A Little Like Magic

by cerebraluni

Summary:

Between chaos, stolen glances, and an unplanned announcement in the middle of the living room, Jungkook and Taehyung learn that love doesn’t always follow the script— it just insists on being written.

Notes:

• In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Taekook Baby Fever Fest collection.

Jungkook loves order.

No, he relies on it.

He reaches for it the way some people reach for sunlight through a half-open curtain, or that first sip of coffee in a cup he’d never let chip. Structure steadies him; it’s the one constant in a world that insists on spinning faster each year.

Most mornings unfold the same way, not out of compulsion but because it just… feels right. The electric kettle hums before he’s even fully awake, and he moves across the warm floorboards with the kind of ease that comes from doing something a thousand times. His closet greets him with its quiet organisation— whites on the left, blacks on the right, greys and navies tapering neatly in between. Even his phone calendar looks like a soft rainbow of colour-codes, slots arranged so cleanly there’s never an overlap or a stray minute out of place.

His fridge is its own small universe of calm: rows of labelled containers stacked with pre-portioned meals, overnight oats layered like parfaits and glass bottles of water that glisten under the refrigerator light. Everything has its place, and every place has its purpose.

He doesn’t just iron his shirts. No, he steams out the slightest wrinkle like it’s a battle he intends to win. The fabric folds like origami under his careful touch. His toothbrush sits in a ceramic holder aligned with the edge of the sink. His colognes are arranged by season, because why shouldn’t scent follow a calendar too?

One might call it an obsession, but it truly is an orchestration. Because if the world outside is a storm— fast cars and missed calls, people running late with tangled hair and undone laces— then Jungkook is the eye of it.

Still and centred.

The kind of man who wears his watch tight against his wrist and leaves the house five minutes early, not out of anxiety, but quiet pride.

For, control is how he breathes; it’s how he keeps the chaos at bay.

So, yes, he has a foolproof system, a finely tuned rhythm that ensures predictability and control.

Except for one thing, or rather, one person.

Jeon Aera.

Almost three years old, thirty inches of stubborn will and impossible charm, she is, by all definitions, the only creature on Earth who can undo Jeon Jungkook with a single look.

Aera doesn’t walk; rather, she bounces, all giggles and messy ponytails, voice shrill with delight or rage, depending on the hour.

Her hair curls wildly around her ears like it was spun from static, and her tiny fists often clutch things like seashells, half-eaten cookies, or Jungkook’s expensive watch she “borrowed” to accessorise her doll.

She’s chaos, laced in glitter and yoghurt smears, and yet. Yet, he adores her with a quiet, unwavering reverence that no one ever taught him but somehow lives deep in his bones.

She calls him Appa with a smile big enough to split the sky, and just like that, all his precious order melts like ice cream in the sun.

And today? Today, she wants the beach.

So here he is, halfway to a migraine, sitting under a shaded cabana that’s doing little to protect his dignity or the hem of his linen trousers from the sand that’s made itself at home.

His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat— wrinkled, God help him— and his sunglasses are perched on his nose, shielding him from the blinding afternoon light and the blinding joy that is his daughter doing her version of somersaults in a frilly strawberry swimsuit.

He takes a long sip of his iced coffee, the condensation dripping onto his palm. It’s strong and bitter, and he’d planned to savour it slowly, but that hope vanishes as a tiny exclamation pierces the air.

“Appa! WOOK! CWAB! CWAB!”

He looks up, half-expecting an empty shell, but what he sees is Aera running at him full-speed, dripping with seawater and sand, her arms outstretched, crab and all.

His soul briefly leaves his body.

“No, no, no— Aera-yah, hands down, not on the shirt—”

But it’s too late; she launches into his lap, soaking his trousers and knocking over the coffee in one smooth, gleeful assault.

And still, he laughs.

He doesn’t mean to; it just bubbles out, soft and helpless, because this is how his life is with her. Not just the calendars and quiet mornings, but also the pink flip-flops, seaweed and chaos with dimples. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a kind of order in loving someone this wildly unpredictable.

Even if she paints his white sofa with applesauce tomorrow, he'll survive. He’ll survive because that’s his life.

Just like how, right now, it is suspended in this moment: sun-drenched, sea-salted, and held together by the soft patter of Aera’s tiny footsteps as she zigzags across the sand like she owns the coastline.

Jungkook feels the corner of his lips tugging up as he takes it all in.

The air smells like sunscreen and warm sugar. Salt clings to his lips, the breeze catching at the collar of his wrinkled linen shirt, tousling strands of his hair. The ocean stretches endlessly before them, a glistening sheet of turquoise sighing into shore. Each wave folds onto itself with lazy elegance, as if even the sea has slowed to admire the scene.

Somewhere in the distance, a bluetooth speaker crackles out soft jazz, mixing with the shrill laughter of children and the occasional whoosh of a surfer slicing across a perfect curl. A seagull drifts overhead, its shadow dancing over Aera’s pink bucket as she crouches low, eyes scanning the ground like a seasoned archaeologist.

She is on a mission. Again.

Jungkooks lets out a sigh, looking at how her chubby hands dip into the sand again and again, pulling up battered seashells, smooth pebbles, and once, a bedraggled feather she declared “magical.” Her curls are stuck to her forehead, cheeks flushed from the sun, but she hums a little tune under her breath as she works, completely at peace in the mess of it all.

He watches it all from under the shade of his cabana, one hand lazily swirling the melting remnants of his iced coffee. For once, the rhythm of his breath isn’t measured or rehearsed; it’s soft and natural, a quiet exhale in a life that rarely allows for pauses.

But then a sound cuts through the air, sharp and unexpected: a shriek, high-pitched and excited.

His head snaps up, and his hand freezes on the straw.

“Hewwo mishta! Yoo pwetty pwetty.”

Jungkook’s soul briefly detaches from his body, and he is on his feet before he realises it, the metal legs of the beach chair scraping softly against the wooden slats of the cabana floor.

His sunglasses slip slightly down the bridge of his nose as his gaze snaps to the left, drawn by instinct, alarm, and that unmistakable Aera-shaped chaos.

And, oh.

Oh, no.

His daughter, his spirited, gravity-defying, personal-space-obliterating daughter, is currently wrapped around a stranger’s leg.

Like a koala.

A smiling, sun-drenched, giggling koala with jelly-smeared fingers and sand all over her knees.

And the stranger?

Jungkook swallows.

The stranger is tall.

Tall in that quiet, unsettling way that makes the sky seem closer. His skin gleams like it’s been brushed with sunlight. His hair is damp, curling softly at the nape, a few rebellious strands dripping sea-slick onto broad, golden shoulders. He holds a surfboard casually under one arm, the wax catching glints of light like it’s part of him.

He looks down at Aera, brows raised, startled but clearly entertained.

A drop of water slides from his neck to his chest, then lower. Past the line of his collarbones, tracing a slow path down toned skin, dipping into the V of his abdomen, where black swim trunks hang just a little too low to be legal in Jungkook’s world.

A smile breaks out on his face, and something in Jungkook’s chest roars alive, a tug, soft but seismic, akin to the moment before a summer storm breaks.

The man meets his eyes, and the distance between them, twenty feet of sand and sunlight, feels suddenly irrelevant.

There’s a flicker of recognition that makes no sense: not the “I’ve seen you before” kind, but the other kind. The impossible kind. The kind where one would joke that the ocean had planned this long before they arrived.

And Jungkook— Jeon Jungkook, who irons his sheets and sanitises remote controls— feels his heartbeat falter, because this isn’t on the schedule, this isn’t anywhere in the plan. And yet, here he is. Dripping, golden, and smiling at his daughter like the sea permitted him.

“Oh,” the stranger says, voice low and a little breathless from hauling a surfboard across the tide, chest rising and falling.

His hair drips lazily onto his brow, and when he smiles, really smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners, warm and shaped like crescent moons.

Aera beams up at him, utterly unfazed by personal boundaries or the fact that she’s wrapped around a total stranger’s leg like she owns him.

“Wike pwince! Yoo wook pwince!” she declares, cheeks round and pink, lashes tangled in the sunlight.

Jungkook nearly short-circuits and hastily takes a sharp step forward, mortification prickling under his skin like sunburn.

“Aera,” he calls, in his best I am a composed father in public voice, though it comes out slightly strangled. “We do not attach ourselves to strangers.”

“But he nice, Appa! Niceee!” she whines, still very much latched onto the man’s calf like a barnacle.

The stranger— who does, in fact, look like he was carved out of warm stone and late summer dreams— chuckles. He crouches slowly, carefully shifting the surfboard so it rests in the sand beside him, then drops to one knee in front of Aera, entirely unbothered by the scene or the mess or the drama of it all.

“Nice to meet you, little one,” he says, offering her a palm to high-five.

Aera doesn’t hesitate. She smacks his hand and then takes it in both of hers, completely enthralled.

“Yo voice… wike oshun,” she says matter-of-factly.

The man tilts his head, surprised. “That might be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Jungkook, meanwhile, is having an out-of-body experience.

Before he can intervene further, Aera turns her gaze back to him with dangerous sincerity.

“Appaaaa.” Her eyes are wide and hopeful, a trick she’s learned gets her an extra cookie before dinner. “Can keep him? Pweaseee?”

Jungkook chokes. Literally stumbles on a breath, coughing into his fist as his ears go red, then redder.

The stranger’s head snaps up, and then he’s laughing a full-bodied, head-thrown-back, eyes-bright, sun-drenched laugh that seems to echo off the ocean.

“Oh my god,” he says between, hand braced on his knee. “I’ve been many things, but I’ve never been propositioned like that by a barely three-year-old.”

Aera grins, proud, while Jungkook looks like he might dig a hole and bury himself in it.

“Okay,” the man says at last, brushing sand from his wrist as he stands, still smiling. “Let me officially introduce myself before I get adopted.”

He sticks out a hand, a little salt-streaked, warm from the sun. “Taehyung.”

Jungkook hesitates for half a second, still recovering from the sheer audacity of his daughter, but then takes it.

“Jungkook,” he replies, steady but wary. “Jeon Jungkook.”

Their hands meet, briefly, but the feeling of it lingers like a hum beneath the surface and a flicker of recognition strikes, something that feels too cliche to be real, too much like koi no yokan.

Taehyung quirks a brow, gaze drifting across Jungkook’s face like he’s trying to place a song he hasn’t heard in years.

“You don’t look like a ‘Jungkook’,” he murmurs, not unkindly.

“Oh?” Jungkook deadpans, folding his arms, jaw set with all the dignity he can muster. “And what do I look like?”

Taehyung grins, teeth catching the sun.

“Someone who really needs to loosen up.”

Aera gasps, scandalised on her father’s behalf. “Taetaeee! Appa is berry woose!”

Jungkook closes his eyes. Taehyung laughs again.

But Aera? She grabs the man’s hand again. “Can weee, Appaaa? Keep him?”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Taehyung says, lips quirking, voice all too playful. “I don’t think that’s how people work.”

Aera narrows her eyes at him, sceptical. “Nooo… dats silwy.”

Taehyung nods solemnly, pressing a hand to his heart. “It is a little silly. The rules, I mean. Very flawed system. But if it helps…” He tilts his head, smile gentle now. “I can be your beach friend for today?”

Aera gasps as if he’s just handed her the moon. “YESSH.”

Jungkook blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, and reopens it with an attempt at authority.

“That’s not necessary—” he begins, perfectly calm in the way volcanoes are calm seconds before an eruption.

But it’s too late, for, Aera has already wrapped her hands around Taehyung’s wrist like she’s found treasure and doesn’t plan on returning it. She tugs him toward their cabana with the unwavering certainty of royalty.

“Appa, he a goo’ one,” she declares, eyes full of solemn conviction. “Wookit da face.”

Jungkook does.

Reluctantly. Tragically.

And yes.

Taehyung’s face is nice. Too nice.

