Chapter Text
The auditorium exploded into gold light as the announcer’s voice echoed through the hall.
"Best Actor of the Year goes to… Jeon Jungkook!"
Jungkook rose from his seat with that signature bunny-cute smile, dimples showing, confidence dripping off him like he owned the entire night. He hugged a few co-stars, waved at the audience, then walked up the stage like he was born there.
After grabbing the trophy, he leaned into the mic. "Wow... this feels surreal." He chuckled, running a hand through his styled hair. "I owe this to my fans, my director, and... well, everyone who believed in me when I was just a kid dreaming big." The crowd roared again as cameras flashed nonstop, capturing every angle of his victory.
Backstage was chaos. Bodyguards formed a tight circle around Jungkook while reporters shouted questions over each other. He kept smiling politely but moved briskly toward the VIP exit, trophy gleaming under fluorescent lights. Sweat prickled his temple beneath the makeup.
"Jeon-ssi!" Your voice cut through the noise, sharp and professional. "KBS Entertainment Desk. Scheduled interview?" You held your press badge high, heart pounding against your ribs. His eyes met yours – playful, warm, lightning-fast – before the mask of polite professionalism slid back.
The security team parted just enough to let you step forward, and Jungkook slowed, adjusting the trophy in his hand. Cameras from other outlets swung in your direction, recognizing KBS’s exclusive post-win slot.
Jungkook leaned in slightly as you raised your mic, his cologne—something smoky and expensive—cutting through the backstage scent of sweat and hairspray. "Congratulations on the win," you began, keeping your tone crisp, reporter-perfect. "How does it feel to hold this trophy?" His gaze lingered a beat too long on yours before flicking to the lens. "Like holding lightning," he said, voice low and textured. "Wild, unpredictable... dangerously beautiful." A tiny smirk played at his corner of his lip.
You pressed on, aware of rival cameras pressing closer. "Your speech mentioned believing in dreams. What's next?" His thumb stroked the trophy’s base thoughtfully. "Chasing bigger storms." Then, deliberately, he shifted his stance, blocking others’ view as he murmured just for you, "Or maybe... dinner? My place. Chef’s special." Heat flooded your neck— You kept your voice steady. "Viewers want to know about your upcoming projects, Jeon-ssi." His chuckle was velvet. "I’m improvising tonight."
The bodyguards nudged him toward the exit. As he passed, his fingers brushed yours beneath the mic, electric and fleeting. "Midnight," he breathed. "Penthouse."
------
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in mirrored silence. Jungkook’s hand was already sliding beneath the strap of your dress, rough and urgent against your shoulder. "Took you long enough," he murmured, breath hot against your ear as the lift ascended. His trophy lay discarded on the polished floor, forgotten. His mouth crashed into yours before the chime for the penthouse level could sound—a messy, possessive kiss that tasted like champagne and ambition. You stumbled backward into the private foyer, his grip anchoring you against the cold marble wall as the elevator ding echoed uselessly behind him.
He didn’t bother with lights. Moonlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver stripes across the minimalist expanse as he backed you toward the bedroom. His lips trailed down your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point while his hands shoved the dress off your shoulders. Fabric pooled at your waist. "Quiet tonight?" he rasped, fingers hooking into the lace of your bra. "Or should I make you scream?" The bra gave way, and his mouth closed over your breast—wet, insistent heat that drew a sharp gasp from you. His tongue circled your nipple, sucking hard enough to make your knees buckle, the sensation sharp and electric against the cool air. You arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair as a moan tore loose, loud in the cavernous space.
He pushed you backward onto the massive bed, your bare skin catching on silk sheets. His belt clattered to the floor before he followed, pinning your wrists above your head. His eyes—dark, hungry—locked onto yours as his free hand slid down your stomach, beneath your panties. A groan rumbled in his chest when he found you wet, already trembling. "Always so ready for me," he growled, fingers sliding inside you with practiced ease, curling deep. You writhed, hips lifting to meet his thrusts, every stroke deliberate and maddening. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling roughly as you choked out his name, the sound breaking into ragged pants.
He replaced his fingers with his tongue. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailed down your belly, lower, until he buried his face between your thighs. You cried out, heels digging into his back as he licked long, slow stripes over your clit before sucking it into his mouth. The vibration of his moan against your sensitive skin sent shockwaves through you. "J-Jungkook—ah!" Your voice fractured as his tongue plunged inside, relentless, lapping at your core until your thighs shook uncontrollably. You came with a shattered sob, body tensing, waves of pleasure crashing over you as he drank you in, not easing up until you collapsed bonelessly against the sheets.
He crawled up your body, lips glistening, pupils blown wide with lust. "My turn," he rasped, tearing his shirt off. The hard planes of his chest pressed against yours, skin hot and damp. His cock, thick and straining, rubbed against your slick thigh. He positioned himself at your entrance, his gaze locked onto yours. "Look at me." You did, drowning in the dark intensity, and he thrust deep with a single, brutal stroke that punched the air from your lungs. "Fuck—" he hissed, shuddering. "Always so fucking tight." He didn't pause, setting a relentless pace, each powerful thrust driving the breath from your lungs. The wet slap of skin, your gasping moans, his ragged groans—filled the moonlit room. He gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, lifting them higher, driving himself impossibly deeper.
