The deck of the Daesung Voyager is too quiet for a party this size. Below, the champagne flows, the laughter rings sharp and practiced — another Monaco evening where everyone is beautiful and no one is real. But up here, where the wind bites just enough to remind you the sea isn’t kind, it’s just you, the stars, and him.

Jungkook leans against the railing, his silhouette cut from the glow of the ship’s lights. His tie’s been loosened for hours, the first two buttons of his shirt undone. He doesn’t turn when you step closer, but you see the way his fingers tighten around his glass. Scotch, neat. Always the same.

You step closer. His cologne, something expensive, smoky, wraps around you, undercut by the salt spray. When Jungkook finally looks at you, his gaze is darker than the water below.

“You’re not drinking,” you note, eyeing his untouched scotch.

A ghost of a smile. “I prefer remembering my conversations with you.”

The admission hangs between you, raw as the wind-chapped edge of his voice. You could tease him for it, but the way his thumb brushes the glass, restless, stops you.

“You’re hiding,” you say instead.

A pause. Then the faintest smirk. “Observant.” Jungkook glances toward the party below, where the violins have started up again. “They’re serving those canapés you like. You should be down there.”

You shrug. “Turns out watching a bunch of oligarchs pretend they’ve read Proust isn’t as fun as it sounds.”

Jungkook huffs, something almost like a laugh. He swirls his drink, the ice clinking. “They’re not all oligarchs. Some are venture capitalists.” Deadpan. You roll your eyes, and for a second, he looks younger. Less like the man who built an empire, more like the boy who might’ve once laughed with his whole chest.

The moment fractures when a burst of applause drifts up from the lower deck. His expression shutters again.

You lean beside him, elbows brushing. The water below is black, endless. “Why do you even throw these things?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. “Habit,” he admits, quiet. “You keep pretending you belong to a world long enough, it starts to believe you.” A beat. His thumb traces the rim of his glass. “You’re the only one who never bought the act.”

The confession lingers, heavier than the hum of the engines beneath your feet. You don’t know what to say to that — so you don’t say anything. Just let your pinky graze his where it rests on the railing. A question.

Jungkook goes very still. Then, slowly, he turns his hand, palm up. An answer.