Unreasonably symmetrical, jawline softened by the sunlight, lashes too long for someone so reckless with charm. His nose is sharp, lips plush, and his smile— God, help him— his smile is made of trouble.

Jungkook exhales through his nose and pinches the bridge of it like he’s holding the universe together. “We don’t pick up strays, Aera.”

“But we dooo,” she argues, aghast. “Appa! Kitten stay! You sayed.”

“That was a starving kitten,” Jungkook mutters, eye twitching. “Not a full-grown man with abs.”

Taehyung chokes back a laugh, and Jungkook glares at him, which only makes him laugh harder, head tilted back like he has nothing to fear from the world or from glowering single fathers.

“I mean,” Taehyung says, trying to compose himself, hands raised in faux surrender, “if it makes a difference, I do know how to make a mean sandcastle.”

Another gasp from Aera, more dramatic than the first. “He stayyy,” she declares. “He’sh tale… tallen… good!”.”

Jungkook looks heavenward, mouthing a silent why me, and when he glances back down, Taehyung is already slipping off his flip-flops and crouching beside Aera, expression grave, like building a sand kingdom is a sacred mission. And worst of all? He’s good at it.

Too good. He draws a moat in seconds, perfect and even. Uses a small shell to carve tiny windows into the turret. And somehow, he even finds two twigs to cross over the entrance like a tiny drawbridge.

Aera claps in delight. “Appa! Wook! He made da Kween’s towah!!”

“She’s very demanding,” Taehyung says, glancing up with a smirk. “Like someone else I just met.”

Jungkook lifts a brow. “Careful.”

Taehyung laughs. “Just an observation. You’ve got the same little wrinkle between your brows when you’re trying not to smile.”

“I’m not trying not to smile,” Jungkook says.

“You kinda are.”

“I’m really not.”

Taehyung just hums, turning back to the sand, fingers already tracing the next blueprint.

And Jungkook stands there, iced coffee forgotten, shirt rumpled from earlier, watching his daughter and this strange, warm, sun-dappled man begin constructing an empire out of wet sand.

He should be more alarmed and should probably put a stop to it, but instead, he merely stands there and smiles.

Just then, the man tilts his head, one knee still half-buried in the sand, gaze slanted with amusement and something gentler underneath.

“You don’t like the beach, do you?”

His voice is casual, innocent, almost. But there’s a glint in his eyes, the sort that suggests he’s already read more of Jungkook than Jungkook is ready to admit.

Jungkook exhales, slow and resigned. “I like order.”

Taehyung laughs again, like a boy who never outgrew the sun. “And a barely three-year-old isn’t orderly?”

“She’s a menace,” Jungkook mutters, rubbing his brow like it’s the one thing keeping his brain from melting in the heat.

Aera gasps behind him, scandalised. “Yaaah! I a wadyy!”

Taehyung leans toward her, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “I believe you, princess.”

Aera beams, then glows, then giggles so hard her whole body shakes.

And, Jungkook? Jungkook feels like the sand is shifting beneath his feet because Taehyung is smirking at him in a way that is not arrogant but somehow not even flirtatious, merely like.... he sees something.

Like he’s curious about how Jungkook works, how he ticks and perhaps about the ways to undo him just a little.

And the worst part of it is that something in Jungkook’s chest twists, because he doesn’t do twists. He doesn’t have time for them. He’s already raising a child, managing a company, and fighting the daily chaos with colour-coded calendars and stain-free white shirts. He doesn’t need a stranger with a surfboard and a smirk to ruin the blueprint.

But Taehyung? Taehyung ruins things softly.

“You should smile more,” he says, standing slowly, brushing sand off his knees in smooth, unhurried motions. “It’d suit you.”

Jungkook blinks before he opens his mouth and then closes it again. He has no prepared script for this.

Taehyung doesn’t wait for a reply; he simply winks and then turns, already striding toward the shore where Aera has begun collecting driftwood like sacred relics.

She shrieks when a wave kisses her toes and grabs his hand without hesitation. He takes it like he was always meant to, as if he doesn’t even have to think.

Jungkook watches them go, helpless.

The wind ruffles his hair, his coffee is warm now, and his shirt’s half-untucked; all the while, the sea roars, and the sun blazes.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, his daughter’s laughter carries across the wind, tangled with Taehyung’s.

It is then that Jeon Jungkook knows, knows that he’s doomed. Because this man, this day, this whole sun-washed afternoon… is not going to stay in the sand; it’s going to follow him home and is going to live in his chest. It’s going to change everything.

And somewhere deep down, beneath all the order and caution and fear, a voice he barely recognises whispers—

Let it.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

It’s a slow, syrupy Thursday afternoon. The kind that makes the world feel like it’s exhaling; sunlight dripping down storefronts, shadows stretched long across cobbled sidewalks, everything bathed in that golden, in-between hour glow.

Jungkook walks hand-in-hand with Aera, one arm juggling a folded towel and a hat she refused to wear. Her other hand swings dramatically as she speaks, like she’s giving a speech in parliament.

“I desherve a tweat, Appa!,” she had declared, swinging their joined hands as they walked.

“You had ice cream yesterday.”

“Yesh,” she says with a sage nod. “An’ I wuz so gooood today.”

“You threw sand at a boy.”

“He desherved it,” she huffs. “He sayed jellyfish not weal.”

Jungkook sighs. Deeply. Emotionally. Existentially.

And like always, he loses.

So now ten minutes later, they’re tucked into a quaint seaside ice cream parlour, all faded pastels and lazy fans spinning overhead. The glass display case hums softly, filled with swirls of impossible colours and names like Bubblecloud and Mango Eclipse.

Aera is practically nose-first against the glass, tiny finger tapping thoughtfully as her curls bounce with every excited gasp.

“I want da bwue one,” she announces.

The cashier smiles, already scooping. “Cotton candy?”

“Yesh! It wooks like da sky… if it wuz candy!” she says, eyes wide.

Jungkook, leaning against the counter, takes a cautious sip of his cold brew and finally, finally, lets his shoulders drop, and that’s exactly when he hears it.

“Good choice.”

A voice that is, somehow, familiar, and infuriatingly so.

Jungkook freezes, just as his straw halts mid-sip. Something in his spine straightens in quiet alarm.

He turns, slowly, with the dread of a man who already knows what he’ll find.

And there, of course, is him, Kim Taehyung.

Standing at the other end of the counter like he was conjured by the devil and a good lighting team. His black shorts are slightly wrinkled, his oversized linen shirt is open at the collar, sleeves pushed up to reveal tan forearms slightly damp... from saltwater(?). His hair curls slightly at the ends, dripping onto his brow, and he’s barefoot in his flip-flops, like the earth is just something he casually wanders through.

Taehyung smiles, wide and bright and deeply unhelpful.

“We meet again, Mr. Order.”

Jungkook blinks. “Are you following me?”

Taehyung laughs. “That would be flattering for you, but no, I just really like ice cream.” He glances down at Aera. “And clearly, so does the princess.”

Aera is mid-bite, lips stained blue. She beams.

“Taetae!” she shouts through a mouthful. “Appa sayed I pick new fwiend… but only once dis week.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, grinning. “And I made the cut?”

“Yo made da castle, silwy!,” she giggles. “So yo douwle.”

Jungkook covers his face with one hand. “Aera…”

“What?” she blinks innocently. “He tawented. An’ nice. An’ he know where da good shewws ale.”

Taehyung leans against the counter, resting his elbow casually, chin in hand, as he looks at Jungkook with far too much amusement. “You don’t seem thrilled to see me, Jeon Jungkook-ssi.”

“I’m... not un-thrilled,” Jungkook mutters, straightening his shirt unnecessarily. “I’m just... surprised.”

“Coincidence,” Taehyung says smoothly.

“Or divine punishment.”

“Some would say those are the same.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “You always this philosophical at the ice cream shop?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Only when I run into stoic, well-dressed dilfs who look like they’re one sticky child away from a breakdown.”

Jungkook says nothing, mostly because he is one sticky child away from a breakdown.

Aera tugs his shirt, blue-stained lips parting around her next declaration.

“Him sit here wif us?”

Jungkook opens his mouth— no is already queued up— but Taehyung’s smile turns disarmingly soft, like he’s offering not just conversation, but a calm presence. Something warm and simple.

“Only if it’s okay with your dad,” he says, gaze flicking to Jungkook, voice a bit quieter now.

And Jungkook— against his better judgment, against every rule he’s written for himself— doesn’t say no. He merely exhales, tired, confused, already a little... struck.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But you’re buying your own scoop.”

Taehyung grins. “Fair.”

They slide into a booth beneath the wide-open window, sea breeze trailing in like a lazy guest. Aera climbs up beside Taehyung with all the elegance of a gremlin, her legs swinging as she shovels bright blue ice cream into her mouth with no regard for napkins or table etiquette.

Taehyung listens intently, chin propped in one hand, the other absentmindedly twirling the wooden spoon from his own half-melted scoop of mango. His knees brush the underside of the table, long legs folding in awkwardly like he was made for wider spaces, for open beaches and wild things.

“He sayed jellyfish anot weal,” Aera is saying, scandalised. “An’ I sayed… dat’s r-rude ’cause da ocean made dem on puwpose!”

“He sounds like a criminal,” Taehyung murmurs, eyes wide in mock horror.

“I knoww,” Aera says, waving her spoon for emphasis. “An’ he had stickews but dey booling….”

Jungkook sips his drink in silence, trying and failing not to feel too much.

There’s something infuriatingly natural about the way Taehyung fits into the opposite side of the booth, as if he belongs there, like this is something he’s done before.

He is too at ease, and too at home, like he knows this isn’t just small talk, even if Jungkook’s doing his best to pretend otherwise.

“You always charm your way into families like this?” Jungkook asks eventually, voice guarded.

Taehyung turns to him, a slow smile blooming across his face like the sun rising over water. “Only the ones with personality.”

Aera grins, missing none of it. “Dat means mee.”

Jungkook scoffs lightly into his cup. “Obviously.”

They sit like that for a while, the three of them orbiting in lazy silence. The hum of the fridge, the clink of spoons against paper cups, the slow rhythm of a small seaside town at golden hour.

Eventually, Aera crawls over to Jungkook before she slumps sideways, the sugar crash hitting her with full force. She rests her head on her father’s arm, eyelids fluttering as she murmurs something about sea queens and mermaid treasure.

Jungkook glances down. “She’s falling asleep.”

Taehyung looks at her, quiet for a beat. “She’s good at that, you know, burning bright, then lights out.”

“I’ve had to carry her home from the grocery store. Twice.”

Taehyung chuckles. “You do it willingly though.”

Jungkook looks at him, something flickering behind his eyes. “She’s mine.”

The words come soft, not defensive, simply... matter-of-fact.

Taehyung meets his gaze, and the air shifts to something less playful now but more warmer. A little heavier, too, if you may.

“She’s lucky,” he says. “To have someone who doesn’t treat her like she’s too much.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer, but something in his expression bends, just slightly. A crease in the armour, a crack in the script.

Outside, the light is dimming. The sky is bruising into soft purples. Someone across the street is closing shop, a metal shutter rolling down with a final clang.

“C’mon,” Jungkook murmurs, sliding out of the booth carefully, adjusting Aera against his chest. “She’s done.”

Taehyung rises too, slower, gathering the sticky napkins and crumpled cups without being asked. He tosses them in the bin, then follows Jungkook out without a word.

The walk back is quiet.

The streets are quieter still, the town folding in on itself like it always does at dusk.

Jungkook carries Aera in both arms, her head tucked under his chin, her little hands curled into his shirt. She breathes softly.

Taehyung walks beside them, not too close, but still near. Like he doesn’t want to crowd the moment, yet at the same time, he’s reluctant to leave it.

“You don’t have to follow us home,” Jungkook says eventually.

“I know,” Taehyung says. His voice is quieter than it was earlier, almost thoughtful. “But I think she’d be mad if I disappeared too fast.”

