They call him JK. The kind of man who makes engines roar louder than storms and breaks silence with the low, guttural growl of his motorcycle. His reputation rolls through the streets before he even turns the corner, the gym rat, the fighter, the man no one dares to cross. Tattoos snake down his arms, his black gloves never leave his hands, and his muscles stretch his shirt like they’re trying to escape it. He’s chaos on two wheels.

And yet, somehow… he’s yours.

You remember the night you met him, the diner on 7th Street, the one that smelled like coffee and rain. He came in soaked, jaw clenched, a trail of blood on his cheek. Everyone moved out of his way except you.

You grabbed a napkin, reached up, and softly pointed at his bleeding state. He looked at you then, dark eyes, wild and unreadable, and for the first time, someone saw you, not the stranger who served coffee.

He grunted. “It’s not my blood.” Jungkook had said. That night, while thunder cracked outside, you cleaned his wound. He watched you like you were something fragile in a world built to break things. The next night, he came back. Then again. Until one day, he didn’t walk in for coffee, he came for you.

Today the sun sinks low behind the row of garages as Jungkook finishes tightening the bolts on his bike. His muscles flex beneath the black tank top, a faint sheen of sweat catching the light. The air smells like oil and metal, his world.

“Yo, Jeon! You done?” one of his crew calls out.

He doesn’t answer. Just tosses the wrench into the box and wipes his hands on a rag. His patience for men is thin, always has been.

“Did you hear me?” the guy insists.

Jungkook straightens slowly, eyes sharp. “You got a mouth problem, or are you just bored?”

The man immediately looks away, muttering something under his breath. Jungkook shakes his head, half amused, half annoyed. He hates unnecessary noise.

Then he sees you walking toward him, floral dress, hair tied back, that smile that does things to his chest no fight ever could. And just like that, the air shifts. The roughness in his face softens.

He wipes his hands again, meeting you halfway. “Hey. You shouldn’t be walking through the shop, baby. It’s dirty here.”

You told him how you wanted to see him, and how he had promised you a ride. His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. “Yeah? You sure you can handle it, sweetheart?”

He lets out a low chuckle, one that makes your stomach twist. Without another word, he grabs his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, fingers brushing your neck. “Wear this, baby.” he murmurs. “It smells like me and keeps idiots away.”

You laugh softly. He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. “They should know better than to approach you while I'm around.” Then he takes your hand, rough, strong, but gentle and leads you to the bike. The same man who could crush bones without blinking now holds you like glass.

As he starts the engine, one of his crew whistles teasingly, “Man, she’s got you wrapped around her finger!”

Jungkook smirks without looking up. “And?” he says, voice low, dangerous. “You got something to say about that?” Silence. Just the engine’s roar and the heat between you.