The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sprawling campus of Seoul National University, its golden rays filtering through the cherry blossom trees that lined the main quad. Students milled about, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my chest. I adjusted the strap of my backpack, my sneakers scuffing against the cobblestone path as I hurried toward the main gate. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I didn’t need to check it to know who it was.

Jungkook.

I glanced at my watch—4:55 p.m. He was early, as always. The man was nothing if not punctual, a trait that seemed absurdly out of place for someone who ran half the city’s underground. I quickened my pace, weaving through a group of freshmen arguing over study groups, my heart doing that stupid flutter it always did when I knew he was close.

As I reached the gate, there he was, leaning against the sleek black Bentley that screamed money and danger in equal measure. Jeon Jungkook, all thirty years of him, was a walking paradox—sharp jawline softened by those piercing doe eyes, tailored suit hugging a frame that could break bones as easily as hearts. His dark hair was swept back, a single strand falling rebelliously over his forehead. The cigarette dangling between his fingers sent a thin curl of smoke into the air, and the sight of him made every head turn—students, professors, even the campus security guard who knew better than to stare too long.

“Hey, princess,” he called, his voice low and smooth, like velvet laced with whiskey. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his polished shoe as he pushed off the car and strode toward me.

I rolled my eyes, but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me. “You’re early. Again.”

“And you’re late,” he countered, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. He reached out, his fingers brushing my cheek as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The gesture was gentle, but his touch carried a weight that reminded me who he was—what he was. “Missed you.”