His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as the pleasure built. One hand slid possessively to cup your breast, kneading it roughly. His mouth latched onto your nipple again, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak while his thumb rolled the other. The sharp, dual sensations—the deep fullness inside and the demanding pull on your breast—made you arch wildly against him. "Ah! Jungkook! There—" you gasped, nails scraping down his sweat-slicked back. He growled against your skin, the vibrations making your spine curl. "Come on," he panted, lifting his head, dragging his thumb roughly over your swollen clit in time with his punishing thrusts. "Come for me. Now."
The coil snapped violently. Your cry shattered the air as climax ripped through you, muscles clamping down on him fiercely. He cursed, eyes squeezing shut, hips hammering faster. "Yesss..." he groaned, his own release hitting him hard. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as hot pulses filled you. His body stiffened, then collapsed heavily onto you, breath hot and ragged against your neck. He pressed a hard, lingering kiss to your collarbone.
"Round two?" Jungkook murmured, voice rough and drowsy with satisfaction. His hand slid possessively down your hip, fingers tracing the curve of your waist. Before you could answer, a loud, insistent rumble echoed through the quiet room. Your stomach growled, a stark, embarrassing protest against the charged aftermath.
Jungkook’s laugh was sudden—soft and boyish, that familiar dimpled grin breaking through the haze of desire. He propped himself up on one elbow, moonlight catching the sweat still glistening on his collarbone. "Dress up," he ordered, swatting your bare thigh lightly. "I’ll make dinner." He rolled off the bed, already heading toward the walk-in closet, his naked silhouette fluid against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seoul’s glittering skyline.
"It’s okay, Jungkook," you protested, pulling the silk sheet around you. "We can just order—" He cut you off, tossing a luxurious cashmere robe at you. It landed softly on your lap. "Y/N," he said, voice firm but edged with that playful sternness only he could wield. "If you forgot, the doctor said avoid outside food." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
His eyes lingered warmly on your face. Then, he closed the distance, pressing his lips softly to your forehead—a gesture startlingly tender after the raw heat minutes before. You froze, heart stuttering against your ribs. He pulled back, thumb brushing your jawline. "Dress up," he murmured, the command softened by affection. "I’ll make your favorite." His eyes held yours—promising, possessive—before he turned and strode toward the kitchen.
---
**Flashback:**
The scent of lemon polish clung to your mother’s hands as she scrubbed the marble floors of the Jeon estate, her knees red from kneeling. Five-year-old you hid behind a potted fern, peeking at Jungkook—barely six—who was supposed to be napping but had instead escaped his tutor. He spotted you instantly, grinning around the lollipop jutting from his mouth. "You’re Y/N," he announced, sticky fingers grabbing yours before you could retreat. "Come play." Your mother tensed, murmuring apologies to the housekeeper, but Jungkook dragged you toward the garden, oblivious to hierarchy. "My swing," he declared, pushing you onto the cushioned seat. "Higher!" you shrieked, and he laughed, shoving you so hard your sandals flew off.
Rain lashed the funeral parlor windows two years later, the scent of white lilies suffocating. Your mother’s photo smiled from the altar, her face forever still. The Jeons stood apart in solemn black, until Jungkook—small in his stiff suit—broke away. He squeezed your hand, warm against your freezing fingers. "Don’t cry," he ordered, though his own eyes shone. He pressed his favorite toy soldier into your palm, its chipped paint familiar from countless garden battles. "Soldiers don’t cry." Behind him, his father cleared his throat, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. "You’ll live with us now," he said, as if it were simple. Jungkook nodded fiercely, gripping your hand tighter.
The mansion loomed colder without your mother’s laughter ringing through the halls. Servers murmured condolences but avoided your eyes—except for Jungkook. He barged into your new room the next dawn, hair sleep-mussed, dragging a blanket. "Move over," he demanded, burrowing beside you. When nightmares woke you screaming, it was his small, stubborn frame that shielded you from ghosts. "I won’t let anything get you," he swore, fingers clumsily patting your tears. His nanny scolded him for sharing beds with "the help’s child," but he kicked her shins. "She’s my friend!"
First grade brought whispers. "Orphan." "Charity case." You hunched over your lunchbox when a boy yanked your braid. "Maid’s daughter eats scraps!" The insult burned worse than the scalp pain—until a milk carton exploded against the bully’s head. Jungkook stood on the cafeteria table, fists clenched, chocolate milk dripping from his furious chin. "Apologize. Now." The boy stammered; Jungkook leaped down, knocking him flat. Later, in the principal’s office, he glared at his irate father. "She’s family." The word lodged in your chest, warm and aching.
Years blurred—study sessions where he doodled on your notes, secret rooftop stargazing, him sneaking you his dessert when diets were enforced. Then high school, and hierarchies sharpened. At his debutante ball, you hovered by the champagne tower in a borrowed dress, watching girls in couture flock to him. He broke away mid-waltz, ignoring gasps to tug you onto the floor. "Stop hiding," he muttered, spinning you under the chandelier. His grip tightened at your waist. "You belong with me." The room buzzed with scandal; his father’s frown deepened. But Jungkook just smirked, dipping you low. "Let them talk."
