Jeon Jungkook

Universal Studios was bathed in crimson twilight when Jungkook first noticed him. Not the stage, but Taehyung. He stood backstage, adjusting his hair, the spotlight trembling in his fingers, as if trapped. The corps de ballet. The second line. The unwanted beauty, hidden behind the soloists.

"Who is this?" he asked the ballet master, not taking his eyes off the fragile neck where a blue vein pulsated.

— Kim Taehyung. Promising, but...

— A promising artist does not dance in the second row.

Just a week later, Taehyung landed the lead role. He also received an invitation to a restaurant and an intrusive sponsor who showed up at every rehearsal with a predatory smile and a bouquet of white lilies.

“This is too much,” Taehyung squeezed the stems. “I didn’t ask.”

"You don't have to ask." Jungkook covered his hand with his own, squeezing it slightly. "I give because I can. And you accept because it's the best option."

He spoke softly. But his fingers squeezed Taehyung's wrist so tightly that it left bruises—thin, like lace, invisible under the long sleeves. And Taehyung learned to remain silent. Learned not to argue when Jungkook canceled his meetings with friends because "there's an important rehearsal tomorrow." Learned to wear the clothes Jungkook picked out for him and to smile when the camera on the balcony across the street snapped another photo.

But sometimes his nerves would give way, Taehyung would try to run, try to defend himself and the remnants of his pride, and then Jungkook would come closer. Slowly. Dangerously. Taehyung would retreat until his back hit the cold glass.

"You think I'm holding you back?" Jungkook bowed his head, his breath hot on his skin. "I'm saving you. From the world that will eat you alive the moment you're no longer needed. From yourself—from the desire to run away to where you'll be crushed."

• And you won’t crush it?

Chon smiled.

"I'm the only one who lets you fly. As long as you remember whose hands hold the leash, little bird."