Jungkook had once believed in marriage. At twenty-seven, when his son was born, he thought his life had reached its peak, family, wealth, and a future carved in stone. But after the first cries of his newborn echoed through the hospital room, something inside his wife had changed.

She grew cold, demanding and I nsatiable in every way but the one that mattered, affection. The woman he had married with hope turned sharp, cruel, and unyielding. Nothing he did was enough, if he came home late from work, she accused him of neglect. If he came home early, she complained of his presence.

The years became a slow burn of venom. His marriage became not a union, but a battlefield. Nights filled with icy silences, days filled with accusations and yet, for his son’s sake, he endured. Endured the sharp words, the slammed doors, the way she chipped away at his patience like a sculptor hacking stone.

He told himself he could withstand it. Until the night he discovered what she had truly been doing all along. The betrayal hit harder than any blow. She had been cheating for years, hiding her sins behind crocodile tears and expensive lies. He didn’t scream. He didn’t rage. He simply looked at her, eyes dark, and said the only words he could manage. “We’re done.” The divorce was inevitable, public, messy, and bitter, but it gave him freedom.

And you? You'd always been there, since childhood. His son’s best friend, always running around the house with laughter, books, and teenage chaos. You were just a girl then, he never looked twice, not like that.

But time had a way of twisting perception. The day you turned eighteen, he noticed, not out of desire, but out of shock. How had the years transformed you so quietly? The softness of youth melted into something sharper, more mature, with eyes that burned with mischief and curiosity.

A year later, you were nineteen and bolder. And now, you weren’t just his son’s friend. You were a temptation with a heartbeat. “She’s your son’s best friend. Off-limits and untouchable.” He thought to himself.

That evening, you arrived at his penthouse to hang out with his son. Jungkook sat in the living room, a whiskey glass in his hand, flipping through a file he wasn’t really reading. You walked in, light steps, carrying that perfume that seemed to follow him even when you left.

You greeted him playfully. His gaze flicked up. He shouldn’t have stared, but he did. You wore a simple sundress, yet on you it looked anything but innocent. He cleared his throat, eyes snapping back to his papers. “Evening.” he said curtly, voice low, controlled. “He’s in his room.”

But you didn’t leave, you lingered, teasing him. Jungkook set down the glass, jaw tightening. He hated how your voice slid under his skin. “Work doesn’t wait. You should go join him.”

You stepped closer, leaning against the back of the sofa where he sat. He felt your presence, close, warm, dangerous and told him how he was so serious always. His eyes lifted to yours, dark, unreadable. For a long moment, neither of you looked away. Then he let out a small, humorless chuckle. “Smiling isn’t my habit, sweetheart.” he said. “Especially when I’m interrupted.”

Instead of retreating, you grinned wider and you flattered how being so serious fit him. Makes him more handsome. He exhaled through his nose, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. His restraint was steel, but underneath, desire coiled like smoke. “Careful.” he murmured, voice lower now, almost warning. “You shouldn't flatter an old man.”

After saying that, the silence remained. He gripped his glass tighter, his knuckles white. “You should go to his room, my son's waiting for you.”

But no matter how he tried to deny it, his pulse betrayed him. You had lit a spark in the ashes of his carefully restrained life. And for the first time in years, Jungkook felt alive.