Chapter 1: The Wall Between Us

The bass thrummed through my bedroom wall at 2:47 AM, vibrating through my bones like a second heartbeat. I pressed my pillow over my head, counting to ten, then twenty, then giving up entirely. This had been going on for three weeks now—ever since *he* moved in next door.

I threw off my covers and marched to the shared wall, raising my fist to pound against it. But as my knuckles made contact with the drywall, the music stopped. Silence stretched between us, thick and loaded with tension I couldn't name.

Then came the voice—low, rich, and unmistakably amused.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Did I wake you?"

The sound traveled through the wall as if he were standing right beside me. My breath caught. I'd heard that voice before, though I couldn't place where. It was the kind of voice that could make you forget your own name.

"It's almost 3 AM," I called back, trying to keep the irritation in my voice steady. "Some of us have real jobs."

A dark chuckle resonated through the wall. "Real jobs? That's presumptuous."

"What would you call what you do then?"

Silence. Then: "Come find out."

## Chapter 2: Face to Face

I should have ignored him. Should have gone back to bed, put in earplugs, maybe even called the landlord. Instead, I found myself standing in the hallway outside apartment 4B at three in the morning, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts.

The door opened before I could knock.

And my world tilted.

He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous—sharp jawline, dark eyes that seemed to see right through me, black hair falling across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush it back. But it was the recognition that hit me like a physical blow.

Jeon Jungkook. The golden maknae of BTS, the group that had taken the world by storm. The same face that covered my teenage sister's bedroom walls. The same voice I'd been hearing through my speakers for months, though I'd never admit to anyone that I owned their albums.

"Fuck," I breathed.

His lips curved into that bunny smile that had made millions of hearts flutter worldwide, but there was something darker in it now. "Not quite the introduction I was hoping for, but I'll take it."

"You're—"

"Your neighbor." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and I tried not to notice how the motion made his black t-shirt stretch across his chest. "The one with the fake job, apparently."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "I didn't know—"

"Would it have mattered?" His voice dropped to that same low register that had made my pulse quicken through the wall. "Would you have been nicer if you knew who I was?"

The question hung between us, loaded with implications I wasn't ready to examine. Because the truth was, I probably would have been. I would have stammered and blushed and made a fool of myself, the way I always did around attractive men.

But right now, standing here in my sleep clothes with my hair a mess and irritation still simmering in my veins, I felt oddly powerful.

"No," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "I would have told you to turn down your music regardless of who you are."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or intrigue. He studied me for a long moment, those dark eyes traveling from my face down to my bare legs and back up again. The attention should have made me self-conscious, but instead it sent heat pooling low in my belly.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Mia."

"Mia." He said it like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue. "I'm Jungkook."

"I know who you are."

"Do you?" He pushed off from the doorframe, taking a step closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that made me think of midnight and secrets. "Because I get the feeling you see something different than most people do."

There was something almost vulnerable in the way he said it, a crack in the confident facade that made my chest tighten. But before I could respond, before I could even process what he meant, he was stepping back.

"I'll keep it down," he said. "The music. I'm sorry I woke you."

The door closed between us with a soft click, leaving me standing in the hallway, heart racing and skin tingling like I'd been struck by lightning.

## Chapter 3: The Sound of Silence

He kept his promise. The music stopped at reasonable hours, the bass no longer shook our shared wall, and I got a full eight hours of sleep for the first time in weeks. I should have been grateful.

Instead, I found myself lying awake, listening to the silence and thinking about dark eyes and that bunny-like smile that had made my heart skip.

It was pathetic, really. I'd spoken to him for all of five minutes, and here I was, obsessing over a man who probably had ARMY throwing themselves at him everywhere he went. A man who lived in a completely different world than mine—one of sold-out stadiums and screaming fans and Billboard charts.

I was a junior marketing coordinator at a mid-sized firm. I drove a ten-year-old Honda and bought my coffee from the bodega on the corner because Starbucks was too expensive. We had nothing in common.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me, like he was seeing something no one else had bothered to notice. Like I was more than just another neighbor complaining about noise.

