook continued, a faint, almost imperceptible hope coloring his tone. “One day, on some street corner, in some café… I am going to bump into him. It is destined, Namjoon. I feel it in my bones.”

 

He finally turned, and the raw conviction in his eyes was startling. “And when I do,” he vowed, his voice gaining strength, “I will not hesitate. I will not let pride or fear stand in my way. Even if I have to beg on my knees for his forgiveness, I will do it. I will confess my ardent, unwavering love for him. I will tell him that he is the greatest regret of my life, and my only hope for the future.”

 

He looked back out at the grey sky, a determined set to his jaw. “Destiny did not part us to end our story, my friend. It parted us to… to revise it. To make us better. To give us the time to become the men we need to be for each other. We will meet again. Someday. When we are both different people. Grown. Better.”

 

He spoke with the fervent faith of a man who had nothing left to believe in but the possibility of a miracle. For Jungkook, the unsent letters were not just apologies; they were promises. And a trip to London was no longer just a business meeting. It was a step into the vast, unknown world where his promise might, against all odds, find its recipient.

 

Early December,

1967 London

 

A pale, lemon-yellow sun struggled to break through a blanket of high, milky cloud, its weak light doing little to dispel the biting chill of the December morning. The air in London was crisp and carried the faint, sweet smell of coal smoke from a thousand hearths, mingling with the damp, earthy scent of fallen leaves rotting in the gutters. The streets were quiet, the usual bustle softened by a Sunday stillness. Taehyung walked with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his thick wool overcoat, a grey scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, his breath forming small, ghostly plumes in the cold air. He was heading towards St. Agnes’ Orphanage, a weekly pilgrimage that had become the anchor of his new life.

 

He finally reached the orphanage, a formidable yet beautiful Victorian building of red brick, its façade ornate with Gothic arches and pointed windows. A high, black iron fence enclosed a sparse, frost-touched garden where a few evergreens stood sentinel. Despite its imposing size, there was a warmth to the place, evidenced by the well-scrubbed steps and the cheerful, if slightly faded, curtains in the windows.

 

Pushing open the heavy oak door, he was immediately enveloped by a wave of warmth and a cacophony of sound—the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen, the murmur of voices, and the bright, unrestrained laughter of children. The interior was a testament to its era: high ceilings with elaborate cornicing, walls lined with dark wood paneling, and a grand staircase that swept upwards. But it was far from gloomy. Children’s drawings—bright splashes of crayon and paint—were pinned proudly to every available surface, and a large, fragrant Christmas tree already stood in one corner of the main hall, its decorations a charming, haphazard collection of paper chains and lovingly crafted angels.

 

“Mr. Kim!” a chorus of young voices shouted as he entered the main common room.

 

Taehyung’s solemn expression melted into a soft, genuine smile. He was immediately swarmed by a group of children, their faces alight with excitement. This was his role: to read to them, to help with their letters, to simply be a steady, kind presence. He shrugged off his coat and scarf, hanging them on a peg, and knelt so he was at their level.

 

For the next hour, he was immersed in their world. He sat in a worn, comfortable armchair, a circle of children at his feet on a faded Persian rug, and read to them from a book of fairy tales. His voice was calm and melodic, and he did all the voices, making them giggle. He helped a little girl, whose tongue was poked out in concentration, carefully form the letters of her name. He patiently settled a squabble over a wooden toy.

 

But in the quiet moments, the past reached for him.

 

A little boy with dark, unruly hair and intense, serious eyes looked up at him with a trust that made Taehyung’s breath catch. For a heart-stopping second, he wasn’t in a London orphanage; he was in a grand Edinburgh study, looking into the face of a grieving master whose own intense gaze had held a similar, lonely depth. The memory was so vivid it was a physical ache.

 

Later, as he helped arrange biscuits on a plate for their afternoon tea, the simple, domestic act transported him instantly to another kitchen, another time. The memory of flour dusting the air, of a rare, carefree laugh, and of strong arms wrapping around his waist was so potent he had to steady himself against the table. He could almost smell the vanilla, almost feel the ghost of that embrace.