You jolted awake to the rich aroma of garlic butter and seared steak, your stomach clenching in eager protest. The robe slipped off one shoulder as you padded barefoot toward the dining area, where Jungkook stood bathed in golden kitchen light, sleeves rolled up to reveal taut forearms. A pan sizzled in his grip, his focused frown a stark contrast to the playful menace from earlier.
"It's ready," he announced without turning, plating the steak with chef-like precision. You slid into the chair he'd pulled out for you—a habit since childhood—and prodded the perfectly pink meat with your fork. "Hmm. Tasty," you admitted through a mouthful, though your eyes flicked to his discarded phone where scripts and schedules glowed ominously.
Jungkook tossed a napkin at your lap, his grin lopsided. "Damn right it is." He leaned against the table, watching you eat with unnerving intensity. "Feels like forever since we did this," he murmured, thumb brushing sauce off your lower lip.
You stabbed another piece of steak, avoiding his gaze. "Two months, seven days," you muttered. The silence stretched as his chopsticks stilled mid-air.
A notification buzzed on his phone—bright, intrusive. Jungkook flipped it over with his pinky, revealing a glittering invite: **VIP PREMIERE AFTERPARTY - PRIVATE VILLA - TONIGHT**. His thumb hovered over the screen, then deliberately slid it toward you. "Wanna come?" The question hung between you like an old wound poked.
You pushed the phone back without looking. "You know I don't do parties." The words came out flatter than intended, but the memories were fresh—last year's industry gala where you'd stood like a ghost in the corner, champagne warm in your hand while actresses giggled too close to him.
Jungkook's fingers drummed once on the marble countertop. "Are you sure?" His gaze lingered on your lips, the question loaded with something heavier than the invitation. You nodded, focusing on scraping the last bite of steak off your plate.
"Fine." He stood abruptly, chair scraping loud in the penthouse silence. "Finish eating. I’m leaving now." His movements were sharp—grabbing his jacket, checking his watch. The trophy from earlier caught the light as he passed it, abandoned on the sideboard. You watched his reflection in the window as he approached, his shadow swallowing yours.
A rough peck landed on your lips, more habit than heat. "Sleep," he ordered, thumb brushing under your eye where shadows had deepened. "You’re getting that dark cycle again." The door clicked shut behind him before you could retort.
The penthouse exhaled in his absence. You traced the rim of your wineglass, listening to the distant hum of Seoul’s nightlife thirty floors below.
A shrill ringtone shattered the silence. The caller ID glared up at you: **Editor-in-Chief Kang**. You swiped answer with greasy fingers, already bracing. "Y/N speaking—"
"Drop whatever you’re doing." Kang’s voice crackled with the static of a bad connection and unchecked excitement. "Kim Taehyung just got spotted leaving a jewelry store with his fiancée—custom rings, the whole fucking spectacle. The Dispatch drones missed it, but our tipster got blurry shots. His house. Now. Make this headline-worthy before his PR team spins it into some ‘family friend’ bullshit."
Your fork clattered against the plate, steak forgotten. "Don’t worry, sir," you said, already standing, adrenaline sharpening your voice. "It’ll be the headline." The line went dead.
------
The tree branch groaned under your weight as you hauled yourself up, bark digging into your palms. Your coworker, Park Jihoon, hissed from below, "Y/N, this is insane! Even for a scoop!" You glanced down at his pale face, barely visible in the moonlight. "Bro, you forgetting we're reporters?" you whispered back, kicking off a shoe that nearly slipped. "Taking risks is literally in the job description." With a final grunt, you grabbed the windowsill of Taehyung's bedroom and tumbled inside, landing in a heap on the plush carpet.
Silence. The room was empty—king bed impeccably made, a single leather jacket slung over the chair. You exhaled, raising your camera... just as the door burst open. A woman stormed in, designer heels clicking furiously. "Kim Taehyung!" she shrieked, tossing a shopping bag onto the bed. "How dare you leave me at the jewelry store like some—"
The bathroom door swung open. Steam billowed out, revealing Taehyung with a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his torso. "I told you," he deadpanned, shaking hair like a disgruntled puppy, "go shop alone. Don’t drag me to your diamond tantrums." The woman gaped, then hurled a velvet ring box at his chest. It bounced off his abs and landed with a thunk near your hiding spot behind the curtains.
You snapped three rapid shots—Taehyung’s bewildered catch, the girl’s snarling lip-lift, the abandoned Cartier box.
The woman spun on her heel, slamming the door so hard a framed poster of Taehyung’s last movie crashed to the floor. Silence.
Taehyung sighed, running a hand through his damp hair before collapsing backward onto the bed—directly onto the discarded Cartier box. He winced, sat up, and tossed it aside. That’s when he saw you. Frozen mid-crawl toward the window, camera clutched to your chest like a bomb. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable. "Enjoying the view, Miss Stalker?" he drawled, leaning back on his elbows, towel slipping dangerously low.
"Hi," you squeaked, scrambling backward. "Just... leaving."
Taehyung's fingers closed around your ankle before you could bolt. "Leave the camera," he ordered, voice dangerously calm. You kicked wildly—your heel connected with his abdomen. He grunted but yanked harder, sending you crashing onto the bed. His torso pinned you down, lips accidentally smashing against yours in a clumsy. You bit down instinctively; he hissed, recoiling just enough for you to knee his groin.