The knock on my door came at 7 PM on a Thursday, soft but insistent. I opened it to find Jungkook standing in the hallway, holding a bottle of wine and looking almost... nervous?

"Peace offering," he said, holding up the bottle. "For being a terrible neighbor."

"You weren't terrible," I said automatically, then felt my cheeks warm. "Well, not entirely terrible."

That earned me a smile—not the practiced one from interviews, but something softer. More real.

"Can I come in?" he asked. "I promise I'm not a psychopath. You can Google me if you want—my background checks are probably more thorough than most people's."

I should have said no. Should have thanked him for the wine and sent him on his way. Instead, I stepped aside, letting him into my small, cluttered apartment.

He looked around with genuine curiosity, taking in the mismatched furniture, the stack of books on my coffee table, the photographs covering one wall—mostly of my family, my friends, moments that mattered to me.

"This is nice," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "It feels... lived in."

"That's a polite way of saying messy."

"No." He turned to face me, and there was something intense in his expression that made my breath catch. "It feels like home."

The word hung between us, heavy with meaning I didn't understand. There was something almost wistful in the way he said it, like home was a foreign concept to him.

"When was the last time you were home?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

His smile turned brittle around the edges. "Define home."

## Chapter 4: Beneath the Surface

We opened the wine—an expensive red that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget—and settled on my couch. The conversation flowed easier than it should have, given that we were essentially strangers. He asked about my job, my family, my life, and actually seemed to listen to the answers. When I mentioned my sister's obsession with BTS, he laughed—a real laugh, not the practiced one I'd seen in interviews.

"How old is she?" he asked.

"Seventeen. She's going to die when I tell her I've met you. Actually, she'll probably kill me for not getting an autograph."

"I could do better than that." He pulled out his phone. "What's her name?"

"Lily. But you don't have to—"

"Lily," he said into the phone's camera, and suddenly he was *on*—the charming, confident performer I'd seen on stage. "Your sister Mia tells me you're ARMY. This is for you." He formed a heart with his hands, that bunny smile lighting up his entire face. "Hope to meet you someday."

He sent the video and set his phone aside, transforming back into the quieter, more thoughtful version of himself.

"She's going to scream," I said. "Literally scream."

"Good screaming or bad screaming?"

"Definitely good. You just became her favorite person in the world."

"What about you?" The question was casual, but there was something in his eyes that suggested the answer mattered more than it should. "Am I your favorite person in the world?"

The wine had made me bold, or maybe it was the way he was looking at me—like I was the only person in the room, in the world, that mattered.

"I don't know you well enough to have an opinion," I said.

"What would you like to know?"

Everything, I thought. I wanted to know why he looked so lonely despite being surrounded by millions of fans. Why he'd seemed surprised that I hadn't treated him differently because of his fame. Why he'd said my apartment felt like home when his probably cost more than I'd make in a lifetime.

"Why music?" I asked instead.

His expression grew thoughtful. "It was the only thing that made sense. The only time I felt like... myself, I guess." He paused, swirling the wine in his glass. "Growing up, everyone had expectations. Be perfect, be the golden child, never make mistakes. But when I'm on stage, when I'm singing... it's the only time I feel real."

There was something raw in his voice, vulnerable in a way that made my chest ache. Without thinking, I reached out and covered his hand with mine. His skin was warm, calloused from guitar strings, and when his fingers intertwined with mine, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"For assuming you didn't have a real job. For judging you before I knew you."

He turned our joined hands over, thumb tracing patterns on my palm that sent shivers up my arm. "Most people see what they want to see. The fame, the money, the lifestyle. They don't see the person underneath."

"What do you want them to see?"

He looked up at me then, and the intensity in his gaze made my heart stutter. "I want them to see what you see."

"What do I see?"

"I don't know yet." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "But I want to find out."