 

He looked out the large Gothic window at the frosty garden. The sunlight was fading now, the early winter dusk beginning to paint the sky in shades of lavender and grey. The laughter of the children behind him became a distant echo as a profound loneliness settled over him. Here, surrounded by so much life and need, he felt the shape of his own loss more acutely. He loved these children, he was grateful for this peace, but a part of his heart would always reside in a grand, silent mansion in Edinburgh, with a man who had never learned how to love him back.

 

He took a slow, deep breath, the cold glass of the window pane under his fingertips. He had built a good life here. A meaningful one. But it was a life built around a quiet, constant absence—a love that was not and should not be conditional, even when its object was forever out of reach.

 

 

The roar of the jet engines faded into the hum of London’s damp, chilly air as Jungkook and Namjoon descended the steps onto the tarmac at Heathrow. The city met them with a characteristic grey embrace, the sky a flat, pearlescent sheet threatening a fine, cold rain. A sleek, black car—arranged ahead of their arrival—whisked them from the airport through streets teeming with life, a stark contrast to Edinburgh’s staid grandeur.

 

They booked into The Ritz, a palace of gilded opulence on Piccadilly. Their suite was a study in fine living: cream and gold decor, heavy silk drapes, and views over Green Park, its trees now skeletal against the winter sky. Jungkook stood at the window, his reflection a ghost in the glass—a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, his expression unreadable even to himself. The luxury was a given, a backdrop to his life, but it felt hollow, a beautifully appointed cage.

 

The next few days were a relentless cycle of meetings. They met with sharp, calculating men in the wood-paneled boardrooms of banks in the City, their handshakes firm, their eyes missing nothing. They took long, business lunches at hushed, exclusive clubs where the clink of fine china and the murmur of deal-making were the only sounds. They reviewed contracts in offices high above the Thames, the river a sluggish, grey ribbon winding through the heart of the metropolis.

 

Jungkook was in his element, in a way. His mind, sharp and analytical, dissected proposals, negotiated terms with a cool, effortless authority that commanded respect. He was the picture of a successful, untouchable tycoon. Namjoon watched him, a silent, approving presence, handling the finer details.

 

But beneath the surface, a different man existed. In the back of a taxi racing towards another meeting, Jungkook would find himself staring out at the crowds flooding the pavements. His eyes, usually so focused, would scan the countless faces with a desperate, fleeting hope. Is he here? Does he walk these same streets?

 

During a lull in a particularly dry discussion about commodity futures, his mind would drift. The investor’s voice would become a distant drone, and Jungkook would be back in a sun-drenched attic, watching slender, graceful fingers dance over piano keys, hearing a melody that now haunted his dreams. The longing was a physical pain, a constant, dull throb in his chest. He ached to see that face just once—not in memory, not in a photograph, but alive, in front of him. To see the light in those eyes, to know that he was well, that he was safe. He would have given up every deal, every pound in his account, for just five minutes in a quiet room with Taehyung.

 

The longing was a silent scream in the midst of the city’s roar, a private agony hidden behind a mask of aristocratic composure. Each handshake, each signed document, each polite smile was performed by a man who was only half-present. The other half was forever searching, forever yearning, lost in a London that felt infinitely large and cruelly indifferent, desperately hoping for a miracle he knew, in his rational mind, would never come.

The bell above the door of "The Willow's Nook" gave a soft, cheerful chime as Taehyung stepped out into the evening, his shift finally over. The small café, with its warm, buttery light and the rich, comforting scent of espresso and baked goods, felt like a sanctuary he was reluctantly leaving behind.