Jungkook glances at him, lips twitching. “She’s sleeping, she’d survive.”

“Would you?” Taehyung says it like a joke, but there’s something in his eyes when he says it, unguarded and kind, just for a second. The kind of look that leaves Jungkook raw around the edges.

He doesn’t answer.

At the gate to a quaint house, Taehyung stops. He doesn’t push past it.

“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for the company.”

“You invited yourself,” Jungkook says, dryly.

Taehyung grins. “And yet here I am, still with you, without complaints.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer immediately but takes his time, not stepping inside just yet. The porch light clicks on behind him.

“Goodnight, Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s grin softens. “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

He turns to go, then pauses, and looks back once, over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Jungkook hums.

“You do smile,” Taehyung says, eyes flicking to his face. “Told you it’d suit you.”

And then he’s gone. Barefoot in sand-dusted flip-flops, disappearing into the violet dusk like he was never really meant to stay.

Jungkook stands there for a long time.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t mind the mess.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

The farmer’s market is Jungkook’s weekly sanctuary.

It’s where everything makes sense.

Crates are labelled, and the produce is local. Elderly vendors remember Aera’s name and her fondness for free mango slices. People smile but don’t linger. It’s his favourite kind of social interaction. One that is structured and polite.

But this morning, as the sun filters down through rustling fig trees and chatter fills the air, that peace is shattered by a voice he now hears in his sleep.

“Appaa, wook!” Aera’s already standing in the shopping cart’s child seat, pointing so hard it’s a miracle her arm hasn’t snapped off. “Taetaeeee!”

Jungkook follows her gaze, already sighing. “Oh, for god’s sake.”

And sure enough, there he is. Taehyung. Again.

Wearing a white cotton shirt that clings slightly at the collar from the heat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, skin golden and easy under the morning sun. He stands at a fruit stall like a painting come to life, a basket of peaches cradled in one arm, leaning in to chat with a silver-haired ahjumma like he’s been doing this for years.

He tosses his head back and laughs at something she says.

A genuine, easy laugh.

Of course he does.

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “Is he following us?”

Aera giggle-gasps. “Maybe he wikes yo!”

Jungkook levels her with a look. “I will leave you here.”

“Yo nooot,” she singsongs, smug.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You wucky he cute.”

Jungkook nearly walks into a display of zucchini.

And then, as if summoned by pure spite, Taehyung turns and immediately spots them. A smile stretches over his face, no, scratch that, he glows.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Taehyung calls, plucking a peach from the basket like he’s starring in a low-budget romantic drama that only he is acting in.

Jungkook exhales slowly through his nose. “You come to farmer’s markets now?”

Taehyung’s smile grows. “Are you gatekeeping organic produce?”

“I’m just saying it’s… suspicious.”

Taehyung gasps, dramatically making a nearby vendor flinch. “Are you accusing me of stalking you for peaches?”

“I’m just noticing patterns.”

“I’ll have you know,” Taehyung says, stepping closer, “these peaches are award-winning. They bring people from everywhere.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Swear on my surfboard.”

“You own a surfboard?”

“As if you didn’t see me with it the first time.” He snorts. “Oh, wait, my bad, you were busy staring me then.”

Before Jungkook could reply, Aera tugs on Taehyung’s shirt, eyes big. “Can I haf one? Pwetty Pwease?”

“Of course,” Taehyung says, softening as he kneels beside her and hands her the ripest one. “But only if you promise to tell me if it’s good.”

“I da juge,” Aera replies solemnly, and bites into it like she’s been given a sacred duty.

Juice runs down her chin. She nods, eyes wide. “It weally peachy.”

Jungkook folds his arms, unimpressed. “She doesn’t even like peaches.”

“I wike dis one,” Aera says, turning to Taehyung with the kind of loyalty Jungkook knows is no longer his alone.

Traitor.

Taehyung grins and bites into one himself, then turns to Jungkook as he chews.

His gaze flicks, casually and very deliberately, straight to Jungkook’s mouth.

And lingers. Long enough for Jungkook to register it and to feel it. Then it moves back to his eyes, unreadable. “Want one?”

Jungkook swallows. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Taehyung shrugs and turns to Aera. “He’s lying.”

“I knowww,” she replies, eyes wide with faux sympathy. “He say no to ebery thing.”

“I don’t,” Jungkook protests.

“You said no to a cwat, an den we got da cwat!”

“That was different—”

“You sayed no to ice cweam!”

“Aera—”

“An’ now you say no to da hansom’ peach man.”

Taehyung bursts out laughing, nearly dropping his fruit.

Jungkook looks up at the sky like it might smite him and do him a favour.

“She doesn’t have volume control,” he mutters.

“She has taste,” Taehyung says, straightening. He nudges a second peach into the cart, unbothered by the protest forming on Jungkook’s lips. “Just in case your resolve breaks.”

“It won’t.”

“It alvays do,” Aera chimes.

“Okay. You know what? You’re both banned from speaking for five minutes.”

Aera gasps. “Yo not ban me! I’m yo dawter.”

“And I’m the peach dealer,” Taehyung adds helpfully. “Your move, Mr Control.”

Jungkook is about to argue, but then Taehyung steps closer, not quite in his space, but close enough that Jungkook’s breath catches.

And that’s exactly how the world starts to feel tighter and the heat more noticeable.

Taehyung’s voice drops just a little. “You don’t have to glare at me every time we meet, you know.”

“I’m not glaring.”

Taehyung leans in, mock-whispers, “You are but it’s okay. You do it well.”

Jungkook’s ears go hot. “Maybe I just don’t like being ambushed.”

Taehyung quirks a brow. “Ambushed? Or seen?”

Jungkook stares at him.

Taehyung holds it before he breaks into a soft laugh and steps away like he hadn’t just said something vaguely life-altering in the middle of a tomato stall.

“I’ll see you around, Jungkookie,” he calls, tossing a casual wave as he walks off, sunlight catching the curve of his grin.

Jungkook watches him go.

Aera is already sucking peach juice off her fingers like it’s nectar of the gods.

“Appa?”

“Yeah?”

“A’e yo gon’ eat yo peach?”

Jungkook glances down at the ripe fruit Taehyung had placed quietly in the basket.

And sighs.

“…Maybe.”

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

It’s fifteen minutes after the peach incident when Jungkook finally notices it.

He’s crouched near a fish stall, half-listening to the vendor explain the differences between two identical-looking cuts of snapper while Aera is busy tapping on the crab tank, naming each creature like she’s cataloguing a royal court.

“Dat’s Pwincess Sheww,” she murmurs. “An dats her guawd, Sir Clawwy.”

Jungkook leans in to adjust the basket, and something feels… off. He blinks down, adjusting his grip.

It's then that he notices that it’s not his basket.

Same make, yes. Same woven handles, same canvas bottom, but this one’s heavier. It’s a different weight in his hand, more lopsided, like someone packed it for vibes and not balance.

There’s a faint smell of lavender and something citrusy, unmistakably not Jungkook.

He frowns, peeling back the top cloth, and there, nestled among some leafy greens and one smug-looking avocado, is a navy blue wallet.

“Oh, come on,” Jungkook mutters.

“Appa?” Aera glances over, concerned. “Did da cwabs bite yo fingal?”

“We took the wrong basket.”

Her eyes light up. “TaeTae’s?”

Jungkook holds up the wallet in silent confirmation.

Aera gasps, hands pressed to her cheeks like it’s a drama reveal. “We haf da peach man twe… tweshuw!”

“We are not pirates.”

“But we ale.”

He glares. “We are returning this. Immediately.”

“Ow,” she says sweetly, “yo gif it back to him… an’ pweend it’s a sign fwom da univewse.”

“I beg you. Don’t talk.”

“Too late. I da voice of fate.”

Jungkook sighs deeply and starts scanning the crowd for a mop of windswept hair and criminally relaxed posture.

Fate, however, is faster.

They spot him near the turn toward the docks, crouched by someone’s garden wall. He’s got a hand extended, murmuring something low to a fat orange tabby sprawled across a sun-warmed tile. The cat seems both unimpressed and intrigued.

“Are you lost, sir?” Taehyung is asking seriously. “Or do you just live here rent-free like a legend?”

The cat blinks.

Taehyung nods solemnly. “Respect.”

Aera immediately breaks into a run.

“Tae-taee!”

Taehyung looks up, startled, and then breaks into a wide, sunbeam smile.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite little pirate.”

Jungkook jogs after, clutching the basket like it’s radioactive. “You left this.”

Taehyung straightens, brows lifting. “Oh my. Wait. Is that why I couldn’t find my wallet? I thought I was being punished for flirting too hard at the peach stall.”

Jungkook holds it out stiffly. “You were.”

Taehyung accepts it with both hands, expression sheepish. “Thanks. Honestly, thought I was about to have to pay for dinner in bottle caps.”

Aera tugs on his sleeve. “Der a dwawing in!”

He opens the wallet and chuckles. “Oh! Aera’s superhero sketch. I knew I felt cooler today.”

Jungkook rubs a hand down his face. “Can we go now?”

Taehyung’s smile turns sly. “You sure? I was about to go home and do something wildly domestic with those peaches.”

“You mean eat them?”

“No,” he says, mock-offended. “Roast them with thyme, and drizzle honey on top... maybe some vanilla gelato if the gods are kind.”

Jungkook stares.

Aera is already vibrating. “Can we go? Cookie pwease?”

“No,” Jungkook says instantly.

Taehyung holds up a finger. “Before you answer, just imagine it. A cool breeze in a shaded porch with the soft sound of clinking spoons. A perfect picture of summery simplicity and peaches.”

“You’re not a poet,” Jungkook mutters.

“Not professionally.”

“Appa,” Aera pleads. “Pwease? Fow my g’owf as a foody pelson?”

He stares at her. She stares back. And he knows, knows, this is a trap. He’s being played by both of them.

“…Fine,” he mutters. “One peach. No lingering.”

Taehyung salutes as they start walking. “Scout’s honour.”

And soon enough, they reach the place.

Taehyung’s home is tucked behind a slope of terraced stone houses, half-covered in flowering vines, the scent of sea salt stronger here. His door is painted a muted teal, chipped at the corners, with a brass dolphin door-knocker that Aera insists on trying three times before being let in.

Inside, it’s... warm.

Not just the temperature but the feel of it.

Soft wood floors, cream linen curtains moving with the breeze, low bookshelves stacked with dog-eared paperbacks and old postcards pinned to the frame of a mirror. A record hums somewhere in the background— soft jazz, maybe— and a hammock is strung between two support beams.

Aera’s already slipped off her shoes and is poking through the bowl of seashells on the windowsill like she’s found a treasure chest.

Jungkook lingers at the door, unsure.

Taehyung smiles at him over his shoulder. “You can come in, you know. I don’t bite.”

“Debatable.”

“Only peaches. And maybe—” His smile sharpens. “People who glare at me.”

“I wasn’t glaring.”

“You were burning a hole through the stone fruit aisle.”

Jungkook steps in. “You’re very loud for someone who lives alone.”

Taehyung chuckles. “Old habit. Maybe I just like filling quiet rooms.”

He disappears into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up higher now, exposing more forearm than Jungkook is emotionally prepared for. “Make yourself at home.”

“That’s... deeply confusing. I just returned your wallet, not moved in.”

“Yet,” Taehyung calls out.

Jungkook stares at the seashell bowl and questions every life choice that led him here.

For ten minutes.

Ten whole minutes until Taehyung emerges with three little glass bowls of sliced peaches, roasted golden at the edges, flecked with thyme and a ribbon of honey over the top with a perfectly melting scoop of gelato pooling into the fruit.

Aera stares like she’s in a commercial.

“Dis is AWT.”

Taehyung bows. “Why, thank you, Chef Aera.”

Jungkook takes one cautious bite.

Stops.

“...That’s actually really good,” he mumbles.

