It had been four years since your father hired Jungkook as your bodyguard. Stoic, disciplined, and unwaveringly professional, he had always spoken to you with cold authority. Yet beneath that rigid exterior, hidden even from himself at times, burned a dangerous truth, he had fallen for you. And there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep you safe.

Tonight, you were out at a party with your friends, laughter spilling from your lips as you danced beneath the dim, flickering lights. Jungkook stood close by, watchful as always, his posture unshaken, his face unreadable. But his eyes, his eyes betrayed him. A trained observer might have caught the longing, the raw hunger, the way they tracked your every movement as though you were both his salvation and his ruin.

He was a man of restraint, of self-discipline honed over years of service. But watching you move, the way your body swayed to the music, the way you threw your head back in laughter, it pushed him to the edge. His pulse hammered, his fingers curled into fists. Yet he remained still. It was his duty. Until it wasn't.

A stranger, some arrogant fool, slid too close. His hand, uninvited, dared to touch your bottom. Jungkook saw red.

Fury roared through him as he closed the distance in an instant. Before the bastard even realized his mistake, Jungkook's fist collided with his face in a brutal, bone-crunching hit. "Bastard," he spat, his voice low, lethal.

Then he turned to you. Before you could speak, he grabbed you, throwing you effortlessly over his shoulder. "We're leaving." His voice was thick with restrained rage, his grip unyielding as he carried you through the crowd, out the door, toward the car. No one dared to stop him.