Your pov
I had been awake for what felt like an eternity, yet I lacked the courage to open my eyes. Why was that? Because I found myself nestled in his arms, completely enveloped by his warmth.
He held me tightly, his strong hands resting possessively around my waist while I lay sprawled across him. How I ended up in this strangely intimate position was beyond me, and it caught me off guard. But the way he embraced me felt different—not the casual hold of a friend, but something deeper, more intense. I recognized him instantly; he was my bad boy, the one who had hurt me in ways I never imagined he could. It was a wound I thought I would never recover from. Yet, despite the pain, I couldn't find it in myself to hate him. Instead, he remained inexplicably precious to me. How foolish could I be to allow this?
In a moment of resolution, I slowly opened my eyes, taking a deep breath as I searched for his face, which was hidden in the crook of my neck. An overwhelming rush of emotions washed over me, and I was at a loss for how to react. Did I dare to bring up the events of a few hours ago, the situation with his other version? No. The very idea made my stomach churn with shame. I felt so weak in his arms, and I dreaded the thought that, if I confessed, he might despise me. The mere possibility tightened my chest and left me breathless.
He held me tenderly, and it felt as if I were cherished, needed. All I wanted was to remain in that cocoon of comfort a little longer. But the weight of my unspoken worries pulled me back to reality, and I gradually peeled myself away, avoiding his gaze. Sitting up, I crossed my legs beneath me and focused on the intricate patterns my fingers made, fidgeting in a moment of nervousness.
After our last encounter, I couldn't bear to meet his eyes. My feelings for him had not changed; I didn't harbor any hatred or grudges. Perhaps he had acted out of desperation or fear, and I wanted to give him the chance to talk, to explain his side of things. Still, the hurt lingered like a shadow, impossible to shake.
"I am so sorry for coming like this uninvited," he said, his voice trailing off, filled with a mix of regret and uncertainty. I cast a quick glance in his direction, biting my bottom lip as I took in his expression—a complex tapestry of pain and guilt—as he sat up and dragged his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them defensively. Why was he apologizing? I was the one who had invited him into my space in the first place. It felt absurd. The truth was, I welcomed him here; it was far better than letting him wander the cold streets alone. The thought of him out there, unprotected, gnawed at me, and I would have been worried sick.
My gaze slowly drifted from his troubled face to the white shirt and sweatpants that clung to him, evidence of the chill that had seeped into our surroundings. The fabric clung to his skin, illuminating the contrast between his warmth and the biting cold of the night air, which hovered perilously around 10°C. November nights were often unforgiving, shrouded in a crisp darkness that seemed to seep into every crevice.
As I weighed the situation, my resolve solidified. I climbed down from the plush comfort of the bed, my body still heavy with the remnants of sleep, and made my way toward the nightstand. There, I reached for the bag I had meticulously prepared earlier in the day. With a sense of urgency pulsing in my chest, I placed the bag into Jungkook's waiting arms, my heart racing as I considered the implications of my actions.
Earlier that very morning, while he lay blissfully asleep, I had ventured out into the bustling streets to gather a few essentials for him. I returned with two pairs of jeans that I hoped could fit his lean frame, a soft blue T-shirt that promised comfort, and a cozy black sweater that could shield him from the chill. Additionally, I had included warm socks, two jackets—one a stylish bomber and the other more utilitarian—and even some fresh underwear. The task had been a mix of exhilarating secrecy and painfully embarrassing; particularly, the encounter with the elderly saleswoman in the store. Her keen eye seemed to scrutinize my every choice, and our conversation felt drawn out as she peppered me with questions and comments, her tone hinting at disbelief that a woman could be purchasing men's underwear. It was as if she had never witnessed such a thing in her years.
Now, as I stood before him, a knot of anxiety twisted in my stomach as I hoped against hope that I had accurately gauged his size. The countless moments I spent mentally preparing for this encounter raced through my mind, and I wished fervently that my efforts would not be in vain.
As I was thinking that, I wasn't aware of the fact that my gaze landed down his private part and that deep in thought I was staring more than I should have.
"I... I can't accept this," Jungkook murmured, his voice barely breaking the stillness that had enveloped us. His words hung in the air like a whisper, filled with a palpable hesitation. When I finally turned my gaze upwards to meet his eyes, I noticed that his cheeks and ears had taken on a rosy hue, a shade of pink that betrayed a mix of embarrassment and something deeper.