The towel gave up entirely, sliding off his hips as he doubled over in pain. "AHHHHH—" Your scream shattered the windowpanes.
------
The fluorescent lights of the police station flickered . Officer lee sighed for the seventh time in five minutes, rubbing his temples as he stared at the report in front of him. "So let me get this straight," he droned, flipping the page. "You"—he pointed at you, still in your grass-stained dress—"broke into a celebrity’s home via tree climbing, took unauthorized photos of him half-naked, and then… bit him?"
You sat up straighter, face burning. "Objection! That was self-defense!" Behind you, Taehyung—now fully dressed in a black hoodie and sunglasses despite the late hour—leaned against the wall, casually signing an autograph for the starstruck desk sergeant. "She’s lying," he interjected smoothly, flashing the officer his award-winning smile. "I was merely trying to retrieve my stolen property when she"—he gestured dramatically—"pulled me closer and assaulted me with her mouth."
You gaped. "I—what—THAT’S NOT HOW IT HAPPENED!"
Taehyung sighed wistfully, adjusting his sunglasses. "Officer, the trauma." He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. "First she invades my privacy, then my personal space..."
You slammed your palms on the metal desk. "HE WAS NAKED AND CRUSHING ME LIKE A WRESTLER!"
Officer Lee sighed again, flipping the report shut with finality. "Sign here," he muttered, sliding the paper toward you. "Charges are being amended from trespassing to"—he adjusted his glasses—"sexual harassment."
Your pen froze mid-air. "Wait—what?! I'm not his stalker!" You slammed the pen down, ink splattering the desk. "Why the hell would I stalk a narcissistic peacock like—"
Officer Lee silenced you with a raised hand, already signaling two burly cops toward you. "Miss, please don't make this difficult." The handcuffs gleamed under the flickering fluorescents as they clamped around your wrists—cold, unforgiving metal biting into your skin.
Taehyung straightened his hoodie with a satisfied smirk, flashing the officer a blinding smile. "Thanks for your service, Officer." He turned to leave, then paused at the exit, tossing a glance over his shoulder. His fingers flicked open to reveal the mangled remnants of your camera's memory chip. "Well, Miss Stalker," he drawled, crushing it between his fingers like a cigarette butt, "hope you enjoy your night in our lovely accommodations." The chip crumbled to the floor as he stepped out, tossing a mocking salute. "Sweet dreams."
The cell door clanged shut behind you with metallic finality. You kicked the steel bars, rattling them uselessly. "You can't just—this is illegal!" .
Jihoon paced outside, nervously adjusting his glasses. "Y/N," he whispered frantically, glancing at the disinterested cops. "Should I—should I call Jungkook-hyung? He’ll—"
"NO," you snarled, pressing your forehead against the bars. The metal smelled like bleach and despair. "You know what happens if Dispatch catches wind he’s bailing out some ‘random’ reporter." Your stomach twisted imagining the headlines: **Golden Boy’s Midnight Rescue of Mystery Woman**. Jihoon bit his lip—he knew too. The last time Jungkook’s PR team had to scrub paparazzi shots of you two at a convenience store, they’d threatened to sue *you* for "reckless endangerment of brand value."
Your fingers curled around the bars. "He’s probably at that villa party by now," you muttered, picturing him surrounded by actresses in bodycon dresses, champagne flutes clinking. "Call Kang instead."
Jihoon hesitated, thumb hovering over his contacts. "But—"
"Do it!"
The line rang twice before Kang’s voice exploded through the speaker. "YOU IDIOT—"
"Boss," you interrupted, voice steady despite the cell bars digging into your palms. "You know those photos I have? The ones with you and the rookie model in your office last Christmas?" The silence on the line was deafening. You pressed on, nails biting into metal. "Help me now, or Dispatch gets them with tomorrow’s coffee."
Kang exhaled sharply—a sound like a deflating tire. "You little—" The call disconnected. Jihoon stared at you, mouth agape, as the precinct’s wall clock ticked louder than a time bomb.
Thirty-seven minutes later, Officer Lee emerged with keys jingling like a mortified bellhop. "Paperwork error," he mumbled, avoiding your gaze as he unlocked the cell. Jihoon nearly dropped his phone catching you when you stumbled out. "Holy shit," he whispered. "You blackmailed Kang?"
You rubbed your wrists, the ghost of handcuffs still imprinted on your skin. "Allegedly." The precinct's flickering fluorescents made Taehyung's smirk from the lobby TV screen even more infuriating—some entertainment show replaying his red-carpet .
Jihoon shoved a convenience store kimbap into your hands outside the station, his voice hushed. "Y/N, seriously—what now? That bastard just framed you!" You tore the plastic wrap with your teeth, the seaweed crunching violently. "Now," you muttered, chewing like it was Taehyung's throat, "we will ruin him."
-----
The scent of burnt coffee and stale takeout boxes hit Jungkook the moment he shouldered open your apartment door. His nose wrinkled—not at the mess, but at the sight of you slumped over your laptop, cheek smushed against the keyboard, drool pooling near the spacebar. A half-empty energy drink teetered precariously near your elbow. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as the door clicked shut behind him. "This girl," he muttered, toeing off his designer sneakers. The faint scent of expensive cologne and last night's villa party still clung to his jacket as he shrugged it off.