Taehyung smirks. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

They eat with the afternoon sun leaning against the windows. Aera asks too many questions, and Taehyung answers all of them, while Jungkook tries not to watch his hands when he gestures or his mouth when he licks gelato off his spoon.

He fails.

They linger longer than they should, too long, maybe, until eventually, the sun begins to drop, and Jungkook stands, brushing crumbs from his shirt.

“We should go.”

Taehyung nods and walks them to the door.

“Thanks,” Jungkook says, awkwardly. “For the... peach thing.”

Taehyung smiles. “Anytime, Hyung.”

Their eyes hold, and it hums in the space between them- that something neither of them is naming yet.

“Bye, Tae-tae!” Aera shouts, waving as she bounces ahead down the lane.

“Bye, Princess!”

Taehyung looks back at Jungkook once more.

“You can return my basket next week,” he says.

Jungkook blinks. “What basket?”

Taehyung grins. “The one you’re going to accidentally take.”

And with that, he closes the door.

Jungkook turns away, heart doing something inconvenient in his chest.

They walk home slowly, the peach-sweet taste still clinging to his tongue, and try as he might, he can’t shake the feeling that something just began.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

The fire is crackling.

Sparks leap skyward, dancing into the summer night as the bonfire swells and settles, its glow wrapping the beach in amber. The music floats low from a portable speaker tucked into the sand, layered with the hush of waves and the occasional burst of laughter.

Taehyung sits perched on a piece of driftwood, guitar resting lazily against his thigh. He’s not really playing yet, just brushing his fingers along the strings, letting the vibrations hum into the night.

He should be watching the fire or the stars, but instead his gaze is drawn elsewhere.

To him. Jungkook.

Leaning back on one hand, legs stretched out, drink balanced carelessly in the other. His black shirt is rolled at the sleeves, forearms catching the firelight, collar open enough to show the elegant slope of his throat. His hair is slightly messy, undone, Taehyung thinks, the way some paintings are more beautiful when imperfect.

There’s something in the way he’s sitting, taut and composed, but just slightly slouched like he’s trying too hard not to look like he belongs here.

He does, though. God, he does.

The firelight loves him. It makes his skin glow, and frames the line of his jaw in liquid light. There’s a shadow on his cheekbone from where his lashes rest, and when he brings the glass to his mouth, Taehyung catches himself watching the curve of his lips like a fool.

It’s annoying, really, the way Jungkook doesn’t even try.

Taehyung knows he shouldn’t be looking, but he does, often and lingeringly.

And then, just as he’s about to look away, Jungkook glances up. Their eyes meet, for a moment too long, and something flickers in them.

Jungkook looks away first. Taehyung smiles to himself.

And like always, Aera is the one who breaks the moment, skipping into the flickering circle of firelight, cheeks flushed from running. She spins, arms outstretched, her curls flying around her like a halo.

“Taetaeeee!” she calls, grinning. “Pway som’ting!”

He chuckles. “Your wish is my command.”

He shifts the guitar into place, fingers flexing along the strings, and launches into a playful tune. Something light and easy, the kind of thing that draws the kids in and makes the grown-ups tap their feet without realising it.

He can feel Jungkook’s eyes on him now.

He plays for her, of course, but he performs for him.

And when he finishes the first song, and the clapping dies down, Taehyung doesn’t miss the soft scowl on Jungkook’s face.

“Of course,” Jungkook mutters into his glass. “You play guitar.”

Taehyung shrugs, grinning. “Of course, I do.”

“You probably paint too.”

“Watercolours,” he says sweetly.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look away.

Aera drops beside him again, curling into Jungkook’s side as she watches Taehyung play. Jungkook absentmindedly smooths her hair back from her forehead, his touch gentle.

Taehyung watches him watching her, and then he plays something slower, quieter. It’s not for the crowd anymore; it’s not for anyone else at all.

His fingers move more slowly, every strum deliberate. The melody is wistful, like waves lapping at memory. He doesn’t even sing this one, merely plays.

Jungkook watches him.

The flickering light throws shifting shadows across his face— his jaw, his mouth, the little muscle in his cheek that twitches when he’s trying not to smile.

Taehyung plays softer. Softer still.

And then—

A brush, a shift of sand... and a foot(?).

Jungkook’s foot.

It presses lightly against his own, merely there, just touching.

Taehyung doesn’t move; he finishes the song, lets the strings fade into the hush of the sea, and still, the foot remains.

He risks a glance.

Jungkook is staring into the fire, but his mouth is tilted ever so slightly at the corner.

“Enjoying the show?” Taehyung asks, voice quiet.

Jungkook doesn’t turn. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

He nudges Jungkook’s foot gently. There is no response, but there is no recoil either.

They sit like that, the firelight between them. Neither of them speaks, and the buzz of the world grows distant.

Then Aera yawns, her small form curling into Jungkook’s lap.

He pulls a blanket around her shoulders without a word.

Taehyung sets the guitar aside and stretches, joints popping in the quiet.

When he glances up again, Jungkook is looking at him, openly this time, in a manner that denotes that something has shifted, and he’s still catching up to it.

Taehyung tilts his head, eyes narrowing softly.

Jungkook blinks before looking away.

But that’s fine because the foot is still there, still pressed to his, and it stays like that; two silhouettes on opposite sides of a bonfire, barely touching, entirely aware.

The waves roll in, the night deepens, and Taehyung doesn’t say it aloud, but he feels it in the marrow of his bones, that this, whatever this is...

It isn’t going away.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

Jungkook knows something is wrong the second he opens the front door.

Not wrong in a dangerous way.

Just… off.

His apartment smells like sautéed garlic and gochugaru. Something is bubbling in the kitchen, and there is the faint clink of dishes being set, and, somewhere, a soft trot song playing from the old Bluetooth speaker Aera “borrowed” from his nightstand.

He stands there, keys still in hand, and blinks.

“…Eomma?”

“Ah, you’re home,” comes his mother’s voice, calm as ever, as she emerges from the kitchen in an apron he didn’t know he owned.

Jungkook’s body short-circuits. “You’re supposed to be Ilsan.”

“I finished early,” she says. “Your fridge was empty, by the way.”

“I was supposed to buy groceries today, and it’s not empty—”

“Instant noodles and energy drinks don’t count.”

He opens his mouth and closes it, for the defeat is immediate.

And then—

“APPAAA!”

Aera explodes from the hallway, barefoot and grinning, her pigtails bouncing wildly as she sprints across the room like a projectile shot from a joy cannon.

Jungkook barely catches her before she crashes into his legs. “You’re going to destroy my knees.”

“Yo stwong,” she says, patting his arm. “Yo haf bycep. Like Taetaee.”

“Please don’t start.”

“I miss yo,” she beams.

His heart crumples. “I missed you too, my sweet pea.”

Then she steps back, hands on her hips with all the theatrical gravity of a lawyer about to drop a bombshell.

“Appaa,” she announces, “we needa tawk.”

“About what?” he says cautiously.

She grabs his wrist and marches him toward the dining room. “It’s time.”

“…Time for what?”

Aera doesn’t answer.

Jungkook is too stunned by the full table. His mother has gone all out: kimchi stew, mandu, japchae, banchan in ceramic dishes, even a stone pot full of rice. And that’s when he sees the rest of the family.

Seokjin is mid-mandu, Yoongi is already chewing, and his father is quietly reading the paper like they’re not about to live through a sitcom.

Jungkook blinks. “Why is everyone here?”

“Surprise family dinner!” his mother says cheerfully.

Oh no.

He turns to Aera, and she’s glowing.

Then, she opens her mouth.

“TAETAE IS APPA’S BOY-BOY-FWEINDD!”

The room erupts into chaos.

Seokjin, mid-chew, immediately starts choking on his dumpling as if it personally betrayed him. His eyes water, his face goes pink, and he flails. Yoongi, without looking up, lazily whacks him on the back like he's swatting a mosquito.

Their father lowers his newspaper, and their mother, poised as ever, smiles over her teacup, which is never, ever, a good sign.

Jungkook, on the other hand, is actively dying. “I— what— NO—”

Aera, undeterred, puffs her cheeks. “You sayed me no wies! An’ you wooked at him wike baby deer!!”

“What— what does that even mean?!”

Seokjin, finally able to breathe, gasps between coughs, “Taetae?! As in Kim Taehyung?!”

Jungkook flails. “WHAT?!”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said!” Jungkook shrieks.

“Then why are you red?”

“I’m not!”

“You’re turning the same colour as the kimchi,” Yoongi says helpfully.

Seokjin waves his hand violently. “But, Taehyung? Kim Taehyung?!”

Jungkook glares. “You don’t even know him!”

“I do! The handyman-slash-surf teacher-slash-guitar guy! The one who fixed the dishwasher! That Taehyung?!”

Jungkook clutches his head. “Why does he have that many slashes?!”

“You know another one?” Yoongi deadpans.

Seokjin flaps a hand. “The hot one who fixed Eomma and Appa’s roof last year?”

“He also installed the new porch swing,” their mother adds casually, reaching for the kimchi.

Their father nods. “Strong build, very good posture.”

Jungkook’s voice cracks. “What is happening?!”

“He also plays piano at the community centre,” Yoongi supplies.

Seokjin points his chopsticks. “Wait— he plays piano and guitar?”

“AN’ fixy tings,” Aera says proudly. “An’ he make Appa bwush.”

“I DO NOT BLUSH.”

“Yo doo!” she insists. “Yo ears turn all wed wike stwawbewwies!”

Jungkook covers his ears on instinct. “Why are you all like this?”

His mother pats his hand. “Darling, we just notice things.”

“You never noticed when I cut my hair.”

“You cut your own bangs with kitchen scissors. It didn’t count.”

Seokjin is already halfway to conspiracy theory mode, but then a light bulb goes off in Jungkook’s mind. “Wait, wait, how do you all know Taehyung? And why didn’t I know?!”

His mother chuckles, brushing back a stray strand of hair. “He shifted here from Daegu when you weren’t living here. You were busy setting up your start-up back then, remember? Always traveling, running from meeting to meeting, buried in paperwork and pitches. And well… that’s when you had Aera.”

She leans back, smiling faintly. “Tae… he moved here quietly. There were rumours that he had saved enough from stocks and other gains that he could live however he wanted; far from the corporate stress, far from the chaos, and he chose this town.”

Yoongi nods. “He also helped us find your house when you wanted to shift back from Seoul last spring.”

“And taught Jin how to skip stones. Unfortunately.”

“And makes homemade yogurt,” their father adds.

Jungkook is spiralling. “Wait— WAIT. I just see him talking to cats and birds all the time— how does he have time for all of this?!”

“He runs on ginseng and charm,” Yoongi mutters.

“An’ pwotin shake!” Aera chirps.

“Namjoon knows him too,” their mother adds. “He’s very fond of Taehyung.”

Jungkook gasps. “Namjoonie Hyung too?!”

“He said Taehyung was ‘unexpectedly poetic with deadlifts,’” Seokjin recites, as if quoting scripture.

Jungkook slumps into his chair like the weight of the entire Taehyung-industrial complex has finally crushed him. “This is a nightmare.”

“I think it’s adorable,” Seokjin declares. “It’s like a drama! You fell for the town’s legend.”

“He’s not a legend! He’s just— he fixed a doorknob!”

“He also saved that one stray dog from the rain,” Yoongi says blandly. “While singing.”

Aera gasps. 

Jungkook groans into his hands. “I’m going to pass out.”

Aera pats his shoulder. “Not wowwy Appa, yo wake up in lobe.”

“I’m already awake!!”

“You know,” Yoongi says gently, “he’s very good with children.”

Jungkook looks up, betrayed. “You’re all traitors.”

But beneath the horror, the humiliation, and the fact that apparently everyone in his bloodline has been secretly in love with Taehyung this entire time—

“The awning!” His mother suddenly exclaims, remembering. “He installed the awning too. Such good shoulders.”

Scratch that. Jungkook thumps his forehead on the table.

