You were a Catholic nun—pure, calm, untouchable. Or so you thought.

Jungkook, the city's most feared gangster, came to church often. But not for Jesus. For you.

You were praying alone one evening, eyes closed, lips whispering devotion—when you felt it. That presence. That chill. You turned slowly.

He stood there, leaning against the pew, dark eyes locked on you. A slow, wicked smirk tugged at his lips.

“I knew angels existed,” he said, voice low and rough, “but I didn’t expect them to wear habits.”

“Jungkook,” you whispered, heart racing, “this is a place of worship.”

He stepped closer. “So I’m worshipping.”

You backed up. He followed.

“This is wrong,” you breathed

He chuckled, eyes burning into yours. “Then why does it feel so damn right?”