 

The world outside had transformed in the hours he’d been inside. It was just past 7 p.m., and true night had fallen, but a peculiar, luminous quality hung in the air. The temperature had dropped sharply, and a profound, expectant silence had settled over the London street, a hush that seemed to swallow the usual city sounds. The air was bitingly cold, each breath a sharp, clean shock to the lungs, and it carried the unmistakable, metallic scent of impending snow. Above, the sky was a vast, bruised tapestry of purplish-grey cloud, swollen and heavy, waiting to release the season's first snowfall.

 

Taehyung pulled his coat tighter around himself. He was dressed for the cold in a thick, cream-colored cable-knit sweater visible beneath a well-worn, brown leather jacket. A long, grey wool scarf was wrapped several times around his neck, and his hands were tucked into a pair of leather gloves. His breath plumed visibly in the frozen air as he paused on the pavement, looking up at the heavy sky.

 

The street was a picture of cozy winter anticipation. The glowing orbs of the Victorian-style street lamps cast pools of warm gold onto the pavement, their light reflecting off the glossy, dark cobblestones. In the windows of the little bookshops and boutiques that lined the street, fairy lights twinkled, and cheerful signs advertised last-minute Christmas gifts. The faint, melodic strains of a Christmas carol drifted from a nearby pub. It was a scene of quiet, festive beauty, but it was underscored by the raw, silent wait for the snow to begin.

 

He took a deep breath, the cold air sharp in his nostrils, and began to walk, his footsteps echoing softly in the unusual quiet, a solitary figure in a city holding its breath for the first, magical descent of winter.

The black car glided to a smooth halt outside the grand entrance of The Ritz, its engine purring softly before falling silent. The imposing façade was brilliantly lit, casting a golden glow on the damp pavement.

 

“We are returning back tomorrow, sir,” Namjoon said, gathering his briefcase from the seat beside him.

 

Jungkook gave a curt nod, his gaze distant, already fixed on the world beyond the car window. The meetings were done, the deals struck, and the familiar emptiness that always followed accomplishment began to seep in.

 

“I want to take a walk, Kim,” Jungkook stated, his voice low. “You go in. I will return shortly.”

 

Namjoon hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of concern in his eyes, but he merely nodded. “As you wish, sir.” He slid out of the car and disappeared through the revolving doors into the hotel’s warm, opulent embrace.

 

Jungkook waited until the car pulled away, then turned up the collar of his expensive wool overcoat against the biting cold. With a practiced hand, he fished a cigar from his silver case and lit it, the flame of his lighter a brief, orange flower in the deepening twilight. He took a long, slow draw, the rich smoke a familiar comfort against the chill.

 

He began to walk with no particular destination, a solitary figure moving through the London evening. The air was razor-sharp and cold, each breath feeling like shards of glass in his lungs. The cigar’s tip glowed like a lone ember in the gathering dark. He explored the streets without seeing them, his highly polished shoes carrying him past glowing shop windows displaying luxury goods, down quieter side streets where bare trees clawed at the purple sky.

 

He looked at this and that without truly registering any of it. A couple laughing, arm-in-arm, hurrying toward a restaurant. The cheerful light spilling from a pub window, illuminating a group of friends inside. A bookseller closing up his stall for the night. He observed it all from a great distance, as if watching a play from the very back row. His mind was not on the presents in the shop windows or the warmth of the pub; it was turned inward, on a single, fixed point of longing—a face he ached to see just once in this vast, indifferent city. The walk was not for sightseeing; it was a futile, restless search for a ghost, a penance performed in the cold.

Taehyung turned the corner, his head bowed slightly against the deepening cold, his mind already drifting towards the warmth of his small flat and the book waiting for him there. He took a few steps, his gloved hands buried deep in his pockets, and then he looked up.

 

And the world stopped.

 

A few feet away, standing under the warm, golden glow of a Victorian streetlamp, was a figure so achingly familiar it stole the breath from his lungs. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a posture of innate authority, a faint plume of cigar smoke haloing his head in the frigid air.

 

Jungkook.