Jungkook crouched beside your chair, studying the dark circles under your lashes, the way your fingers twitched against the trackpad even in sleep. His thumb brushed a stray eyelash off your cheekbone before he flicked your forehead with deliberate precision. "Yah," he said, voice still gravelly from sleep. Your eyelashes fluttered, then flew open as his finger moved to poke your cheek—hard. "Ow—what the—" You jerked upright, nearly headbutting him, laptop sliding off your thighs. He caught it one-handed without looking, snapping it shut. "Morning," he drawled, dropping it onto the cluttered coffee table. "Or should I say afternoon?"
You blinked at the sunlight streaming through the blinds—when had it gotten so bright?—then froze. The lipstick mark on Jungkook's neck glared at you like a neon sign: deep plum, smudged just above his collarbone in the unmistakable shape of someone's mouth. Your fingers twitched toward it instinctively before you caught yourself, pretending to rub sleep from your eyes instead. "What are you doing here?" you mumbled, swiping at your own crusted eyeliner.
Jungkook sighed, plopping onto the couch beside you, knees bumping yours. "You weren't answering your phone," he said, pinching your earlobe between two fingers like he used to when you'd ignore him as kids. "Idiot girl, look at yourself." His other hand gestured at your nest of hair, the ink stains on your fingers from frantic note-taking. "Did you again not sleep the whole night?"
You swatted his hand away, rubbing your ear. "Just covering one article," you muttered, cracking your stiff neck. The memory of Taehyung's smirk flashed behind your eyelids—his "Miss Stalker" taunt curling like smoke in your chest.
Jungkook clicked his tongue, leaning forward to snatch the energy drink from the table. He sniffed it, grimaced, and dumped the remaining contents into your wilting houseplant. "Y/N," he said slowly, in that tone that meant he was counting to ten in his head. "Don't pressure yourself too much."
You rubbed your temples, the caffeine headache already forming. "It's a reporter's job," you muttered, stretching your arms until your spine popped. Jungkook's gaze flickered down—then narrowed. He reached out abruptly, thumb swiping over your bottom lip. "What happened?" he demanded, turning your face toward the window light. "Why does it look like you rubbed your lips raw?"
You jerked back, heat crawling up your neck. "Nothing much," you lied, tasting blood where you'd bitten your own cheek last night during Taehyung's ambush. Jungkook's jaw tightened, but he leaned back with forced nonchalance. "Don't you have schedules today?" you deflected, eyeing the lipstick stain on his neck again.
Jungkook shrugged, stretching his arms behind his head. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders. "Yeah, but..." His sneaker nudged your thigh. "I'm free tomorrow. Let's go to the aquarium."
You blinked at the sudden invitation, watching sunlight catch the gold in his irises. "Okay," you said slowly, fingers tracing the keyboard's edge. Then, before you could stop yourself: "Jungkook... can I ask you something?"
He tilted his head, already reaching for your abandoned coffee cup. "Go ahead." The ceramic clinked as he inspected the dregs with a distasteful frown.
Your throat tightened around the question like a noose. "If I start... seeing other guys," you forced out, nails digging into your palms, "is that going to—"
Jungkook's cup froze halfway to his lips. His expression didn't change, but his knuckles whitened around the ceramic. "Y/N," he said evenly, setting it down with deliberate care. "I'm not dating anyone. That's my problem." The unspoken because of her—his ex—hung between you like always. His gaze flickered to the lipstick on his neck as if just noticing it, and he rubbed at the stain with rough fingers. "You can date," he continued, voice dropping into that dangerous quiet you recognized from childhood standoffs. "I won't interfere there." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You've already handled my broken self enough years."
You stared at your reflection in his black coffee—blurred, distorted. What had you expected? A confession? A declaration? He kissed your forehead abruptly, lips warm against your skin. "You're spacing out again," he muttered, already standing. His scent—expensive cologne barely masking something smokier—lingered as he grabbed his jacket from your couch. "I need to go."
The door clicked shut behind him before you could form a coherent thought. Your fingers trembled against your mug. Friends with benefits. That’s all this was. That’s all it could ever be. The silence of your apartment pressed in, suffocating, until your phone buzzed violently against the table—six missed calls from Jihoon.
You jabbed the callback button. "What?" you snapped, pacing toward the window where Seoul’s skyline blurred through unshed tears.
Jihoon’s squeal nearly ruptured your eardrum. "Y/N! That article—it’s everywhere! Trending at #1!" His breath hitched. "They’re calling it ‘The Kim Taehyung Exposé.’ Your anonymous account just nuked his reputation!"
Your fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles bleaching white. "Told you we’d ruin him," you muttered, watching your reflection smirk in the smudged windowpane. The city blurred below—Seoul’s skyline reduced to a glittering chessboard where you’d just sacrificed a pawn to checkmate a king.
"Uh." Jihoon’s gulp was audible. "Small problem though." A chair creaked—the sound of him leaning in to whisper. "Taehyung’s here. At the office. Right now. Kang’s tearing his hair out in the conference room. And—" His voice cracked like a pubescent teen. "He demanded to see you. Personally."
You froze mid-sip, lukewarm coffee flooding down your chin. "What?"
