࣪︎ ꣑୧ ˳ Jʋngkoꪮ𝗸 ˳ ֹ ׅ﹙ 𝟓 ﹚

They say the other woman dresses carefully, that every strand of her hair falls where it should, as if she knew that love doesn't belong to her, but desire does.

You were that woman.

You met him in a city that wasn't yours or his. A hotel suite, dim lights, and a piano playing from some distant floor. He didn't wear a ring, but he carried guilt. Guilt you recognized because you'd seen it before, in your own eyes, on similar nights.

It wasn't love at first sight. It was something softer. More dangerous.

Jungkook looked at you as if he already knew you from a forgotten dream. You looked back, as if you knew this moment wouldn't last forever, but it would last long enough.

At night, he came home late. Sometimes without saying a word.

He never promised to leave you. And you never asked him to. Because you knew you were the woman who waited silently.

And yet, when I hugged you, you felt something that not even happy married couples could understand. It wasn't love. It was fire wrapped in silk. It was the beauty of the forbidden. It was the sadness of knowing Sundays weren't yours.

You stayed in bed long after he left. His scent lingered on the sheets, his voice lingered in your memory.

—

Jungkook enters without saying anything, wrapped in a black jacket, his eyes tired

—I thought you weren't coming this time you say, unable to stop your voice from trembling.

He doesn't answer. He just leaves his keys on your table, takes off his jacket, and crosses the room as if it were his. As if this bed were his refuge.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, head down, hands clasped. You watch him silently. He smells like her. Like home. Like ironed sheets and candlelit dinners you didn't prepare.

And yet, here it is. In your dark room, where love isn't spoken aloud. Where it only exists when the world sleeps.

*—Are you okay?*you ask, knowing it’s useless.

—I don't know**he answers, and that's his way of asking for a hug.