 

Taehyung’s feet rooted to the cobblestones. A harsh, disbelieving scoff escaped him, a puff of vapor in the cold. Now I am even seeing his illusions, he thought, his heart giving a painful, cynical lurch. The cold and the loneliness are finally making me mad. He blinked, once, twice, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as if to wipe a mirage from his vision.

 

But when he opened them, the figure was still there. Solid. Real.

 

And it was turning.

 

His heart didn't just beat erratically; it seemed to convulse, a wild, frantic drum against his ribs that was loud enough to drown out the distant city sounds. A wave of pure, unadulterated shock crashed over him, so potent it felt like a physical blow. And with it came the memories—a devastating floodtide. The cherry blossoms. The attic. The piano. The feel of Jungkook’s head in his lap by the fire. The crushing pain of his rejection. The scent of his muffler. Every single moment, every look, every word, all rushing back at once, leaving him dizzy and breathless.

 

---

 

Jungkook took a slow drag of his cigar, his gaze absently tracing the line of a wrought-iron balcony above him. A movement at the edge of his vision made him turn his head.

 

And he froze.

 

A man had stopped dead on the pavement a short distance away, his face half-hidden by a grey scarf, illuminated softly by the lamplight. But there was no mistaking the slope of those shoulders, the elegant line of that neck, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead.

 

It cannot be, Jungkook thought, the cigar momentarily forgotten between his fingers. I am dreaming. The lack of sleep, the constant thinking… it has finally conjured him. It was a cruel trick of his mind, a phantom woven from longing and regret, standing there in the London cold.

 

But the phantom didn’t dissolve. It stood, shock-still, its eyes—God, those eyes—wide and fixed on him. And as Jungkook stared, the dream feeling began to curdle into something else, something terrifying and exhilaratingly real. He saw the recognition dawn, the shock that mirrored his own. He saw the subtle tremble that ran through the figure’s frame.

 

The street, the cold, the sounds of London—everything faded into a muffled silence. There was only the space between them, charged with three years of silence and a love that had refused to die. The man under the lamplight wasn't a ghost. It was Taehyung. His Taehyung. And he was here.

As they stood frozen, locked in a gaze that spanned years of distance and heartache, the heavy, expectant silence of the evening broke. A single, perfect snowflake drifted down, catching the golden lamplight as it spiraled lazily through the air. Then another. And another.

 

It began to snow.

 

It was not a storm, but a gentle, magical descent. Fat, delicate flakes floated down from the bruised purple sky, dusting the dark cobblestones, gathering on the shoulders of Jungkook’s dark wool coat, and catching in Taehyung’s dark hair like tiny stars. The fairy lights in the shop windows twinkled through the soft, falling veil, and the world seemed to hush, the usual city sounds muffled by the breathtaking, silent beauty of the first snow. It was a scene from a dream, cinematic and utterly surreal.

 

Taehyung gulped harshly, the sound loud in the new quiet. The cold air burned his throat. The sight of Jungkook running towards him through the falling snow—a sight he had once ached for—was now a thing of pure terror. His eyes watered, from the cold or from the shock, he didn't know.

 

No. No, it can’t be. This is a cruelty I cannot bear.

 

Panic, swift and absolute, seized him. He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here and have his heart broken all over again. He turned on his heel, his body coiling to run, to flee back into the anonymity of the city, to protect the fragile peace he’d built.

 

That’s when he heard it. A voice, raw with a desperation he had never, ever heard in it before, cutting through the gentle hush of the snow.

 

“Taehyung!” Jungkook called out, his voice breaking. “Don’t… don’t go away. Please.”

 

And then he was running. Jungkook was running towards him, his long strides eating up the few feet of snow-dusted pavement that separated them, his cigar discarded, forgotten on the ground, its ember extinguished by a perfect white flake.

The tears were a silent, freezing river on Taehyung’s cheeks, each one a testament to the seismic shock of the moment. He could feel Jungkook’s presence just behind him, a magnetic force that made his knees tremble and threaten to buckle. No, his mind screamed, I cannot turn. I cannot look upon his face and survive it.