"Why?" I asked, blinking in confusion as I tried to gauge his reaction. "Isn't this what you needed? Do you not like it? If it's not right, just say so, and I can go swap it out for something else."
He shook his head vehemently, shoving the bag away from him as if it were something toxic.
"I... I do not have any money to give you," he replied, a hint of desperation lacing his words.
At that moment, my heart ached for him, a sorrowful cry echoing inside me.
"No... You don't have to—"
"I can't. I have nothing to offer you in exchange," he interrupted, a tremor lacing his voice. He ran a hand through his hair, visibly agitated. "Even the clothes I wear aren't mine. Doctor Mingyu was the one who always bought them for me. I can't fathom why, though. I'm nothing to him," he confessed, his tone shifting to a low murmur. As he spoke, I could see the weight of exhaustion settling across his features, as if the very act of voicing his thoughts drained him further.
"Jungkook, please, these are from me. I don't want your money or anything else in return," I insisted, trying to bridge the chasm between us.
"I don't want your pity." His eyes betrayed a deep sadness as they bore into mine, the intensity making my chest tighten. "I wouldn't be able to bear that. Please don't look at me with pity after what that doctor told you about me being abused by my..." His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, collecting himself before continuing, "... because it's all a lie. I don't want to be a burden to anyone." With that, he abruptly rose from the bed, an act filled with urgency.
"I just want to help you," I urged, frustration mingling with my concern. "Sometimes, you have to allow people to help you. It's not about pity; it's not about feeling sorry for you. It's about caring."
"Is it because of him?" he shot back, and my lips parted, taken aback by his sudden question. For a moment, silence enveloped us, our eyes locked in a tense stare, and I felt my words falter, trapped in my throat. The unspoken tension between us was palpable, leaving everything else in the room forgotten.
"What happened between you and... him last night? "
"Nothing." I lied.
Jungkook raised an eyebrow at that.
"If you fucked him just like the rest of those sluts did, I will start hating you, Y/N." He bit his lip as his eyes held mine.
"No. Nothing happened, I promise."
"Please, I beg you, don't let me down. You have to understand that his body is my body too; it's a part of me, and I can't just detach from that. I'm feeling overwhelmed; I don't... I can't bear the thought of being in this situation. It makes me feel like I'm losing my mind. And I genuinely regret the hurt I've caused you. I didn't intend for any of this to happen. Back then, all I could think about was escaping from everyone and everything around me."
"I'm really sorry about the kiss. I'm still trying to figure out why I acted that way. Maybe I was terrified that you would react strongly, screaming or something that would only make everything worse. I promise I won't trouble you with my chaotic thoughts any longer. I'll leave now, quietly. Once again, I can't emphasize enough how sorry I am. I feel so utterly ashamed
***
"And where will you go, Jungkook?" you found yourself asking, your voice tinged with concern and desperation.
He turned his gaze away from you, a melancholic expression settling on his features. "Where? You don't have a home. You don't have anyone to rely on," you continued, your words tumbling out in a rush. "Outside is freezing. Just look at what you're wearing—it's barely enough to keep you warm. And you have no money for food or even a decent meal."
Jungkook slowly turned his face back to you, and a sad smile crept onto his lips, though it never quite reached his eyes. His gentle gaze held a depth of sorrow that made your heart ache. "Maybe it's something I deserve," he replied softly, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. "I wouldn't mind if I just… disappeared. Honestly, I think I might even feel relieved."
Your stomach churned at his admission, an uncomfortable twist knotting within you. Tears began to well up in your eyes, streaming down your cheeks as frustration mingled with grief. It wasn't fair, you thought bitterly to yourself. Jungkook had found himself in such a bleak situation not because of any fault of his own, but due to the cruel twist of fate that landed him in a family torn apart by hardship and the abusive hand of a father who felt more like a monster than a parent. If he could even be called a father at all, it made you shudder to think.
Why did he have to suffer? Why being pushed away and locked up by society? Even if he would have killed the whole city, he was just a 14-year-old boy drugged with force by someone else then abused and beaten.
You had always desired to help others, but more importantly, you yearned for your own independence. Living with your parents was no longer an option you wanted to pursue. So, you took the leap and accepted a job, eager to carve out a life of your own. The thought of freedom from the confines of your childhood home excited you, as it had been a long-held dream to escape the clutches of your parents' turbulent relationship.