“WHY ARE HIS SHOULDERS PART OF THIS CONVERSATION—”

“Because they’re nice,” Seokjin says, wiping his mouth. “You’re mad because you like them.”

“I’m mad because you’re all insane!”

Their father clears his throat, and the room falls silent.

“So, son,” he starts, “are you dating him?”

“I— NO!”

Aera pouts. “Den why yo ears get wed when he say ‘hyung’?”

Seokjin gasps like he’s watching a romantic drama unfold live.

Yoongi, completely unbothered, raises an eyebrow. “He calls you ‘hyung’?”

“I— Rarely. Not much. I told him to stop—”

“But you wiked it,” Aera says, narrowing her eyes. “yo smiwed at coffee… ten minooootes.”

“I did not.”

“I time yo.”

“You can’t even read numbers yet!”

“I feel minotes!”

Seokjin throws his head back. “It’s love.”

“It’s not love!”

“Why are you yelling like a boiling kettle then?”

“I AM CALM!”

“Now you’re steaming,” Yoongi notes.

Their mother gently pats Jungkook’s arm. “Darling, you do seem very… emotionally involved.”

“I just don’t want you all making things up.”

“Are we?” his father asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Jungkook hesitates.

Then Aera deals the finishing blow.

“Yo let ‘im… touch yo foot.”

A silence so heavy falls that even the trot music pauses for dramatic effect.

Seokjin stares, horrified. “What kind of foot touch?! THERE WAS A CHILD.”

Yoongi looks vaguely impressed. “That’s advanced.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Sit down,” his mother says sweetly.

Jungkook sits. Sinks into the chair like it’s a grave.

Aera leans into his shoulder. “It’s okie. He wikes you too.”

He turns to her, defeated. “What makes you so sure?”

She smiles. “’Cause he wooks at you like you’s his favy-wite stowy.”

And with that, there’s a quiet flicker of something else in Jungkook’s chest.

A warmth.

A glow.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

The apartment hums with silence, a kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, just full of things left unsaid.

Dinner is long over. His family has trickled out one by one, their goodbyes sticky with mischief and suspicious affection. Seokjin had tried to smuggle leftover dumplings; Yoongi had patted Jungkook’s back like a soldier lost to romance. His mother had kissed his cheek and whispered, “He’s a lovely boy, sweetheart. Let yourself be happy.”

He hadn’t responded. Couldn’t. Not when his entire face was threatening to ignite.

Now, the apartment is dim. Only one warm lamp glows in the corner, casting a soft gold haze across the floorboards. The dishes are still piled up in the sink. A stray sock lies abandoned near the hallway, like a tiny white flag waving from the battlefield of dinner.

Jungkook sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the coffee table.

On it lies a crumpled sheet of drawing paper, folded once, then unfolded, like Aera had thought twice about sharing it.

He picks it up gently.

The lines are wobbly, uneven, but enthusiastic. Classic Aera.

There are three stick figures drawn in heavy, colourful strokes. The smallest wears a pink triangle dress and has a pair of wild yellow pigtails sticking out from her head.

Aera. Always smiling, even on paper.

Next to her: a taller figure in black. A little frown drawn on his face, broad shoulders, and a messy attempt at hair.

Jungkook.

And then, on the other side of her, a figure drawn in bright orange and brown. Bigger eyes, a wider smile and brown curls. His stick hand is looped through both of theirs. He’s drawn with a sun over his head.

Taehyung.

Jungkook stares at the sketch for a long time. There’s a beach behind them, a crooked palm tree and a heart hovering above their heads like an afterthought.

He lets out a slow breath. His body is tired, but not just from work. Not just from chasing after Aera or surviving Seokjin’s dramatics or his mother’s terrifying intuition. It’s a different kind of tired, the type that sets in after you’ve been fighting something for too long. And maybe, he thinks, he’s not sure what he’s fighting anymore.

The idea? The feelings? The possibility?

He leans back against the cushions, letting his head tilt against the back of the couch. The lamplight glows in the corner of his eye. The hum of the fridge is steady in the background. The sound of Aera’s soft breathing from her bedroom fills the rest of the space.

But his mind drifts elsewhere.

To a bonfire.

To salt in the air and laughter echoing off the sand. To the way Taehyung sat with a guitar resting on his thigh like it belonged there. To the way his fingers moved, deft, instinctual, slow. And how his voice carried through the dark as it had always belonged to the sea.

Jungkook remembers how Taehyung’s knee had bumped his, how it had lingered.

He hadn’t pulled away; worse, he hadn’t wanted to.

He remembers Taehyung glancing at him between verses, lashes catching the firelight, eyes molten and impossibly soft, like he was watching something beautiful and didn’t want it to end.

Jungkook swallows.

He remembers how Taehyung’s fingers had brushed his when passing him a drink. How he had leaned in too close when joking with Aera. How he’d winked, actually winked, after playing some ridiculous cartoon theme song that made Aera squeal.

And then that look.

That look.

The one that lasted just a second too long. The one where Taehyung saw him as not just the father or the man who double-checks schedules and ties his shoelaces too tight, or Aera’s slightly feral guardian, but as him.

And somehow, that’s the part that scares him the most.

He runs a hand over his face, thumb grazing his bottom lip. He’s not sure how long he sits there, staring at that drawing. But somehow it is long enough for the silence to stretch thin and for something inside his chest to give a quiet sigh.

He lifts the paper again and folds it carefully, smoother this time. He presses the crease with his thumb and slides it into the drawer beside the couch. Right on top of Aera’s old art projects and their first beach Polaroid.

He exhales slowly, tipping his head back once more.

Something’s coming.

He can feel it in the way the air shifts around him. In the way that night settles heavier than usual. In the quiet that no longer feels like loneliness but like anticipation.

And when it arrives: Taehyung’s voice at the door, Aera’s shout of delight, maybe just a single knock—

He doesn’t think he’ll turn away this time.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

Taehyung doesn’t mean to end up at the park again.

Really.

He tells himself it’s just a coincidence. That he needed fresh air. That his legs needed to stretch, that the sun was out, that his playlist was good, and his lungs needed the burn of a jog. That’s all.

But his usual route doesn’t even come close to this part of town. And yet, here he is. Again.

And there they are like always.

Jungkook sits in the middle of a sun-warmed patch of grass, back slightly hunched, elbow propped on a knee, twirling a half-finished flower crown between his fingers. The white linen shirt he’s wearing is almost glowing in the light— its collar open, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms dusted in gold and muscle. His hair is wind-tousled and soft, a stray daisy petal caught in the strands. The corner of his mouth curls as he watches Aera dart barefoot through the grass like a wild thing made of sunlight and laughter.

Taehyung stops in his tracks, and his heart does something reckless.

Because Jungkook is already beautiful in that frustrating, sculpted way, Taehyung tries very hard not to think about too often, but like this, bathed in golden light, legs folded, a crown of crooked daisies drooping from his hand... he looks unreal.

Like a painting. Like a moment you don’t even try to capture, because you know the camera won’t do it justice.

Taehyung walks forward, hoping his heartbeat doesn’t give him away.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, voice light.

Jungkook glances sideways. He doesn’t look startled, just amused.

“Do you always run here?” he asks.

Taehyung coughs. “Uh. Sometimes.”

That’s a lie.

But Jungkook doesn’t press, just pats the blanket beside him.

“Sit.”

So Taehyung does. Of course he does. He sits too close, and Jungkook doesn’t shift away. Their knees brush slightly and stay that way.

Taehyung exhales slowly. He’s doomed.

Before either of them can say more, a high-pitched squeal erupts nearby.

“Taetae!” Aera barrels toward them, her arms hidden behind her back, eyes sparkling with impish glee.

Taehyung grins. “Yeah, princess?”

“Close yo eyes!”

“I don’t know if I trust you—”

“Close dem!”

He obeys. There’s a brief rustling of petals and grass, and then something slightly damp and delicate lands crookedly on his head.

Aera squeals in triumph. “You’s da fwower pwince now!!”

Taehyung opens one eye, blinking up at her. “I—”

“You gots to pwotect da fwower kingdoom!”

He presses a fist to his heart. “With my life, Your Majesty.”

Aera nods solemnly like she’s just knighted him, then she turns to Jungkook.

“Appa.”

Jungkook leans back a little. “Absolutely not.”

Aera takes it as a challenge, not a refusal. She marches over and shoves another flower crown onto his head with all the grace of an almost three-year-old on a mission.

He groans but doesn’t remove it. Instead, he adjusts it with mock dignity, a single purple wildflower falling into his eye.

“Yo two machy machy now,” Aera says proudly, hands on her hips.

Just like that, everything stills. The air between Jungkook and Taehyung shifts, tenses.

Taehyung looks over, and—

God.

Jungkook is looking at him.

Hair a mess, flower crown slightly tilted, sun catching in his lashes and lighting his skin like the summer itself is trying to hold him.

Their gaze meets, and something hangs between them, soft and heavy and breathless.

Taehyung doesn’t tease, nor does he grin. He can’t.

Because Jungkook is looking at him like he’s seeing something for the first time, or admitting something he’s known all along.

Their knees still touch.

Jungkook’s fingers twitch slightly in the grass. Taehyung leans forward, barely. Like he might say something, or reach out, or—

“OKIEE!” Aera claps her hands with devastating enthusiasm. “Now kissy kisss!”

Jungkook chokes.

Taehyung makes a noise that is definitely not human.

Aera frowns. “Dat’s what happen in stowies. Pwince an’ king kissy.”

Taehyung opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Jungkook launches to his feet so fast his flower crown slips down over his eyes.

“Time for ice cream!” he announces, voice tight and about an octave too high.

Aera gasps. “Choco?!”

“Obviously.”

She screams in delight and bolts toward the sidewalk.

Jungkook quickly gathers the blanket, the bag, and his dignity (what’s left of it).

Taehyung rises slowly, watching him like someone still reeling from a dream.

Jungkook doesn’t look at him as he walks past, not at first. But then, just as he’s adjusting the bag strap over his shoulder, he glances back, flower crown still half-slipping, and meets Taehyung’s eyes again.

Something unspoken stretches between them. Not yet, it says. But soon.

Taehyung smiles.

He’s never minded waiting, not if it’s for this.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

Later, after Aera has darted off to join a noisy group of kids playing tag near the fountain, the park slips into a quieter rhythm. The kind that happens when the world begins to exhale. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting everything in that honey-thick golden hour light.

Jungkook and Taehyung remain seated in the grass, flower crowns still stubbornly perched atop their heads, shoulders warm and pressed together.

They haven’t moved in a while.

And maybe it should feel silly, two grown men sitting in the middle of a park like reluctant royalty, knees bent, matching daisy halos, but it doesn’t.

It feels… startlingly easy.

Comfortable.

Except for the way Taehyung’s pulse won’t stop hammering against his ribs. Except for how aware he is of every brush of fabric, every near-touch of Jungkook’s hand, every slight shift of air between them.

He nudges Jungkook’s knee with his own. “I make a pretty good flower prince, don’t I?”

Jungkook hums, slow and low. He turns his head slightly, face backlit by amber sunlight, cheekbones golden, lashes long. He looks like he was born to belong in moments like this. “Not bad.”

Taehyung raises a brow. “Just not bad?”

Jungkook glances at him sideways, mouth twitching. “Decent.”

Taehyung gasps, hand flying to his chest. “I have led armies, Jungkook.”

Jungkook bites back a smile. “Armies of what, pigeons?”

“That was one time.”

“You named them.”

“I named one of them.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Sir Feathers.”

Taehyung groans. “I will end you.”

But Jungkook doesn’t let up. He starts laughing, really laughing, shoulders shaking, head tipping back just a little. It’s rare and blinding and so achingly beautiful, Taehyung feels it like a punch to the chest.

The laugh bubbles out of Jungkook like it has nowhere else to go, and maybe it’s the sunlight, or maybe it’s the softness of the moment, or maybe it's the fact that Taehyung has wanted to kiss that mouth for eight weeks and six days now, but he turns.

