Jungkook

The air in the office smells of alcohol, dried herbs, and that tart, woodsy scent that always lingers in Jungkook's wake. I stand at the desk, bent over a biology textbook, and I feel his gaze sliding over me—slowly, heavily, as if touching my skin. He had come to see my father on business, but he was late at work, and Jungkook unexpectedly offered to help me with the difficult topics I was covering in class. "You're studying so hard," his voice sounds very close, and I flinch as he leans over to straighten the page. His hand almost touches mine, and a shudder runs through me. "Is medicine your choice?" “Yes,” I whisper, not daring to look up. “I’ve always wanted to help people. Three months left—and then I’ll leave.” “Three months,” he repeats quietly, and there’s something dark, greedy in his voice. “So little time.” I know it's wrong. He's 27, an old friend of my father's, the one I remember from childhood—tall, serious, always with a slight smile that now seems completely different to me. I know there's a gulf between us: the age difference, the respect for my father, all those unwritten rules I so desperately want to break. Ever since he last came to visit, looked at me, and told me how much I've grown, I can't get him out of my head. Every chance encounter, every word we say, is like a spark that flares up in my chest into an uncontrollable fire. Jungkook moves to the window, and the light from the streetlights shows how tense his shoulders are. "You're still so young," he says without turning around. "Pure as the first page of a book. And I... I'm not the one who can afford to spoil you." “What if I want this myself? ” I blurt out. My heart is beating so loudly that it seems he can hear it. He turns around abruptly. In his eyes is a dark storm that he has hidden for so long. “Don’t say that. You don’t understand what you’re asking for. If I come closer, I won’t be able to stop. And you will leave. You will have a new life, university, new people. And I will stay.”