Though your parents were still together, their home felt anything but harmonious. Arguments frequently erupted, and you often found yourself caught in the crossfire, trying your hardest to mediate the tension that seemed to saturate every room. You would intervene with soothing words or attempts at humor, but as the arguments escalated, your ability to placate them diminished. Eventually, it became too much to bear, and you knew it was time to make a change.
Moving into your tiny apartment was like taking a deep, cleansing breath after being underwater for too long. The moment you closed the door behind you, a weight lifted from your shoulders. The space was modest—a small kitchen with just enough room for a couple of pots and pans, a cozy living area where a secondhand couch and your beloved books on a rickety shelf formed your sanctuary, and a bedroom that promised peace and solitude. It was here that you could finally breathe freely, away from the chaos of your parents' home.
Sometimes, your mother would drop by, bringing ingredients to whip up a comforting meal. The aroma of her cooking would fill the tiny apartment, momentarily replacing the bittersweet taste of your newfound independence with warmth. She might spend the night, reminiscing about old times, though you could sense her hesitance, knowing her presence often reminded you of the discord back home.
On the other hand, your father would occasionally call to check in, his voice a mixture of concern and love. "Are you eating well? Do you need anything?" he'd ask, his words genuine but tinged with the stress of the life he was leading. Both your parents were good people at heart, but you couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps they would each thrive better on their own. Divorce might be the remedy that could release them—and you—from the burdens of their unhappy union.
Through it all, you felt a strange blend of responsibility and relief, grateful for your solitude yet still tethered by your desire to see your parents genuinely happy, even if that meant apart.
"You will stay here with me. I won't let you leave," you declared firmly, your voice echoing with an intensity that echoed the determination in your heart. Before he could react, you seized his arm, pulling him toward your bed with a sudden urgency. You urged him to sit down, your fingers gripping his shoulders tightly as if you were trying to anchor him to you, desperate to prevent him from slipping away.
He blinked at you, startled from the surprise of your actions, and let out a short, incredulous laugh, the sound a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "You are such a stubborn girl after all. Do you want to die that badly?" Jungkook's words were laced with concern, his brow furrowing as he bit his lip, troubled and ashamed. He found it difficult to meet your gaze, as if looking into your eyes would reveal too much.
"I am bad. I could hurt you more than I already did," Jungkook admitted, his voice low and heavy with the weight of his words. His body remained tense, every muscle coiled like a tightly wound spring, as he tried to push aside the warmth of your hands resting on his shoulders. It was a comforting gesture, but he couldn't let himself bask in that comfort—he felt undeserving.
"I will teach you," you replied, your grin wide and infectious, the kind that could light up even the darkest corners of his mind. "You will not hurt me anymore, and besides, I am a good girl. So why would you hurt me?" Your eyes sparkled with genuine warmth, and you added, "I'll help you loosen your guard a little and stop being so cautious around me. Because I would never harm you or your heart. I want you to understand that."
As you beamed down at him, Jungkook felt a storm of emotions swirling within him, reflecting in the deep creases of his frown. It was hard to look at you—to take in the unfiltered joy radiating from your face—when he felt like such a lost cause.
His gaze traveled over your features, committing every detail to memory, and he was struck by the stark contrast between your light and his lurking darkness. In that moment, a weightiness settled over him, as if he were sinking into the depths of his own despair. He couldn't deny the truth in your words: he had nowhere to go. The notion of 'home' was foreign to him, something he had never truly experienced. Chilled by the reality of his existence, he realized that hunger gnawed at more than just his stomach; it gnawed at his spirit too. The memory of his last meal felt distant, overshadowed by the raw ache of emptiness he carried inside.
You noticed the slow nod of his head, a gesture that revealed the storm of thoughts raging inside him. His lips curled in a grimace, reflecting the struggle within. Confronting the reality of his powerless state left him feeling shattered, and understanding just how useless he truly was in this world felt like a bitter pill to swallow. In that moment, he looked back at you, and even amidst his turmoil, he understood why you were doing this—why you were so determined to help him. It wasn't because he was someone remarkable; it was simply because you were in love with his other side.
And that realization cut deep. It hurt more than he anticipated, a sharp sting that echoed through his very being. The despair it stirred within him was profound, a reality he often struggled to accept. Because it always was impossible for him to be accepted and loved. The truth was that love, in any of its forms, just wasn't for him.