He turns, slowly.

Their faces are close, too close, and the air crackles between them.

Jungkook’s laughter fades into something quieter, softer. His lips are still parted slightly, the corners still curled.

Taehyung’s gaze drops, once, barely, and then it lingers.

His fingers twitch in the grass, like they want to do something reckless. Like reach out. Like trace the curve of Jungkook’s jaw. Like tuck the wobbly strand of hair behind his ear, just to see if he’d lean into it.

He shifts slightly closer, just to test the air, and Jungkook doesn’t move.

Their knees are touching fully now.

And Taehyung can feel it, Jungkook’s breath, warm on his cheek. The tension stretched between them like a fraying thread.

He wants to lean in. Wants to press their mouths together and see if Jungkook tastes like peach ice cream and summer wind and the tiny, exasperated sighs he makes when he’s trying not to smile.

And maybe Jungkook wants it too, because his gaze drops, flickering between Taehyung’s eyes and mouth like he can’t decide where to look. Like he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to stop himself.

Taehyung leans in just a little more.

And then—

“HIYAAA!”

A wild shriek barrels into them from nowhere, and the next thing Taehyung knows, he’s flat on his back in the grass, Jungkook half-toppled on top of him, and Aera is sprawled across their legs like a victorious dragon hatchling.

Taehyung groans. “I think I just saw my entire life flash before my eyes.”

Jungkook, face still half-buried against his chest, lets out a breathless, stunned laugh. “That’s what you get for naming pigeons.”

Taehyung lies there, dazed, staring up at the sky.

He can feel Jungkook’s weight against him, warm, solid, all too real, and it would take so little, so dangerously little, to just shift his hand, to brush a thumb along his jaw, to chase the what-if still lingering in the space between them.

But Jungkook is already moving, pulling Aera into his lap, tousling her hair, muttering something about how one day, she’ll be charged with assault.

And Taehyung breathes.

Almost. But not yet.

God help him, he’s starting to want the wait.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

The grilling tray sizzles with marinated meat, and smoke curls lazily into the warm Busan night. Taehyung stares down at his lettuce wrap like it’s a philosophy exam, and he forgot to study.

Jimin watches him for exactly ten seconds before sighing loudly. “Oh my god. Just say his name and get it over with.”

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” Taehyung mutters.

“You’re massaging your gochujang like it’s his hand.”

Hoseok cackles. “Wait, is that what we’re calling it now?”

Taehyung slaps his chopsticks down and points. “You two are demons.”

Namjoon, ever the diplomat, raises his cup of makgeolli. “Let the man spiral in peace.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Taehyung says.

“You’re pouting into pork belly,” Jimin says, unimpressed.

Taehyung sinks lower into the bench.

They’re squeezed around a tiny, rickety metal table on the sidewalk, tucked behind a food cart that smells like soy sauce and caramelised onions. The summer heat has finally eased, and the city around them is winding down, except for Taehyung’s emotional turmoil, which is clearly just getting started.

“Okay,” Hoseok says, adjusting his seat. “Quick poll. On a scale from one to absolutely delusional, how deep is our boy?”

Jimin raises a hand. “Eight. No, nine. He smiled at his phone for five full minutes earlier.”

“It was a meme,” Taehyung lies.

“It was a photo of Jungkook with a flower crown,” Jimin retorts. “A selfie you took.”

Namjoon hides a smile behind his cup. “It’s a nice photo, to be fair.”

“Thank you!” Taehyung points accusingly. “See? Appreciation!”

“Taehyung,” Hoseok says gently, “you saved it as your lockscreen.”

“I—”

“And your wallpaper.”

“Okay, so I like him!” Taehyung finally bursts out. “Congratulations, you cracked the code!”

There’s a pause.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “We cracked the code three months ago. You’re just finally admitting it.”

Namjoon leans back, voice mild. “So what’s the plan?”

“There’s no plan,” Taehyung groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because Jungkook is a dad. And I’m a disaster. And that combination is just, bad math.”

Hoseok blinks. “Are you saying this man, who literally let you braid his child’s hair and invited you on a picnic, doesn’t like you?”

Taehyung hesitates. “It’s not that he doesn’t like me.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Then?”

“It’s Aera,” he says softly. “It’s the way he looks at her…like she’s the entire universe and every star he’s ever cared about. If something happened between us and it messed things up...”

He trails off, and for once, the table goes quiet.

Namjoon studies him. “You’re not scared of rejection. You’re scared of hurting them.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung mutters. “And Jungkook... He doesn’t move unless he’s sure. Because if he lets someone in, that’s someone who’s going to share a world that isn’t just his.”

“Hey,” Hoseok says softly, bumping their knees. “That’s not a reason to stay out of it.”

“I don’t want to take up space I’m not invited into.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Taehyung, he literally invites you everywhere. Ice cream runs. Beach bonfires. Grocery store. That random park day where you ended up wearing flower crowns and lying in the grass like a period drama couple?”

“That was for Aera!”

“Sure,” Jimin deadpans. “That’s why your knees were touching for thirty minutes and you shared one straw.”

Namjoon finally sets his drink down. “You know what I think?”

Taehyung turns toward him.

“I think Jungkook’s already halfway in. He just hasn’t said the words. He’s steady, and slow, and scared, but not of you. Of getting it wrong. Of making a move that affects someone who still sleeps with a stuffed whale and calls him ‘Appa’ like he hung the moon.”

Taehyung swallows. “Yeah.”

“But you?” Namjoon continues, voice quieter now. “You’ve been showing up. Not just for Jungkook, but for Aera too. And that matters.”

Taehyung looks down at his hands. “He hasn’t kissed me.”

“He wants to,” Jimin says.

“You’re in love with a man who folds napkins for fun,” Hoseok says. “It’s not going to be a fireworks-and-make-out-on-the-rooftop kind of thing. It’s going to be late dinners and safe touches. It’s going to be him buying your shampoo because he knows the brand makes your curls softer.”

Taehyung lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

Then Namjoon leans forward. “He’s waiting for you to be certain. That you’re not just there for the thrill or the high. That you understand the weight of it. The forever of it.”

“I do,” Taehyung whispers.

Jimin, softly: “Then tell him.”

Taehyung nods, voice almost breaking. “I want to. I really do.”

Hoseok reaches over and pokes his cheek. “Then do it. But don’t make it a grand gesture. Make it something small. Something that says, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Like what?”

“Like coming over,” Jimin says, “after Aera’s asleep. Bringing dinner. Fixing the loose hinge on his gate. Staying late just to sit next to him on the couch.”

Namjoon adds, “And if he leans in, even a little, let him.”

Taehyung presses his lips together, heart full and aching.

Jimin smiles gently. “Almost, right?”

Taehyung nods.

“Then give him a reason to make it ‘now.’”

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

It starts quietly, almost deceptively so.

Jungkook opens the door to find Taehyung standing there with his usual stupidly casual perfection: hoodie half-zipped over a threadbare white tee, black joggers hugging his legs, curls damp like he’s just showered, or maybe the heat got to him. Either way, he looks like trouble.

Jungkook leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re early.”

Taehyung shrugs, the barest grin tugging at his lips. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You thought about it.”

“I didn’t.”

Taehyung steps in anyway, brushing past him with the easy confidence of someone who knows he’s always wanted. His shoulder grazes Jungkook’s as he passes, deliberate, lingering.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Inside, the house is dim and warm, and the kind of quiet that feels deliberate.

Taehyung watches from the hallway, leaning against the wall, one brow arched. “Did you put on background jazz just for me?”

Jungkook doesn’t turn. “This is my Thursday night playlist.”

Taehyung smirks, sauntering in. “You have playlists for nights?”

“I like order.”

Taehyung hums, already grinning. “And yet you keep inviting me into your house. Wild.”

“Maybe I like a little chaos.”

“Careful,” Taehyung murmurs. “That almost sounded like flirting.”

Jungkook meets his gaze, level, unreadable. “What if it was?”

And just like that, the vibe shifts like the first tug of tide, subtle but unmistakable.

“I keep thinking,” Jungkook says after a pause, “you’re going to get tired of this. Of showing up.”

Taehyung scoffs. “You think I show up for just anyone?”

“You flirt like it’s a hobby.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, voice lower now. “But I only stay for you.”

That makes Jungkook still. His breath catches, just barely.

And Taehyung’s voice softens even more. “You know that, right?”

Jungkook nods once. “I do.”

“Good. Where’s the tiny tyrant, though?” Taehyung asks, roaming around, voice casual.

Jungkook shakes his head with amusement. “Jin hyung begged for a sleepover. Said it was his turn.”

“Wow,” Taehyung murmurs, mock-impressed. “Alone on a Thursday night. What ever shall we do?”

Jungkook arches a brow. “You want options?”

Taehyung smirks. “Surprise me.”

He doesn’t expect Jungkook to walk straight past him into the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, muscles flexing. The clink of glasses follows, the hiss of something carbonated.

“I made those yuzu drinks you like,” Jungkook says over his shoulder, like it’s no big deal.

It is.

Taehyung leans on the counter beside him, eyes dragging over Jungkook’s profile; the jawline, the curve of his mouth, the way a strand of hair curls near his temple.

“Careful,” he says, voice low. “You keep this up, I might fall for you.”

Jungkook doesn’t blink. “Might?”

Their gaze collides.

It’s a split-second beat, a flicker of breath between them, and something shifts.

Taehyung exhales, eyes gleaming. “You’re getting cocky.”

“You like it.”

“I like a lot of things.”

They return to the living room, drinks in hand, but neither sits properly. They linger, first beside the couch, then on the edge of it. Their knees brush when they sit. Then thighs.

And they don’t move.

Taehyung tips his glass toward Jungkook’s. “To silence.”

Jungkook clinks theirs together. “You’re never silent.”

“I could be,” Taehyung says, leaning a little closer, “if you’d just kiss me already.”

Jungkook chokes on his drink.

Taehyung laughs, unabashed. “Relax. I’m joking.”

“Are you?”

Taehyung’s eyes glitter with mischief. “What if I’m not?”

Jungkook sets his glass down, slow and deliberate, fingers slightly trembling. “Then maybe,” he says carefully, “you should stop flirting with me like it doesn’t mean something.”

Taehyung’s smile falters, not in defeat, but in gravity.

“It’s always meant something,” he says quietly. “I’ve just been waiting for you to be ready.”

Jungkook looks at him then, really looks.

At the softness around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the slight quiver in his breath, like even now he’s bracing for retreat. But Jungkook doesn’t move away.

He moves closer, and closer.

Until Taehyung’s back hits the arm of the couch and Jungkook’s practically in his space, one hand braced beside him, the other still hanging loose, but close enough to touch if he lets himself.

“You talk too much,” Jungkook murmurs.

“You like it,” Taehyung whispers back.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, eyes flicking to Taehyung’s lips. “You’re not gonna make it easy, are you?”

Taehyung smirks, breath hitching. “Where’s the fun in that?”

And that’s the last thing either of them says before Jungkook closes the space between them and finally, finally kisses him.

It’s neither soft nor tentative.

It’s the kind of kiss that comes after weeks of simmering tension and unsaid things, months of brushed fingers and stolen glances. 

Jungkook fists his hand in Taehyung’s hoodie, dragging him closer until their chests are flush. Taehyung’s hands find their way under the hem of Jungkook’s shirt, dragging along his waist like he’s been dying to.

Their teeth clash once. They both laugh, then kiss again.

Taehyung groans when Jungkook sucks at his bottom lip, hands slipping beneath the fabric at the small of his back.

“You taste like yuzu,” Jungkook mutters against his mouth.

“You taste like trouble,” Taehyung replies, fingers trailing down his spine.

Jungkook’s laugh is wrecked. “Says the man who showed up looking like sin.”

Taehyung grins. “I wore this for your imagination.”

