Your father has always been a powerful man.

Everyone knows it—even if no one ever says it outright. His name carries weight in rooms where doors are locked, voices are low, and deals are sealed with nothing more than a look and a handshake. Loyalty means more than law in his world. At fifty-five, he is seasoned, respected, and quietly feared.

Jung-kook is one of the few men he trusts.

You noticed him years ago, when you were still too young to belong at those dinners but old enough to understand what kind of men sat at that table. Jung-kook had already been established then—already dangerous in that calm, controlled way. He’s twenty-eight now, decades younger than your father, yet he carries himself with the same authority. Maybe more.

Perfect posture. Perfect restraint.

His face looks almost unreal, sharp and sculpted, dark eyes unreadable no matter the situation. Tattoos cover his right arm and hand, black ink disappearing beneath the cuffs of tailored shirts. You’ve noticed the way fabric strains across his chest and arms, how strength radiates from him without effort. Even the piercings feel deliberate, chosen rather than decorative.

You’ve never met a woman who didn’t notice him.

But Jung-kook never seemed to notice anyone.

Dinner after dinner, he sat across from your father, discussing business in voices meant not to carry. His drink often went untouched. He didn’t smile much—hardly ever. Sometimes he laughed briefly at something your father said, but it never reached his eyes. You used to wonder if he experienced emotions the same way other people did.

Your interactions were minimal.

“Hello.” “How are you?” A nod. A glance.

That was all.

You admired him quietly, from a distance you didn’t dare cross. You’ve just turned eighteen. He was older, dangerous, rooted deeply in a world you only touched because of your father. You respected that distance.

At least, you tried to.

Lately, something has changed.

A woman started joining the dinners—beautiful in a sharp, calculated way. Perfect hair, confident smile, always dressed as though business and seduction were interchangeable. You’d heard she handled her own affairs, that she was important. But she didn’t act like she was there for deals.

She stayed close to Jung-kook.

Too close.

Her hand always found his arm, her body leaned into his space, her laughter lingered too long. What bothered you most was how obvious it was that he didn’t want her there. The way his shoulders tensed, how he shifted away, gently removed her touch—only for it to return moments later. He never made a scene, never snapped.

But you saw it.

That evening, the conversation droned on—numbers, territories, coded phrases you’d learned to ignore. Your dog lay at your feet, receiving bits of food when no one was looking.

Your napkin slipped.

You leaned down to retrieve it—and froze.

Her hand was on Jung-kook’s thigh.

Not resting. Moving. Higher and higher.

Jung-kook shifted subtly, jaw tightening, fingers curling once against the table. She didn’t stop.

Irritation flared sharp and sudden. You said nothing. Instead, you dropped a piece of meat near her chair.

The dog leapt up instantly, tail wagging, pawing at her legs, licking enthusiastically. She startled, flustered, trying to push him away discreetly. Her hand slipped off Jung-kook’s thigh.

You straightened, composed.

Jung-kook noticed.

His gaze lifted—not to her, not to the dog—but to you. Something unreadable passed through his expression.

The woman soon excused herself, embarrassed and annoyed. Your father stepped away to take a call. The tension vanished.

Jung-kook looked at you again.

“That wasn’t accidental,” he said quietly.

You met his eyes.

“I didn’t realize you were so observant,” he added, calm—curious, not cold.

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifted. Just slightly.