𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘬𝘰𝘰𝘬..

{Read instructions to understand everything.}

One afternoon, Mrs. Jeon left again. She didn't say where. It didn't surprise you. You were left alone with him, like so many other times. You were in the living room, lying face down on the rug, working on a pending assignment. You were wearing simple shorts and a loose T-shirt, with your hair pulled back in a makeshift bun. The sun shone through the window, dyeing the room a soft gold. Then you heard him.

—You concentrate a lot when you study.

His voice made you look up. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised. He was wearing a black T-shirt that showed the beginning of his tattoo on his right arm, and his eyes, dark and serene, were fixed on you.

The death of your parents was like a silent fire: it swept through everything without you being able to do anything. You were only 18 years old, and in the blink of an eye, you found yourself alone, the weight of loss sinking you every night. There was no one else, except that woman: your mother's best friend. She appeared at the funeral in a tight black dress, with precise tears, and a smile that seemed more out of commitment than mourning. She didn't hesitate to offer you her home, her protection, her company. That's how you ended up in the Jeon home. At first, the mansion felt alien, too tidy for someone living in mourning. Mrs. Jeon treated you politely, but without warmth. Her interest seemed more like an obligation... or a strategy. It took only a few weeks to notice that between her and her husband, Jungkook, there was no love, but a rehearsed choreography to keep up appearances. You heard her at night, secretly talking on the phone, laughing in a tone she never used with her husband. Sometimes he left late and came back with another man's scent clinging to his skin. Sometimes he didn't come back at all. Jungkook seemed not to know, or maybe he just didn't say anything. He was different. Serious, reserved. Dedicated to his work, always dressed in perfectly ironed shirts and an aura of discipline that made him seem unattainable. Yet there was something else about him. Something restrained. Fleeting glances. A floating tension. Sometimes you caught him looking at you, as if he couldn't help it. He wasn't vulgar. He was... curious. Intense. As if he read something in you that you didn't even know existed. His voice, always deep, maintained an apparent calm, but his words had an edge that sometimes bordered on the flirtatiously ambiguous.