## Chapter 5: Crossing Lines

He stayed until midnight, and when he left, the absence of him felt like a physical ache. I found myself listening for sounds from his apartment—footsteps, music, anything that would tell me he was there. But he'd become as quiet as I'd once wanted him to be, and the silence felt worse than the noise ever had.

Three days passed before I saw him again. I was coming home from work, exhausted and cranky from a particularly demanding client, when I found him sitting in the hallway outside our doors, back against the wall, head in his hands.

"Jungkook?" I dropped my bag and knelt beside him. "What's wrong?"

He looked up at me, and I saw something broken in his expression. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled like he'd slept in them, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Bad day," he said, voice hoarse.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head, then seemed to change his mind. "Do you ever

feel like you're drowning? Like everyone expects you to be this perfect version of yourself, but you don't even know who that person is anymore?"

My heart clenched. "Every day."

He looked at me with something like surprise. "Really?"

"Really." I sat down beside him in the hallway, our shoulders touching. "I spend all day pretending to be confident and put-together and like I know what I'm doing. But most of the time, I feel like I'm just making it up as I go along."

"You seem so... grounded. Real."

"So do you. When you're not trying to be what everyone else expects."

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his exhaustion settling around us like a blanket. Then he turned to me, and there was something desperate in his eyes.

"Can I... can I just be with you? Not talk, not perform, just... exist?"

The request was so simple, so honest, that it broke something open in my chest. "Of course."

I unlocked my apartment and he followed me inside, but instead of sitting on the couch like before, he collapsed onto it lengthwise, head in my lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. I froze for a moment, unsure, but then his eyes drifted closed and he let out a shaky breath, and I found myself running my fingers through his hair.

He melted under my touch, tension leaving his body like air from a deflating balloon. We stayed like that for hours—me stroking his hair while he dozed fitfully, occasionally murmuring words I couldn't understand. It should have been awkward, intimate in a way that crossed the boundaries of our barely-there friendship.

Instead, it felt like coming home.

## Chapter 6: The Point of No Return

When he woke up, the sun was setting, painting my living room in shades of gold and amber. He blinked up at me, disoriented for a moment, then seemed to remember where he was. But instead of pulling away, he turned onto his side, face pressed against my stomach.

"Thank you," he murmured, voice muffled by my shirt.

"For what?"

"For letting me be human."

My fingers were still in his hair, and I realized I'd been stroking it unconsciously while he slept. He seemed to realize it too, because he caught my wrist gently, pressing my palm flat against his cheek.

"Mia," he said, and there was something in the way he said my name that made my pulse quicken.

"Yeah?"

He sat up slowly, never breaking eye contact, until we were face to face on my couch. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

"I should go," he said, but he made no move to leave.

"Should you?"

"Yes." His thumb traced along my jawline, feather-light but burning like a brand. "Because if I stay, I'm going to do something we might regret."

"What if I don't want you to go?"

The question hung between us like a live wire, electric with possibility. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they dropped to my lips.

"Mia," he warned, voice rough with want.

"What if I want you to do something we might regret?"

That broke the last of his restraint. His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back, and then his mouth was on mine—desperate, hungry, like he'd been starving for this moment. I melted into him, hands fisting in his shirt as he kissed me like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

"This is a bad idea," he whispered.

"Probably," I agreed, then pulled him back down to me.

This time, the kiss was slower, deeper, filled with a sweetness that made my chest ache. His hands roamed my body with reverent touches, like he was memorizing every curve, every response. When he lifted me into his lap, I went willingly, wrapping my arms around his neck as he trailed kisses down my throat.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my collarbone. "Tell me this is crazy and we barely know each other and I should go back to my apartment and pretend this never happened."

"No," I breathed, arching into his touch. "Don't stop."

He pulled back to look at me, searching my face for any sign of doubt. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he stood up, lifting me with him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist.

"Bedroom?" he asked.

I pointed down the hall, and he carried me there without another word, kicking the door closed behind us.

## Chapter 7: Surrender

He set me down gently beside my bed, hands framing my face as he kissed me again. There was something different in this kiss—not just desire, but tenderness, like I was something precious that might break if he wasn't careful.

