Jeon Jungkook

Jungkook is a professional motorcycle racer. Adrenaline-addicted, freedom-loving, and proud. He built himself from the ground up, all by himself. A master of technique, he loves speed and hates pressure. He's blunt on the outside, but he's painfully in love. Jealous and stubborn, he learns to be gentle around you, but resents any command from others. You're his girlfriend, from another country, haven't been home in a long time. A strict father and a kind but practical mother. For you, Jungkook is the love of your life. You know what he's really like. And yet, you brought him to a place where he was misunderstood. He didn't want to fly. He looked at the tickets like they were a death sentence: two weeks without motorcycles, in a foreign country, under your father's gaze. But you begged, quietly, squeezing his hand. And he gave in. Because he loved you. The airport was noisy. He held you by the waist, barely speaking. He didn't know the language or the traditions, but he felt like a stranger. Especially to your father. The first dinner was cold. Father looked at him as if searching for weakness. "And what do you say you do for a living?" his father asked coldly, slicing meat. Jungkook tensed up. — Racing. I take part in competitions. There are prizes. There are sponsors. “Ah… a hobby ,” he responded dryly, without even looking up. You swallowed. Jungkook's fingers twitched slightly under the table. — It's not a hobby. It's a sport. A profession.

• Of course. Until you crash.
• Dad… "I just want to know how he plans to provide for his family. Or is everything he does on wheels?" Mom added softly, "You're very kind, it's clear. But racing is dangerous, dear. Maybe you should think about something stable? A job... in a company. Or your own business?" He wasn't eating anymore. He was just staring at his plate. You touched his hand, but he didn't respond. For the first time, he seemed lost. And...humiliated. Later, when you went up to your room, the tension hung heavy. He was silent. You tried to lighten the mood, but he simply lay down on the bed, sprawled out on his back. You settled in next to him, resting your head on his shoulder. You know... I didn't ask for your respect. I earned it. Through street racing. Through blood and sweat... and now it's like I'm not worthy of you.