TWISTED LOVE JEON JUNGKOOK X (READER) {Complete}

Y/N

My friends had varying reactions to the news of Jungkook's and my newly established relationship. Jules was overjoyed, convinced she always knew Jungkook harbored feelings for me. She wasn't shy about asking for the intimate details, but I kept them to myself despite blushing profusely—her curiosity was satisfied by my reaction alone. It seemed that Jungkook's physical allure and commanding presence carried an expectation that, fortunately for both Jules and myself, was met behind closed doors.

Stella expressed concern amidst her happiness for us. She advised caution, suggesting we pace ourselves to avoid falling too hard or too quickly. The irony was that my heart had already committed long ago to Jeon Jungkook; it hadn't been a rush but rather a gradual surrender to affections I hadn't initially recognized. As for the intensity of my feelings? They were already in freefall. Bridget, ever the diplomat reflecting her princess-like composure, offered a neutral stance: as long as I was happy, so was she.

Taehyung's distant figure loomed metaphorically while our recent conversation left him questioning my edgy behavior. I diverted his probing with a mention of period cramps—a typically male conversation stopper.

Today's thoughts were focused on another family member. Bridget and Booth had given me a ride to my father's place—an hour and a half from Hazelburg—to spare me the journey by public transport. The scent of pine air freshener greeted me as I walked into the polished hallway of his house.

I brought with me his favorite cake from Crumble & Bake as an early birthday surprise since my Tuesday schedule—filled with class, work, and a photoshoot—wouldn't permit a visit.

The den revealed my dad engrossed in paperwork at his corner table.

"Hey, Dad," I announced, dropping my bag with a thud and drawing his attentively surprised gaze.

He looked up at me. "Y/N, I wasn't expecting you this weekend," he exclaimed.

In my eyes, Mr. Kim was the epitome of fatherly handsomeness: black hair with dignified flecks of gray at the temples, shoulders broad from years of experience, and a touch of stubble adorning his chin. His attire – a striped polo shirt paired with jeans – spoke of his relaxed preferences on days devoid of formal demands while wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on his nose; an accessory as much part of him as any article of clothing.

"I'm not here for the entire weekend," I said, offering an awkward smile. "I just wanted to stop by and wish you a happy early birthday." I set the box of cheesecake—his favorite from C&B—on the table. "I apologize that Taehyung and I can't be here on your actual birthday, but at least I could bring you this."

"Ah, thank you," he responded, eyes lingering on the box without attempting to open it. I fidgeted, uncomfortable under the weight of the ensuing silence.

Conversations between us had always been strained, only made bearable by Taehyung's effortless banter about medical school, sports, or his latest daredevil escapade. From skydiving to bungee jumping to zip-lining, he was our constant source of excitement.

Now, with Taehyung away in Central America, the gaping void in our dialogue became painfully apparent. The last meaningful exchange with my father? It must have been that solemn talk when I was fourteen, about my mother's passing.

His admission perplexed me. "You said Mom died from a heart condition."

Memories of her were nonexistent; everything before The Blackout was merely fleeting images: a snippet of a haunting lullaby, or echoes of splash and laughter fading into pain from a scraped knee—a childhood accident. These fragments were too disjointed to forge any sense.