"Are you sure?" he asked, thumb stroking over my cheekbone.

Instead of answering with words, I reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. His body was lean, muscled from years of performing and training, and I traced the lines of his tattoos—delicate script along his ribs, a constellation on his shoulder, meaningful symbols scattered across his chest like a roadmap to somewhere I'd never been.

He shivered under my touch, eyes falling closed as I explored him. When I pressed my lips to the tattoo over his heart—the word "ARMY" in delicate script—he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat spiraling through me.

"What does this one mean?" I whispered against his skin, tracing another symbol.

"'Begin,'" he replied, voice rough. "It reminds me that every day is a chance to start over, to be better than I was yesterday."

The vulnerability in his voice made my heart clench. I looked up at him, and the expression on his face was so raw, so open, that it took my breath away.

"I see you," I said, the words coming from somewhere deep inside me. "Not the idol, not the performer. You. Jungkook."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, gratitude, something that looked almost like relief. Then he was kissing me again, deeper this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into the connection between us.

Clothes disappeared with gentle urgency, hands and mouths exploring newly revealed skin. He worshipped my body like it was sacred, paying attention to every gasp, every sigh, learning what made me arch into his touch. When he finally joined with me, it was with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes.

We moved together in the dim light of my bedroom, finding a rhythm that felt ancient, inevitable. It wasn't just physical—it was emotional, spiritual, like two broken pieces finally clicking into place. When release claimed us, it was together, wrapped in each other's arms, breathing each other's names like prayers.

Afterward, we lay tangled in my sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek, still racing from our connection.

"Stay," I whispered into the darkness.

"I shouldn't," he replied, but his arms tightened around me.

"Stay anyway."

He was quiet for so long I thought he might have fallen asleep. Then: "This changes everything."

"I know."

I'm not good at this. Relationships, normal life. My world is complicated, messy. Dangerous, sometimes."

I lifted my head to look at him. "Dangerous how?"

His jaw tightened. "Fame isn't just about music and money, Mia. There are people who... who become obsessed. Fans who cross lines, who think they own you. There are contracts, obligations, people who control every aspect of your life." He cupped my face gently. "I don't want to drag you into that darkness."

"What if I'm not afraid of the dark?"

"You should be." His thumb traced over my bottom lip. "You should run as far from me as you can."

"Is that what you want?"

"No." The word was torn from him, raw and honest. "God, no. I want to keep you here, keep you safe, pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. But that's selfish."

I leaned down and kissed him softly. "Then be selfish. Just for tonight."

He stared at me for a long moment, then pulled me down for another kiss—desperate, claiming, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me.

"Just for tonight," he agreed against my lips.

But we both knew it was already too late for that.

## Chapter 8: The Morning After

I woke up alone.

For a moment, I wondered if I'd dreamed it all—the vulnerability in his eyes, the reverent way he'd touched me, the whispered confessions in the dark. But my sheets still smelled like his cologne, and there was a soreness between my thighs that spoke of very real intimacy.

On my nightstand, there was a note written in his careful handwriting:

*Thank you for seeing me. I'm sorry I couldn't stay—early rehearsal. Coffee tonight? - JK*

I pressed the note to my chest, relief flooding through me. He hadn't run. He wasn't pretending it never happened. Whatever this was between us, whatever complications his world would bring, he wanted to explore it too.

But as the day wore on, I began to understand what he'd meant about the darkness of his world.

It started with a photo.

I was scrolling through social media during my lunch break when I saw it—a grainy, long-distance shot of Jungkook entering my building the night before. The caption made my blood run cold:

*BTS's Jungkook spotted entering mystery woman's apartment. New girlfriend? Our sources say she's a nobody—just another fan trying to get her fifteen minutes. How long before he gets bored?*

The comments were worse. Hundreds of them, dissecting my appearance from what little they could see in the photo, speculating about my motives, calling me names that made my stomach turn. Someone had already figured out where I lived, where I worked. My Instagram, which I'd thought was private, was flooded with notifications from accounts with no profile pictures and usernames made of random numbers.