 

“Taehyung.”

 

His name was not spoken; it was breathed into the space between them, a prayer on the cold, snow-filled air. Jungkook’s voice was raw, stripped of all its aristocratic armor, vibrating with a desperation Taehyung had never heard.

 

“I have missed you… terribly,” Jungkook confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if he feared Taehyung would vanish into the snowfall. “I must admit what a profound fool I have been. How utterly, wretchedly blind. Do not run from me, Taehyung. I beg of you.”

 

The raw plea, so unlike the man he knew, shattered Taehyung’s last defense. Slowly, mechanically, he turned.

 

He offered a watery, fractured semblance of a smile, a heartbreaking attempt at the old formalities. “Good evening, sir,” he managed, his voice a tremulous whisper.

 

Jungkook let out a pained scoff, his own heart breaking at the title. “You do not serve me anymore. You are under no obligation to call me that.”

 

“It is… a nice coincidence,” Taehyung whispered, looking anywhere but at Jungkook’s intense gaze, focusing on a snowflake melting on his glove. “To have met you here.”

 

“It is no coincidence,” Jungkook stated, his voice low and fervent, his eyes burning into him with an intensity that could melt the falling snow. “It is fate finally granting me a audience after my long and foolish exile.”

 

For two and a half years, Taehyung had imagined this moment. He had rehearsed anger, practiced icy indifference, and braced for a complete emotional collapse. But he had never imagined this: a terrifying, fragile calm, a desperate need to be steady and gentle, to protect himself from the hurricane of hope threatening to destroy him.

 

“I… I have to leave, sir,” Taehyung whispered, his voice breaking. “I am getting late.” He made to turn away again, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape its cage.

 

That’s when Jungkook’s voice rang out, clear and resonant, cutting through the gentle hush of the snow, a declaration that stopped the world on its axis.

 

“I love you.”

 

The words hung in the air, bold and undeniable. He took a step closer, his voice dropping into a husky, ardent whisper, yet every syllable was etched with a devastating clarity.

 

“I love you with a fervor that shames my past indifference. I love you with a devotion that has survived your absence and my own stupidity. This is no fleeting fancy. It is the most profound and enduring truth of my existence. You are the missing piece of my soul, Taehyung, and without you, I am but a ghost inhabiting a life of my own making. I am on my knees before you in spirit, and I will gladly kneel here in the snow if you require the proof. I love you. Only you. Always you.”

Taehyung’s entire frame went utterly still, as if the falling snow itself had frozen him in place. The words—I love you—echoed in the silent, snow-muffled street, not as a gentle confession, but as a seismic shock that reverberated through the very core of his being. Did he just…? His mind, reeling, could not form the thought.

 

Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he turned around.

 

Jungkook’s face was a masterpiece of raw, unguarded emotion. His eyes, usually so commanding and impenetrable, were pools of profound yearning, shining with unshed tears. He looked like a man who had been starved of sunlight, of warmth, of love for an eternity, and now stood before a feast he feared he was not permitted to touch.

 

“Please,” Jungkook breathed, the word a ragged plea that clouded in the frigid air. “Be with me. Come back home. The house… it is a mausoleum without you. It is so… unbearably lonely.” A single tear escaped, tracing a path through the faint dusting of snow on his cheek. “Come with me. Not as the steward of the house. Come as its young master. Come as my equal. Come as… mine.”

 

Taehyung felt the world tilt. The old wound, the deepest insecurity, bled anew. His voice, when it came, was a fractured whisper, barely audible over the quiet fall of snow. “You see… you see her in me?”

 

The question was a blade, and it found its mark. Jungkook flinched as if struck.

 

“I do not,” he vowed, his voice gaining a fierce, desperate strength. “I swear to you, Taehyung, I never would. I never did.” He took a step closer, his hands clenching at his sides as if physically wrestling with the truth to make it plain. “I have closed the door on that chapter of my life. Not to forget her, but to finally… live in my present. And my present… my future… it is you.”