“You think I haven’t imagined this?”

Jungkook tugs him fully into his lap. They’re breathing hard now. Taehyung straddles him, lips dragging down his neck.

Jungkook grips his hips, eyes fluttering shut.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” Jungkook murmurs, voice low, almost hoarse.

Taehyung’s hoodie is half off his shoulders, pushed down by the slow, deliberate drag of Jungkook’s hands.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp in the corner, painting long shadows across the walls. Outside, the world is silent. The sort of quiet that makes everything feel more intimate. 

Taehyung’s breath hitches as Jungkook presses him back into the couch cushions, one hand curled around his waist, the other sliding along his jaw, thumb brushing over his lips like a question he’s finally ready to ask.

Taehyung’s eyes don’t leave his. “But you do.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.

Instead, he cups the back of his neck and draws him in again, foreheads brushing, breath mingling.

Taehyung inches closer, his chest rising and falling fast, curls falling into his eyes.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice wrecked. “For so long.”

Jungkook doesn’t speak. Instead, he leans in and captures Taehyung’s mouth in a kiss that’s far from tentative. It’s not like the ones before; this one is messier, needier. Less about teasing, more about claiming.

Taehyung opens to him instantly, a soft groan escaping into the kiss as Jungkook shifts, his thigh slotting between Taehyung’s legs, pinning him just enough to make him gasp.

It’s dizzying, the way Jungkook kisses, thoroughly, intentionally. Like he’s memorising the shape of Taehyung’s mouth, the tilt of his head, the exact sound he makes when Jungkook bites gently at his bottom lip.

And Taehyung lets him, rather melts into him. Matches every kiss, every press, every brush of lips with something slower, deeper.

“You’re dangerous,” Jungkook whispers against Taehyung’s jaw, voice low and wrecked.

Taehyung’s laugh is breathless. “You’ve survived this long.”

Jungkook noses along his cheek, lips grazing the edge of his ear. “Barely.”

Taehyung’s hand trails up his chest, over his collarbone, resting at the base of his throat where his pulse thrums wildly. “You always this dramatic?”

Jungkook catches his hand, laces their fingers together, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Only with you.”

That does something to Taehyung, because his grip tightens just a little, eyes flicking down to Jungkook’s mouth again, greedy and soft all at once. His legs shift, fitting around Jungkook’s hips with slow, unspoken intention, and Jungkook draws in a sharp breath.

He swallows hard. “Tae…”

“Yeah?”

“If we— if I don’t stop, I’m not going to stop.”

Taehyung looks up at him, lashes low, lips parted. “Then don’t.”

Jungkook stares.

Like he’s trying to memorise him right there— hair mussed, cheeks flushed, a question lingering behind the curve of his mouth.

“Are you sure?” Jungkook asks, his voice rough, words barely above a whisper.

Taehyung’s response is slow, deliberate. He leans in, nose brushing Jungkook’s, then lower, mouth grazing his jawline, trailing down to the hollow of his throat.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

That breaks something open.

Jungkook kisses him again, harder this time, and Taehyung responds with equal fervour, fingers gripping at the hem of Jungkook’s shirt, pulling it up, palms splayed against his stomach, sliding upward as if he’s been dreaming of this skin for weeks.

The shirt comes off, tossed somewhere behind them. Jungkook tugs at Taehyung’s hoodie next, his hands slipping under the fabric, feeling the heat of bare skin beneath, the rise and fall of Taehyung’s chest under his palms. Every inch is deliberate, a slow unravelling.

Taehyung’s hoodie joins the pile, followed by his t-shirt.

He shivers when Jungkook’s hands slide over his ribs, thumbs brushing the space just beneath his pecs. His head falls back slightly, and Jungkook leans forward to kiss the line of his throat, tongue warm and slow.

The room spins.

Jungkook pulls back just long enough to look at him, really look at him. Taehyung, with his swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and eyes like liquid amber.

“You’re unreal,” Jungkook says, almost to himself.

Taehyung’s lips twitch. “Takes one to know one.”

Their mouths find each other again. It’s all heat now, deep, breathless, Taehyung moaning softly when Jungkook’s thigh presses up between his legs.

His hips grind down instinctively, dragging a groan from Jungkook’s throat. The rhythm is slow and torturous. Friction that barely scratches the ache building in both of them.

“Fuck,” Jungkook whispers, forehead pressed against Taehyung’s. “Tae.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung breathes, pulling him closer. “More.”

Their kisses get sloppier and hungrier. Hands wander without hesitation. Jungkook bites softly at the underside of Taehyung’s jaw, and Taehyung gasps, back arching.

Jungkook groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Taehyung smirks, breathless. “Then die like a man.”

Laughter bubbles up between them— light and breathy, tangled in the haze of desire, and it doesn’t kill the heat. It only adds to it.

They move to the couch fully now, limbs intertwined, Taehyung beneath him, head tipped back as Jungkook kisses a path down his chest, reverent and aching. Every touch is worship. Every breath between them is fire.

They don’t rush it, even when they’re grinding slow against each other, foreheads touching, hands gripping, mouths never straying far for too long— they let it build.

Let it burn.

And when they come, shuddering, gasping, skin damp and hearts pounding, it’s not just release.

It’s a relief. It’s reality.

It’s a thousand almosts crashing into a single, breathless yes.

Later, wrapped in a blanket, their bare chests still warm from the heat, Jungkook draws lazy patterns along Taehyung’s spine.

Taehyung sighs into his neck. “You okay?”

Jungkook nods, voice hoarse. “You?”

Taehyung smiles. “Better than okay.”

Silence settles, but it’s a good kind. The kind where no one needs to fill the space.

“You know,” Taehyung murmurs, lips brushing Jungkook’s collarbone, “Aera’s gonna know something’s amiss the second she walks in.”

Jungkook groans. “God, you’re right.”

“She’s like 30 inches but has a solid sixth sense.”

“I’ll bribe her with chocolate.”

“Solid plan.”

They laugh again, soft and sleepy. Taehyung burrows closer, and Jungkook lets him.

Outside, the night hums. Inside, for the first time in weeks, Jungkook’s world is finally quiet.

And full.

And exactly where he wants to be.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

Taehyung wakes to the scent of Jungkook.

It’s warm and familiar. Clean cotton, faint citrus, and something deeper that he hasn’t yet put a name to, but already knows he’ll be chasing for a long, long time.

Sunlight slips in through the slats of the blinds, catching on the dust in the air, painting lazy golden stripes across the sheets. Jungkook’s arm is slung around his waist, heavy and sure, his bare chest warm against Taehyung’s back.

Taehyung doesn’t move at first; he simply lies there, blinking at the soft light bleeding through the room, and lets it sink in.

This happened. Last night happened.

And instead of panic, all he feels is this strange, expanding quiet inside his chest, something soft and aching and full.

Jungkook murmurs something against his shoulder, voice rough with sleep.

“You’re staring.”

Taehyung huffs, not bothering to deny it. “You’re more ethereal when you’re unconscious.”

Jungkook’s hand flexes sleepily against his stomach. “I’m that all the time. But go off.”

Taehyung laughs. “Cocky first thing in the morning. How charming.”

“I’m not cocky. I’m glowing,” Jungkook mutters, face still half-buried in the pillow. “I’m post-sex radiant.”

“You’re literally drooling on the sheet.”

“That’s called dewy, thank you.”

Taehyung turns then, shifting to lie on his side, eyes crinkled as he watches Jungkook slowly blink into wakefulness. His hair’s an absolute disaster, sticking out in every direction, and there’s a faint red mark on his collarbone from Taehyung’s teeth.

God, he looks good.

“Hi,” Taehyung says softly.

Jungkook’s mouth curves into the ghost of a smile. “Hi.”

And just like that, something shifts again. Less teasing, more real. The quiet between them turns warm, and neither of them fills it with noise.

Taehyung reaches out, fingers brushing over Jungkook’s jaw, trailing down to his collarbone, slow and deliberate. “You good?”

Jungkook nods, dark eyes searching his. “Yeah. Are you?”

“I’m perfect.”

Jungkook leans in before he can stop himself, brushing his lips gently against Taehyung’s. Once, twice— soft, easy, like they’ve been doing this forever.

“You’re dangerous,” he mumbles.

Taehyung grins. “So you keep saying.”

“And yet I keep letting you in.”

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

“I think I’m biologically incapable of complaining when you’re touching me,” Jungkook says, eyes fluttering shut when Taehyung drags his thumb along his cheekbone. “Especially like that.”

“You’re really bad at playing hard to get.”

Jungkook scoffs, flipping onto his back. “I’m not playing anything.”

Taehyung props himself up on one elbow, watching him. “No?”

“I just lost the will to pretend I don’t want to kiss you every time you speak.”

That earns him a slow, satisfied smirk. “Finally.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re completely gone for me,” Taehyung sings.

Jungkook throws a pillow at him, which Taehyung catches mid-air with one hand like he’s rehearsed it.

They dissolve into laughter again, messy and unfiltered, and it feels good, like they’ve cracked something open. Like it’s okay now to let things breathe.

Eventually, the sound fades into quiet hums. Taehyung drops the pillow and rests his head back on Jungkook’s chest, fingers idly tracing invisible patterns along his ribs.

“We should get up,” Jungkook says, not moving.

“Mmm,” Taehyung murmurs. “Too far.”

“Kitchen’s literally ten feet away.”

“I might die on the way.”

Jungkook lets his hand wander up Taehyung’s back, slow and easy. “Then I’ll carry you.”

Taehyung lifts his head, mock-suspicious. “Will you cook shirtless?”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Will you stop drooling on me if I do?”

“No promises.”

Still, when Jungkook finally peels himself out of bed, he does head to the kitchen in nothing but his boxers, hair still wild, sleepy pout still intact. Taehyung watches him go with zero shame and about five dirty thoughts he’ll be keeping to himself. For now.

The smell of pancake batter fills the apartment within minutes, and Taehyung pads in, stealing one of Jungkook’s shirts on the way. It’s oversized on him, hanging off one shoulder, and Jungkook stops mid-flip at the sight.

“That’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” Taehyung says smugly, hopping up onto the counter.

Jungkook stares. “You’re going to fall.”

“You’re going to feed me first.”

Jungkook tosses a pancake onto a plate and walks it over, holding it up. “Bite.”

Taehyung bites the edge of the pancake, deliberately slow, eyes locked on Jungkook’s the whole time.

Jungkook’s gaze drops to his mouth and lingers. “You’re evil.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re something.”

They eat in the kitchen, barefoot, laughing between bites, syrup smeared on fingers and stolen kisses between sips of coffee. It’s easy. It’s so easy that it makes Jungkook feel almost reckless, because he knows what this means now. He knows what he wants. He’s just not sure how to say it.

After breakfast, they collapse onto the couch, bodies tangled, Taehyung’s head in Jungkook’s lap as he scrolls lazily through his phone. Jungkook’s fingers thread through his hair, slow and gentle.

“What if Jin hyung comes in too? He’ll know,” Taehyung says suddenly.

Jungkook blinks. “Huh?”

“To drop Aera.”

“I’ll play dumb.”

“He’s smarter than you.”

Jungkook sighs. “God, I know.”

“Just saying, be ready.”

As if summoned by prophecy, the front door clicks open five minutes later.

“Appa?” Aera’s voice echoes down the hall.

Taehyung immediately bolts upright. Jungkook stares at the door like it personally betrayed him.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Taehyung whispers.

“We look extremely like we did something wrong,” Jungkook hisses back.

Aera appears, fortunately or unfortunately, without Jin coming inside.

With a juice box in hand, her eyebrows narrow like a tiny detective. She looks at Jungkook, then at Taehyung, then back again.

“Why yo both wed?”

“Pancakes,” Jungkook says immediately. “They were hot.”

Taehyung coughs to cover a laugh.

Aera walks up to them, eyes sharp. “Taetae was here yester nite, huh?”

Jungkook swallows. “How—?”