By the time I got home from work, there were photographers outside my building.

"Mia! Mia, over here! How long have you been dating Jungkook? Are you moving in together? What do you think about ARMY's reaction?"

I pushed through them, heart pounding, hands shaking as I fumbled with my keys. One of them grabbed my arm, and I jerked away so hard I nearly fell.

"Don't touch me," I snapped, finally getting my door open.

"Come on, just a few questions! Our readers want to know about Jungkook's new girl!"

I slammed the door behind me and leaned against it, chest heaving. This was insane. We'd spent one night together, and suddenly I was public property? Suddenly strangers felt entitled to know everything about me, to judge me, to harass me?

My phone buzzed with a text from Jungkook: *Are you okay? I just saw the photos. I'm so sorry.*

Before I could respond, another text came through: *I'm coming over.*

*No,* I typed back quickly. *The photographers are still here. It'll make it worse.*

*Then come to me. I'll send a car.*

I stared at his message, torn between wanting to see him and wanting to hide under my covers until this nightmare was over. But running to him felt like giving in, like admitting that his world had already swallowed mine whole.

*I need some time to think,* I replied.

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before his response came: *I understand. But please don't let them scare you away from me. We'll figure this out.*

I set my phone aside without responding, because I wasn't sure there was anything to figure out. How could we have a relationship when my very existence in his life made me a target? When my privacy, my safety, my peace of mind were all forfeit the moment someone snapped a photo?

The knocking started around nine PM—not the aggressive pounding of reporters, but the soft, rhythmic tapping I'd come to associate with Jungkook. I looked through the peephole and saw him standing in the hallway, hood pulled up, head down.

Against my better judgment, I opened the door.

"The photographers—"

"Are gone. I had BigHit security clear them out." He stepped inside, pushing back his hood, and I saw the guilt written across his features. "Mia, I'm so sorry. I never wanted this to happen to you."

"But you knew it would."

"I... yes. I knew it was possible." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I told myself it wouldn't happen, that we could keep this private, but I was lying to myself. To you."

"So what now?" I asked, wrapping my arms around myself. "Do I just accept that my life isn't my own anymore? That strangers get to judge me and follow me and call me names because I slept with someone famous?"

"No." His voice was fierce, determined. "We fight back. We control the narrative. I can have the company's publicist—"

"The company's publicist?" I stared at him. "Jungkook, listen to yourself. You're talking about managing our relationship like it's a PR campaign."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?" I sank onto my couch, suddenly exhausted. "This is your world. Press releases and damage control and publicists spinning stories. This is what dating you means."

He knelt in front of me, taking my hands in his. "It doesn't have to be. We can be more careful, more private. I can have security—"

"I don't want to live like that." The words came out sharper than I intended, but I couldn't take them back. "I don't want bodyguards and secret entrances and having to check over my shoulder every time I leave my apartment."

Pain flashed across his features. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe you were right. Maybe this is too complicated."

"Mia, please." His grip on my hands tightened. "Don't let them win. Don't let them scare you away from something that could be amazing."

"Amazing?" I pulled my hands free, standing up and pacing to the window. "Amazing for who? You get to go back to your life, your career, your world. I'm the one who has to deal with the consequences."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair!" I spun around to face him. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to have my privacy invaded, my life dissected, my worth as a human being debated by strangers on the internet. I just wanted to get some sleep."

He flinched like I'd slapped him. "Is that all this was to you? Just wanting me to keep quiet?"

"No." My voice broke on the word. "God, no. Last night was... it was perfect. You were perfect. But that's not enough, is it? Being perfect behind closed doors doesn't matter when the rest of the world wants to destroy us."

He stood slowly, something shuttering in his expression. "So you're ending this. Before it even really started."

"I'm trying to be realistic."

"You're being a coward."

The accusation hit like a physical blow. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His voice was cold now, the vulnerability from the night before completely gone. "You're running away because things got difficult. Because the fairy tale got complicated."