Jihoon's whisper turned into a full-blown screech through the phone speakers. "Y/N, fucking RIGHT NOW—come here!" His voice pitched hysterically before cutting off abruptly—replaced by Kang's nicotine-rough bark directly hijacking the line: "Y/N. Office. Five minutes." The call died with a click that echoed like a gunshot.
You barely had time to swipe concealer under your eyes before slamming into KBS Entertainment's glass doors—your hurried reflection warped by the "Breaking News" ticker scrolling behind you. The receptionist gasped as you charged past, heels clacking like gunfire across the marble lobby.
The moment you barreled into the newsroom, a crumpled magazine smacked your forehead—Taehyung's scandalous spread fluttering to the floor at your feet. Kang's face purpled behind his desk, veins bulging along his temples. "You—" he spat, jabbing a finger at your chest, "reckless, libelous little—"
Taehyung's hand shot up, silencing Kang mid-rant. "Calm down," he drawled, sprawled arrogantly in Kang's leather chair like he owned the damn building. His fingers drummed the armrest, gaze locked on you with unnerving intensity. "Miss Y/N," he purred, kicking his feet onto Kang's desk, "read me your masterpiece."
Your fingers trembled as you picked up the crumpled tabloid—your article splashed across the centerfold. The headline screamed: **KIM TAEHYUNG'S FIANCE EXPOSES HIS SECRET WEAKNESS—"HE CAN'T PERFORM."** Your stomach dropped. Jihoon had embellished your draft without telling you—adding fabricated quotes about erectile dysfunction.
Kang bowed so low his forehead nearly hit the desk. "Mr. Kim, we deeply apologize! This reporter will be fired immediately—"
Taehyung flicked his wrist dismissively. "I didn't come for apologies." His gaze pinned you to the spot like a butterfly under glass. "I'm offering a deal." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping to a velvet murmur. "If Y/N accepts, KBS Entertainment survives unscathed. No lawsuits." His fingers steepled under his chin. "Give us a minute."
Kang practically tripped over himself bowing out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the framed awards on the wall. The silence that followed was thicker than blood.
"So, Miss Y/N—or should I say my stalker?" Taehyung's lips curled as he stood, circling you like a panther. His fingers plucked the tabloid from your numb hands. "Since you claim to have such intimate knowledge of my... performance issues." He tossed the magazine onto the desk with a slap.
Your throat tightened around the lie. "Mr. Kim, I didn't write—"
Taehyung slammed both palms on the desk, caging you between his arms. The mahogany creaked under his grip. "You questioned my performance," he murmured, breath fanning your lips—too close, too warm. "Shouldn't a good reporter verify facts firsthand?" His knee slid between yours, nudging your legs apart with deliberate pressure.
You shoved against his chest, fingers twisting in his silk shirt. "Hey—what are you doing?" Your voice cracked. "This is harassment!"
Taehyung's laugh was a slow, dangerous ripple against your collarbone. His thumb traced your bottom lip—still raw from last night's bite. "Harassment?" He tilted his head, the overhead lights catching the sharp angle of his jaw. "Really? When you spread rumors about my—how did you phrase it?—'inability to perform', that wasn't harassment?" His knee pressed higher, forcing a gasp from your throat. "Interesting double standards, darling."
Your pulse throbbed where his fingers circled your wrist. "Fine! I'll remove the article—right now—I'll post an apology—"
"Of course you will." Taehyung's smile didn't reach his eyes. He released your wrist only to tap your chin with two fingers, like a judge sentencing a criminal. "But the damage needs payment." His gaze flicked to Kang's terrified face peeking through the blinds. The older man jerked away like a scalded rat.
You swallowed the acid rising in your throat. "How much?"
Taehyung leaned in, his lips brushing your earlobe. "Be my maid," he whispered, teeth grazing skin, "or watch your career—and this entire company—burn to the ground in seconds." He pulled back just enough for you to see the triumph in his eyes. "Your choice."
You recoiled, knocking over Kang's prized bonsai. The ceramic shattered like your dignity. "Are you fucking insane?" Soil crunched under your heels as you backed away. "I'm not—"
Taehyung's phone was already at his ear, his smirk widening as he enunciated slowly for his lawyer: "Yes, KBS Entertainment. Lawsuit drafting immediately." His fingers drummed against the desk—once, twice—before Kang lunged across the room like a electrocuted shrimp.
"Mr. Kim! Please!" Kang grabbed Taehyung's wrist with both hands, bowing so deeply his tie brushed the soil-strewn floor. "Y/N will comply! Right, Y/N?" His glare could've melted steel.
You wiped crushed ceramic dust off your palms, throat burning with humiliation. "Fine," you spat. "I'll do it."
Taehyung's phone hovered inches from his ear. His smirk deepened—a predator savoring the hunt. "Hmm? Didn't quite catch that." He tilted his head, the overhead lights catching the sharp edge of his jaw. "Sounded like you said... 'I'll be your maid'?"
You clenched your fists until your nails carved crescents into your palms. Kang's frantic eyes darted between you, his entire career visibly crumbling behind his thick glasses. "Y/N," he hissed through gritted teeth, "for God's sake—"
"I said FINE," you snarled, kicking a shard of broken bonsai pot across the room. It skittered dangerously close to Taehyung's polished loafers. "I'll be your damn maid."