 

He swallowed hard, the confession tumbling out, laid bare in the freezing London night. “For two and a half years, I have written to you. Every single day. A letter. A confession. An apology. A plea. A box full of words you will never read, because I was a coward who did not know how to find you.” His gaze was intense, willing Taehyung to believe him. “It was never Hikari’s eyes I saw when I looked at you. It was your soul shining through them. It is your kindness, your strength, your beautiful, resilient heart that I fell in love with. You are your own man, Taehyung. Entirely. Completely. And you are the only man I love. Ardently. Desperately. And forever.”

A sound escaped Taehyung’s lips—a choked, breathy laugh that was woven through with sobs, a release of three years of longing, pain, and fragile, impossible hope. It was the sound of a heart finally, finally coming home. All the resistance, all the fear, melted away under the heat of Jungkook’s ardent, raw confession.

 

He stumbled forward, closing the small, frozen distance between them, and crashed into Jungkook’s arms.

 

Jungkook caught him with a grunt of relief, his own arms wrapping around Taehyung’s shaking form, holding him so tightly it felt as if he were trying to fuse them into one being, to never let go again. He buried his face in the cold wool of Taehyung’s scarf, inhaling the scent of snow and him.

 

Around them, London continued its hushed, winter ballet. The snow fell in soft, relentless waves, dusting their hair and shoulders in white, painting the world in a pristine, silent beauty. The golden light from the streetlamps caught each flake, turning the air around the embracing men into a swirl of diamonds. There was no one else on the street; they were alone in their own perfect, snow-globe world.

 

“I love you, sir,” Taehyung whispered, the words muffled against Jungkook’s coat, the old title now infused with a new, intimate meaning.

 

“Let me see you,” Jungkook murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He gently pushed Taehyung back just enough to cradle his face in his gloved hands. With infinite tenderness, he unwound the grey scarf, letting it fall away.

 

Taehyung’s face was revealed, illuminated by the lamplight—his skin flushed from the cold, tracks of tears glistening on his cheeks, his eyes, those beautiful, soulful eyes, shining with a love so profound it stole Jungkook’s breath.

 

“My God,” Jungkook breathed, his thumbs stroking away the tears. “Look at you. You are… exquisite. So beautiful. More beautiful than any memory, any dream I ever tortured myself with.”

 

They were both crying then, quiet tears of relief and overwhelming joy, mingling with the melting snow on their faces.

 

Jungkook leaned forward, gently pressing his forehead against Taehyung’s. They stood like that, in the middle of the snowy street, foreheads resting together, eyes closed, breathing each other’s air. It was a moment of perfect, silent understanding, a communion of two souls that had wandered through a long winter and had finally found their spring in each other.

 

Then, Jungkook tilted his head and closed the final, breathless space between them.

 

He kissed him. It was not a kiss of hunger, but of reverence. A slow, passionate, and infinitely gentle sealing of a promise made and finally kept. It tasted of snowflakes and tears and the sweet, long-awaited truth of a love that had refused to die.

 

And so, in a quiet London street under a blanket of falling snow, two halves of a single soul finally clicked back into place. The long winter of their separation was over. The letters would remain unsent, the words now spoken aloud against warm skin. The past was honored, but its ghosts were finally laid to rest. All that remained was the gentle, relentless fall of snow, the shared warmth of their breath in the cold air, and the quiet, certain beginning of their forever, written not in ink, but in the silent, sacred language of a finally answered love.

 

Dearest reader,

I married my master. Not as his servant, but as the love of his life. The man I once called "sir" now whispers "my darling" against my skin, and the grand, empty mansion is now filled with our shared laughter. He is my beloved Jungkook, and I am his Taehyung. Finally, completely, and forever.

Chapter 20: Epilogue

Notes:

Here's an epilogue babies.

