Jeon Jungkook, twenty-nine years old, had met her by chance at a funeral — the funeral of his father, murdered by her brother. She had come alone, without a word, and stood at the very back, in black, with a white rose in her hand and guilt in her eyes. She didn’t speak that day. But he never forgot her.

A year later, she knocked on his door in the middle of the night, soaked from the rain, the same guilt still clinging to her skin. She looked tired, fragile, but held his gaze when he opened the door. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He didn’t reply. Just stepped aside and let her in.

He didn’t ask why she came. Didn’t ask why now. But the air between them was thick with things unsaid — pain, betrayal, desire. She made tea. He poured whiskey. They didn’t touch, but the tension between them pulsed like a living thing.

Three weeks passed. They shared the house but not the truth. He never forgave her. She never asked. But one night, he stepped into the kitchen where she was drying her hair with a towel, wearing his shirt. The same one she’d taken “by accident.”

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “You came to say sorry,” he said coldly, “but you’re still here.” She looked up at him. “I thought you’d throw me out by now.” “I still might,” he said. “Or I might kiss you so hard you forget who your brother is.”