“Yo sayed… pancakes if he stay.”

Jungkook blinks. “That is… terrifyingly accurate memory.”

Aera sighs dramatically and climbs into Taehyung’s lap as she owns him. “You weally obvi-ous, Appa.”

Taehyung grins, kissing the top of her head. “You really are.”

Jungkook buries his face in his hands.

There’s no hiding anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s a good thing.

 

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

 

It’s mid-August, and Busan is still holding its breath in the last wave of warmth. The sky’s a deep pastel blue, humming cicadas in the distance, and the air feels like syrup, slow, warm, a little too thick. It’s the kind of weather that clings to your skin, makes your shirt stick to your back, makes everything seem a little too close.

Jungkook is in the kitchen trying to remember the ratio of soy sauce to sesame oil in his mother’s secret marinade. There’s flour on his cheek, a smear of sauce on the hem of his t-shirt, and a tiny post-it note on the fridge that reads “DO NOT BURN THE BANCHAN.”

He sighs and presses a hand to his forehead.

“This is fine,’ he mutters. “Totally under control.”

Which is, of course, the exact moment the doorbell rings.

Before he can reach it, Aera shoots past him like a glitter-powered cannonball. “I GET IT!”

“No running inside—!” Jungkook starts, but it’s too late; she’s already yanked open the door.

And there he is.

Taehyung, standing under the warm halo of the porch light, wearing a loose cream shirt tucked into wide-leg jeans, a small tote bag slung over one shoulder. His hair’s pushed back messily from his forehead, damp at the temples. There’s a single wild curl falling over his brow, and something stupidly charming about how he seems both nervous and smug at once.

“Hi,” he says, that low velvet voice laced with a smile.

Jungkook forgets what marinades even are.

Aera throws her arms around Taehyung’s waist immediately. “You came!”

“Course I did,” Taehyung grins, ruffling her hair. “Flower princess summoned me.”

From the kitchen, Seokjin calls out, “Don’t let him in until we’ve checked the presents!”

Yoongi’s voice floats in from the living room. “Aera said he brought glitter last time. That’s more than what you ever brought to this family.”

Taehyung laughs as Jungkook reaches the door, dragging him inside by the wrist. “Ignore them. They’ve been like this all afternoon.”

But Jungkook’s fingers linger a beat too long. Taehyung raises a brow.

“Don’t wanna let go?”

“Shut up,” Jungkook mumbles, ears already turning pink.

Taehyung just smirks, clearly pleased.

Inside, chaos reigns.

Aera is in the centre of the living room, surrounded by what looks like the aftermath of a glitter bomb. There are crayons, markers, cut-up construction paper, and glue sticks everywhere. In the middle of it all lies a slightly crooked, extremely sparkly card with two stick figures drawn in excessive detail.

One has a crown. The other has… an apron.

Namjoon leans over the table. “So this one’s Taehyung?”

Aera nods, glowing with pride.

“And that’s your Appa?” he asks, squinting at the apron.

“Obvi…usly,” Aera says.

Yoongi peers over his iced tea. “Why does Taehyung have a scepter and Jungkook’s holding a frying pan?”

“He da flower pwince,” Aera explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “An’ Appa da food king.”

“King?” Jungkook mutters, slightly appeased.

“Of cooking,” Yoongi says.

Taehyung leans in close, whispering in Jungkook’s ear, “I mean, I’d happily be the flower prince if it means you cook for me like that every day.”

Jungkook’s hand twitches. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Saying things like that.”

“Why?” Taehyung smiles slowly. “You always look so cute when you’re flustered.”

Before Jungkook can throw a spoon at him, Seokjin interjects with a dramatic gasp. “Oh my God— Joon! He’s courting him through food!”

“Don’t—”

“It’s happening,” Seokjin continues with a dreamy sigh. “We’re getting a wedding.”

Jungkook scowls. “We’re not—"

“Wait, is that tonight?” Seokjin gasps again, like he’s stumbled onto a national secret. “IS THAT WHY HE'S HERE?”

Jungkook sputters. “Hyung—!”

But it’s too late. Aera, who’s been clutching the glitter card like it’s a royal decree, lets out a delighted shriek and bolts from the room.

“APPA!” she yells at the top of her lungs. “Now you hafta mawwy him!”

Jungkook freezes. Taehyung almost drops his tote bag.

A beat later, Aera comes barreling back into the room with Jungkook’s parents following her, clearly amused. Jungkook’s mom gives a knowing smile. His dad looks suspiciously like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Darling,” his mom says sweetly, “is there something you wanted to tell us?”

Jungkook pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. There is nothing happening. Taehyung is just here for dinner—”

Aera stomps her foot. “But yo lobbe him!”

Jungkook groans. “This is your fault,” he hisses at Taehyung, who’s busy trying to stifle a snort.

“Me?” Taehyung whispers back. “You’re the one blushing so hard your ears are steaming.”

“You’re the one with the crown!”

“And you’re the one wearing the apron in the drawing, Mr Kitchen King.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Taehyung grins, “here I am. Still invited to dinner. About to be initiated into the Jeon family secrets.”

“Regret. All-consuming regret.”

Jungkook’s mom waves them all toward the table, clearly choosing to pretend this isn’t a full-blown sitcom. “Come, sit. The japchae is getting cold.”

They all shuffle toward the dining area, Seokjin muttering to Namjoon something about floral-themed wedding invites, Yoongi smirking like he’s watching a live drama, and Aera skipping in front of Taehyung like a flower girl on a mission.

And as they all take their seats, as Jungkook watches Taehyung laugh at one of his dad’s puns and accepts a second helping of kimchi from his mom, something slow and warm unfurls in his chest.

Because even through the teasing and glitter and absolutely mortifying chaos... Taehyung fits here.

He looks across the table, and Taehyung catches him staring. His expression softens, the corners of his mouth curling up into something gentler.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too, because, really, there’s no fighting it anymore. He’s already so far gone.

And just then, Aera, who had clearly waited long enough and inherited all of Jungkook’s worst traits, stamps her foot and announces, loud enough to make the walls shake, “We eat food!! Appa, ask him NOW!!”

Jungkook startles mid-chew. A grain of rice goes down the wrong way.

“Wh— Aera—”

Jungkook’s mother presses a hand to her chest, eyes practically glistening.

“Oh, my darling boy,” she coos, turning toward him like he’s just won the national medal for finally getting his act together.

Their father sets his chopsticks down with precision, folding his arms over his chest.

“Well?” he says with a single brow raised, like he’s waiting for Jungkook to pass some ancient test of masculinity.

Taehyung, completely oblivious, blinks between them with a confused smile, chewing the last bite of kimchi pancake like a blissfully unaware guest at someone else’s drama.

Jungkook sighs, long and dramatic. He even throws his head back like a martyr.

“I was getting to that,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face.

The room immediately erupts.

Seokjin gasps, clutching Namjoon’s hand, like he’s just witnessed divine intervention. Yoongi actually sits up straighter. Aera squeals and starts hopping in place, flinging sequins again (where does she keep those?!).

But Jungkook’s eyes are already on Taehyung... who has completely frozen.

“Wait,” Taehyung says, setting his chopsticks down slowly, brows furrowing. “Wait— what do you mean you were getting to that?”

Jungkook stands, pushing his chair back with a quiet scrape, and turns to face him fully.

It’s subtle at first, but something shifts.

The noise fades. The room, full of family, warmth, chaos, and love, melts into the background. There’s only the soft flicker of warm yellow lights, the fading scent of garlic and sesame, the creak of wood beneath their feet…and them.

Only them.

Taehyung’s breath catches, his heart starts a slow, steady hammering in his chest.

Jungkook’s voice, when it comes, is quiet. “You know how I like my plans.”

Taehyung gives a breathless huff of a smile. “Meticulously scheduled. Unreasonably detailed. You’re basically Google Calendar with legs.”

Jungkook snorts.

“I had a plan for this too,” he says, taking a step closer. “It was supposed to be at the beach.”

Taehyung blinks. “The beach?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sunset. Just us. Something cinematic.”

“And instead…”

“Instead,” he gestures around, at the chaos, the confetti, his mother already tearing up in the corner, Yoongi nursing a drink like this is a drama premiere.

“I’m here. In my living room. Covered in flour. Trapped in a glitter prison.”

Taehyung’s laugh is soft, almost disbelieving.

“And forced into it by a thirty-inches-tall dictator,” Jungkook finishes, glancing fondly at Aera, who is standing in the corner, vibrating with joy.

Taehyung’s heart could combust.

Jungkook exhales, looking up at him with something almost shy in his gaze. “But… even with all that… I think it’d feel the same.”

Taehyung tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because,” Jungkook says softly, “it’s you.”

Taehyung doesn’t speak, can’t speak. There’s something in his throat, thick and sweet and overwhelming.

And then, Jungkook slowly drops to one knee.

Aera shrieks.

Seokjin screams and smacks Yoongi in the arm. Namjoon mutters something about emotional damage. Jungkook’s mom dabs at her eyes with a napkin. His dad grunts in approval.

Taehyung can’t move.

Jungkook pulls a small velvet box from his pocket, flipping it open with a quiet, nervous snap.

“Kim Taehyung,” he says, voice steady now, and sure. “Will you marry me?”

Taehyung stares down at him. At the way his hair’s falling slightly into his eyes, at the flour smudge still dusted on his cheek, at the way his fingers are curled around the ring box, steady and honest.

Real.

He doesn’t even realise he’s moving until he’s pulling Jungkook up by the front of his shirt and kissing him.

And Jungkook kisses him back like he means it. Like it’s a promise. Like it’s every almost that never got to be. Every soft glance, every lingering touch, every late-night ache wrapped into one.

The living room explodes into cheers.

Aera throws the entire glitter container into the air. Seokjin sobs into Namjoon’s shirt. Yoongi smiles his gummy smile. Jungkook’s mother claps like it’s her wedding. Their father mutters something about “finally” under his breath and raises a glass.

Jungkook and Taehyung eventually break apart, breathless and dazed.

“Was that a yes?” Jungkook asks, eyes crinkling.

Taehyung leans their foreheads together, cheeks flushed. “It’s the yes, Jungkook.”

Jungkook grins. “You’re not even gonna pretend to hesitate?”

Taehyung smirks. “What, and let you spiral again? Nah.”

Jungkook groans. “You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

They turn just in time to see Aera climbing onto the coffee table with dangerous intent.

“Hey! No—!” Jungkook calls.

She throws more glitter.

Too late.

Seokjin shrieks. “MY RAMEN-COLOURED COUCH!”

Yoongi ducks behind a pillow. “I’m never babysitting again.”

Taehyung grins, not even a little sorry, and wraps an arm around Jungkook’s waist.

“So,” he murmurs, voice soft now, low in Jungkook’s ear. “We’re really doing this?”

Jungkook nods, squeezing his hand. “Yeah.”

Taehyung leans into him, their sides pressed together, heart full to the brim.

Jungkook’s mother calls out from the hallway, cheerful and commanding, “Now that you’re getting married, we’ll need to teach you the family kimchi recipe!”

Jungkook sighs. “Brace yourself.”

Taehyung blinks. “How long does it take?”

Yoongi answers from the couch. “Seven hours and the slow erosion of your soul.”

“Perfect,” Taehyung deadpans. “That sounds like marriage prep.”

“Hey,” Jungkook says, nudging him. “It also comes with unlimited homemade food, naps on my couch, and me in nothing but an apron.”

Taehyung chokes. “Okay, sold.”

They both laugh, curling into each other amid the wild, joyful chaos. Glitter sticks to their hair. Confetti crunches underfoot. Someone accidentally breaks a plate.

It’s loud and unfiltered.

And still, for Jungkook, perfect.

Because Taehyung is his home now, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Notes:

thank you so much for reading! your time means the world. if you’ve got thoughts, feelings, or even chaotic keysmashes, i’d love to see them; kudos and comments always make my day!