London, 1970

The grand, grieving shadows of Edinburgh had been left behind, exchanged for the gentle, sun-drenched light of a London spring. Taehyung had asked Jungkook to leave everything in Edinburgh and move with him to London and Jungkook did. He would follow his taehyung anywhere.They lived not in a mansion echoing with ghosts, but in a beautiful, terraced house in Chelsea, its pale stone facade warmed by the sun and adorned with a cascade of wisteria just beginning to unfurl its purple blossoms.

 

The French doors in the drawing-room were thrown open to the garden, allowing the sweet, mild air to drift inside. It carried the scent of hyacinths, freshly cut grass, and the distant, comforting hum of the city. This was their sanctuary, a home built not on duty or legacy, but on a choice made every single day: the choice to be together.

 

Jungkook stood at the doors, a cup of coffee in hand, watching. He had stopped smoking and drinking long ago. His hair was tousled by the breeze, and the severe lines that grief had once carved into his face had softened into smile lines. He wore a simple sweater, and there was a profound peace in his posture that had been unthinkable years ago.

 

His gaze was fixed on Taehyung, who was on his knees in the flowerbed, his hands buried in the rich, dark earth. He was planting something—lavender, perhaps—his movements careful and sure. He wore trousers that were slightly too old for gardening and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Jungkook let out a breathy laugh . He walked towards taehyung. Taehyung stood up when he felt a presence behind himself. Jungkook cleaned his cheek with the sleeve of his sweater . He then pressed taehyungs cheeks together squishing them.

"No No No," Taehyung tried to get away. Jungkook smiled rubbing his nose with Taehyungs . 

 

 

Taehyung looked up.His eyes, those same eyes that had once held so much sorrow, now crinkled at the corners with a happiness so deep it was palpable. He didn’t smile; he beamed, a sunburst of pure joy directed solely at Jungkook.

 

Taehyung turned around looking at what he planted satisfied.

 

Jungkook stood behind Taehyung, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. He breathed in the scent of him—sunshine, soil, and the faint, clean scent of his soap.

 

“What are you planting?” Jungkook murmured against his neck.

 

“A future,” Taehyung said simply, leaning back into the embrace with a contented sigh. “Every year, we’ll watch it come back, stronger and more beautiful than the last.”

 

“Oh I just remembered,” Taehyung called out, not looking up, “we’ve been invited to a lunch at jimins. Today.”

 

Jungkook smiled. “A summons from Jimin is not to be ignored.”

 

An hour later, the house was filled with a soft, domestic chaos. Jungkook stood before the mirror, attempting to knot his tie, a task he’d never quite mastered without a valet. Taehyung, freshly showered and smelling of sandalwood, appeared behind him, gently batting his hands away.

 

“Let me,” he murmured, his fingers deft and sure against the silk. Jungkook obediently tilted his chin up, his eyes fixed on Taehyung’s concentrated expression in the reflection, his heart swelling with a fondness so deep it was almost painful.

 

“There,” Taehyung said, smoothing the tie flat against Jungkook’s chest. “Perfect.”

 

“Not quite,” Jungkook whispered, turning and pulling him into a soft, lingering kiss. “Now it’s perfect.”

 

Taehyung laughed, a sound that still made Jungkook’s breath catch. “We’ll be late.”

 

“Let them wait,” Jungkook murmured, kissing him again, until they were both pleasantly breathless and slightly rumpled, their earlier neatness delightfully undone.

The door flew open before they could knock.

 

“You’re late!” Jimin declared, but his face was split by a wide, welcoming grin. He pulled Taehyung into a fierce hug before fixing Jungkook with a mock-severe look. “I was moments away from sending a search party.”

 

“My fault entirely,” Jungkook said, holding up his hands in surrender as he handed a bottle of wine to Yoongi, who had appeared behind Jimin with a much more subdued but equally warm smile.