Taehyung's phone lowered slowly, his smirk widening into something predatory. "Great choice," he purred, pocketing the device with deliberate slowness. The overhead lights caught the gold in his irises as he leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin. "You can start tomorrow. And"—his gaze flicked to the tabloid crumpled on the desk—"remove that article tonight." His voice dropped to a whisper only you could hear. "Unless you'd prefer a live demonstration of just how well I perform."
Kang was already groveling at Taehyung's elbow, bowing so deeply his tie dragged through the spilled soil. "Mr. Kim! Thank you for your generosity—"
"One month," Taehyung interrupted, shrugging into his coat with effortless grace. The scent of expensive cologne wafted between you—something smoky and expensive that made your nose itch. He didn't even glance back as he strode toward the door, tossing his final words over his shoulder like discarded candy wrappers. "Then she's free. And you"—he jabbed a finger at Kang without turning—"don't fire her."
The glass doors swung shut behind him with a soft chime, leaving the newsroom frozen in stunned silence. Kang collapsed into his chair like a deflated balloon, mopping his forehead with a trembling hand. "Y/N," he wheezed, "what the actual fuck did you just—"
Jihoon barreled into the conference room, skidding to a halt in front of your chair. His eyes were comically wide. "Did Taehyung just—did he really—” His voice cracked like a teenage boy’s. "You’re gonna be his MAID?"
You stared at the half-crushed tabloid still sprawled across Kang’s desk—your article now a crumpled relic of your own recklessness. Your fingers twitched with the phantom memory of Taehyung’s knee pressing between your thighs, his mocking whisper curling like smoke in your ear. *Be my maid*. The words tasted like battery acid.
-----
The soju bottle clattered against the plastic table with a clink that sounded suspiciously like Taehyung’s stupidly perfect teeth shattering. You stabbed a chopstick into your tteokbokki with unnecessary force, imagining it was his smug face. "That arrogant, manipulative, narcissistic—"
"Super-hot?" Jihoon supplied around a mouthful of fried squid, dodging your lethal glare. "Y/N, seriously—why not just tell Jungkook hyung?" He wiped chili sauce off his chin with his sleeve. "He'd solve this problem before you could say 'oppa.'"
You slammed your shot glass down hard enough to rattle the table. "No. It's my mess—I'll clean it." The alcohol burned hotter than Taehyung's mocking gaze. "One month." Your fingers tightened around the bottle. "I'll collect pictures, recordings—everything to expose him properly this time."
Jihoon's chopsticks froze mid-air. "You're going to spy on Kim Taehyung? In his own house?" His voice climbed an octave. "Y/N, he already framed you for sexual harassment—what if he—"
You crushed a piece of tteokbokki with your teeth, the spicy sauce burning your tongue like vengeance. "He wants a maid?" Your grin was all teeth, no humor. "Perfect. Maids see everything." The neon sign outside the tent flickered, casting jagged shadows across your half-empty soju bottle—a strobe effect highlighting the dangerous glint in your eyes.
Back at your apartment, you kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary, sending one skittering under the couch. Your fingers hovered over Jungkook's contact—his caller ID photo smiling up at you, sunlight catching his stupidly perfect cheekbones. The dial tone rang once, twice, three times before clicking to voicemail. "Hey, it's JK—" You hung up before the beep, tossing your phone onto the bed where it bounced like your fraying nerves. "Whatever," you muttered to the empty room. "I'll tell him tomorrow."
Morning arrived faster than expected—or didn't arrive at all, judging by the way your alarm's shrill beeping sliced through what felt like five minutes of sleep. You rolled off the mattress with a groan, cracking one eye open to check the time. "Shit." The display blinked 7:28 AM in accusing red—twenty-two minutes until the devil himself expected you at his penthouse. You stumbled into the shower still half-asleep, scrubbing last night's soju stench from your skin with scalding water.
Two subway transfers and one near-collision with a delivery bike later, you stood panting before Taehyung's penthouse door—the brass numbers gleaming like a countdown timer. Your finger hovered over the doorbell before the lock clicked open on its own. "Creepy rich bastard," you muttered under your breath, stepping into the marble foyer.
Taehyung leaned against the grand piano in nothing but low-slung silk pajama pants, biceps flexing as he polished an apple against his chest. His gaze raked over your thrift-store blouse and knee-length skirt with the intensity of an x-ray machine. "Strip," he said, tossing the apple onto the Steinway with a thunk.
You choked on your own spit. "Excuse me?"
Taehyung's smirk deepened as he prowled forward, fingers already plucking at your blouse buttons. "This fabric"—his nail scraped the secondhand polyester—"could hide a dozen spy pens." His breath warmed your earlobe as he spun you toward the grand staircase. "Upstairs. Change into the uniform hanging in the guest room. And"—his grip tightened on your elbow—"leave your clothes outside the door for inspection."
You wrenched free, shoulders bumping the Steinway's lid. "Who the hell do you think—"
The apple rolled off the piano with a decisive thud. Taehyung caught it midair without looking. "The same man who owns the tabloids you work for," he said pleasantly, polishing the fruit against his pajama pants. His biceps flexed under morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. "Tick-tock, Miss Stalker. Your shift started eight minutes ago."