 

The dining room was warm and filled with the incredible aroma of a home-cooked meal. Laughter and easy conversation flowed as freely as the wine. Plates were passed, stories were traded—of Yoongi’s latest music production, Jimin’s dance studio, Taehyung’s students, and Jungkook’s new ventures in London.

 

As a comfortable lull settled, Jimin leaned forward, his expression turning softer, more serious. He looked directly at Jungkook.

“I want you to know,” he began, his voice losing its playful edge, “that when he first came to us… when I saw what it had done to him… I genuinely wanted to kill you.” He said it so matter-of-factly that Jungkook could only nod, the truth of the statement landing with a sobering thud. Then Jimin’s face softened into a smile. “But I am so very glad you finally came to your senses. It’s much more pleasant to have you for dinner than to plot your murder.”

 

The table erupted in laughter, the tension dissolving instantly.

 

“A sentiment I wholeheartedly shared,” Yoongi added dryly, raising his glass. “To coming to one’s senses. It’s terribly inconvenient, but worth it in the end.”

 

“Hear, hear,” Jungkook said, his eyes finding Taehyung’s, full of gratitude and love. He reached under the table and laced their fingers together.

 

The playful banter continued, Yoongi teasing Jungkook about his newfound domesticity, Jimin demanding every detail of their wedding, which they’d kept small and private. For a few glorious hours, they were just four friends, wrapped in the warm, joyful noise of a shared life.

 

Later, as the sun began to set, painting the London sky in streaks of orange and pink, Jungkook and Taehyung decided to drive back home.

Jungkook guided their sleek car through the winding streets, his free hand resting on Taehyung’s thigh.

 

On a whim, he pulled over beside a little florist shop that was just closing up. He returned moments later, presenting Taehyung with a ridiculously large, breathtaking bouquet of baby pink roses, so vast it seemed to fill the entire passenger seat.

 

“Jungkook,” Taehyung gasped, his cheeks flushing a charming shade of pink that rivaled the roses. He buried his nose in the soft petals, overwhelmed. “This is too much. You didn’t need to get something so… enormous.”

 

Jungkook simply leaned over, brushed a stray lock of hair from Taehyung’s forehead, and said, his voice low and full of tender conviction, “There is no ‘too much.’ Anything for my beautiful little darling.”

little darling. Jungkook gave taehyung this nickname long ago and taehyung still couldn't help but blush profusely at it .

 

As they drove on, a magical coincidence awaited them. They turned onto a quiet, residential avenue, and the world transformed. It was a tunnel of cherry blossom trees, their branches arching over the road, heavy with a profusion of pale pink blooms. The setting sun streamed through the canopy, setting the countless flowers ablaze in a soft, ethereal light. Petals drifted down like scented snow, catching the golden hour glow.

 

“Stop the car,” Taehyung whispered, mesmerized.

 

Jungkook didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled over, and they both got out, drawn into the enchanted pathway. They walked hand-in-hand, their footsteps silent on the petal-strewn pavement. The air was cool and sweet, filled with the delicate, fleeting perfume of the blossoms.

 

Jungkook stopped, reaching up to gently pluck a single, perfect cherry blossom from a low-hanging bough. He turned to Taehyung, his eyes soft with adoration. With the utmost care, he tucked the flower behind Taehyung’s ear, his fingers lingering against his temple.

 

Taehyung didn’t just smile; he beamed, a radiant, ethereal expression of pure, unadulterated joy that seemed to make the twilight itself brighter. In that moment, surrounded by falling petals and the man he loved, he was the very embodiment of spring.

 

Jungkook’s breath caught. This, he thought, his heart so full it ached. This is bliss. This man is my everything. He is so devastatingly beautiful. I would cross oceans, move mountains, and rewrite my entire history just for the privilege of earning that smile.

 

He didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t need to. He simply leaned in and kissed him, there in the heart of the pink-blushed twilight, as the cherry blossoms fell around them like a silent, loving benediction on their forever.

Notes:

Thank you for reading. Please leave your remarks in the comments. 💗