You stomped up the spiral staircase, fingers trembling as you unbuttoned your blouse. The guest room door slammed behind you—only to reveal a French maid outfit hanging from the wardrobe. Black lace. Ridiculously short hem. Your fist clenched around the fabric. "You absolute—"
"Problem?" Taehyung's voice drifted through the door, laced with amusement. "Thought reporters loved costumes." A pause. "Or was it just breaking and entering you preferred?"
You hurled your blouse at the mirror hard enough to crack your own reflection. The uniform's lace edges prickled against your thighs like a thousand tiny needles—each stitch a reminder of his mockery. When you wrenched the door open, Taehyung was leaning against the opposite wall, scrolling through his phone. His gaze flicked up, lingered on the thigh-high stockings, then dismissed you with a shrug. "Cute. Follow me."
He led you through a hallway lined with awards, his bare feet soundless on the heated marble. "First rule: no phones." He tossed a silver flip phone onto a side table. "Use this. Second rule: my bedroom is off-limits unless summoned." His smirk returned, slow and venomous. "Third rule—"
"Let me guess," you interrupted, fingers itching to adjust the ridiculous lace headband digging into your scalp. "No recording devices?"
Taehyung's chuckle was dark as he shoved open double doors to a kitchen larger than your apartment. "Smart girl." He gestured to a mountain of dishes crusted with dried ramen. "Breakfast service starts now."
Your nails bit into your palms as you plunged your hands into scalding water. Taehyung leaned against the counter, watching you scrub with detached amusement. His socked foot nudged your ankle. "Harder. These stains won’t remove themselves."
You inhaled steam rising from the sink—the sting in your eyes wasn’t just from the heat. The porcelain slipped from your soapy grip, shattering against the tiles. Taehyung didn’t flinch. "Add it to your debt," he said, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl.
Behind your clenched teeth, you reconstructed his skeleton piece by piece—imagined snapping each vertebral disc with the same nonchalance he’d shown while wrecking your career. The dishwater swirled pink where your nails had split your cuticles.
Meanwhile, Jungkook stood in Gangnam’s most exclusive florist, fingertips brushing purple hyacinths—her favorite. The florist beamed. "For a lover?" He shook his head too quickly, adjusting his baseball cap. "Just a friend." The lie tasted bitter, especially when his thumb caught on a thorn and drew blood. He sucked at the wound absently, his other hand scrolling through his unanswered texts: *Running late?* Sent two hours ago. *Hey, you alive?* One hour. Now, standing outside the aquarium with wilting flowers under the noon sun, he dialed again. Her voicemail crackled through—that same recording he'd memorized.
Back in Taehyung’s penthouse, you were elbow-deep in his closet, sorting cashmere sweaters by fiber thickness when his shadow darkened the doorway. "Wrong," he drawled, plucking a sweater from your pile. "This goes with winter linens." His fingers lingered near yours just long enough for you to jerk back.
"You’re enjoying this," you hissed.
Taehyung smirked, tossing the sweater over your head. It draped across your shoulders like a shroud. "You break into my home, trash my reputation—"
"—you framed me!"
Taehyung's laugh was crisp as he flicked a speck of dust off your shoulder. "Semantics." He gestured to the towering pile of designer shoes waiting for polishing. "Focus on your redemption, darling."
You snatched the polishing brush with more force than necessary, the bristles digging into your palm. "I will shove this up your—"
"Ah-ah." He crouched suddenly, his fingers encircling your wrist—not to stop you, but to adjust your grip. "Like this." His thumb brushed the sensitive skin under your watch strap, guiding your fingers into position with unsettling gentleness. For a heartbeat, you forgot to breathe. Then he ruined it. "Wouldn't want you to... miss a spot."
You yanked away, cheeks flaming. The polishing cloth slipped from your grasp as Taehyung straightened—his pajama pants riding dangerously low when he stretched. Your traitorous eyes tracked the dip of his hipbones before you forced your gaze downward. The bastard smirked.
By evening, your arms ached from scrubbing his wine cellar's antique racks. Taehyung lounged on the terrace, scrolling through scripts while you plated his dinner—extra chili flakes layered beneath the bulgogi's glaze. "Hope you love this," you singsonged, setting the dish before him with exaggerated courtesy.
His chopsticks snapped apart with a sharp crack. "Mmm." He chewed slowly, jaw working—then froze. A vein pulsed in his temple.
You bit your lip to stifle a giggle as his throat moved convulsively. "Too spicy?" you asked innocently, leaning over to refill his water glass—your lace sleeve "accidentally" brushing the rim, tipping it toward his lap.
Taehyung's fingers clamped around your wrist, halting the impending disaster. His nostrils flared—whether from the chili or fury, you couldn't tell—but then his thumb stroked your pulse point in slow circles. "Cute," he rasped, voice wrecked. Before you could react, he yanked you forward. His lips crashed into yours, the heat of his mouth searing hotter than the spices. His tongue swept through your parted lips, dragging the lingering chili burn across your palate until you whimpered.
"Yah!" You shoved at his shoulders, panting. "Why’d you—"
"Now we’re even," he murmured, licking a drop of sauce from the corner of your mouth. His smirk returned, though his lips were still swollen from the spice. "Next time you play with fire, darling"—his fingers tightened on your hips—"expect to get burned."
To be continue...