"Don't you dare," I whispered. "Don't you dare make this my fault. You knew what your world was like. You knew what would happen, and you pursued me anyway. You made me care about you, and then when the inevitable happened, you act like I'm the one being unreasonable for not wanting to live in a fishbowl."

"I thought you were stronger than this."

"And I thought you were different than this. But here you are, acting like every other entitled celebrity who thinks the world owes them something."

We stared at each other across my living room, the space between us feeling like an ocean. I could see the moment he shut down completely, walls slamming back into place.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have pursued you. I should have known better."

"Jungkook—"

"No, it's fine. You've made your position clear." He headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. "For what it's worth, I thought you were different too. I thought you could see past all the bullshit to who I really am. But I guess I was wrong."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I was alone again. The silence that had once felt oppressive now felt empty, hollow. I sank back onto my couch and buried my face in my hands, breathing in the lingering scent of his cologne and wondering if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.

## Epilogue: Six Months Later

The music started at 2:47 AM.

Not the electronic dance beats or the grinding bass that had woken me up eight months ago. This was different—raw, acoustic, painful. A guitar and a voice that I'd tried so hard to forget, singing words that cut right through me.

*"Find me in the darkness, when the world gets too bright

Find me in the silence, when the noise feels too right

I'm lost without your touch, drowning in this space

Find me in the darkness, I'm still searching for your grace"*

I pressed my back against our shared wall, tears streaming down my face. He'd released the song three months ago—"Still With You (Acoustic Version)," a solo track that his fans assumed was about longing and heartbreak. Only I knew the truth. Only I knew he was singing about us.

The photographers had eventually lost interest. The comments had died down. My life had returned to normal, quiet and safe and utterly empty. I'd even gone on a few dates, trying to convince myself that what Jungkook and I had shared was just physical attraction, just the thrill of something forbidden.

But lying in bed at night, listening to the silence from his apartment, I knew I was lying to myself.

The song ended, and in the quiet that followed, I heard something that made my heart stop.

Crying.

Soft, broken sobs that seemed to seep through the wall between us.

Before I could lose my nerve, I was up and out of my apartment, standing in front of his door. I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated. What would I say? I'm sorry? I was wrong? I missed you so much I can barely breathe?

All of it was true. None of it felt like enough.

The door opened before I could decide.

Jungkook stood there in sweatpants and nothing else, eyes red-rimmed, hair disheveled. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping any better than I had.

"Mia," he breathed, like he couldn't believe I was real.

"Your song," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "I heard your song."

"I thought you might." He leaned against the doorframe, suddenly seeming exhausted. "I'm sorry. I know I'm breaking our agreement about the noise—"

"I missed you."

The words hung between us, raw and honest and terrifying. His expression crumbled.

"I missed you too," he whispered. "Every fucking day."

"I was scared," I continued, needing to get it all out before I lost my courage. "I was scared of your world, of losing myself in it. But I was more scared of losing you, and I did it anyway. I threw away something beautiful because I was afraid of what other people might think."

"Mia—"

"I love you." The admission came out in a rush, desperate and overdue. "I love you, and I've spent six months trying to convince myself I don't, but I can't. I can't pretend anymore."

He closed his eyes, jaw working like he was fighting some internal battle. "You left me," he said finally. "When things got hard, you left."

"I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Jungkook. But I'm here now, and I'm not running anymore. I want to figure it out together. The press, the photographers, all of it. I want to fight for us."

He opened his eyes, and the hope I saw there mixed with fear made my chest ache.

"It won't be easy," he warned. "My world is still complicated. Still messy."

"I know."

"There will be more photos, more stories. People will say horrible things about you, about us."

"I know."

And if you run again—" His voice broke slightly. "If you run again, it'll destroy me."

I reached up and cupped his face in my hands, thumbs brushing away the tears on his cheeks. "I'm not running. Not anymore. Begin, right? That's what your tattoo says. Well, I'm ready to begin again, with you."

He searched my face for a long moment, then pulled me against him, holding me so tight I could barely breathe. But I didn't care. I was home.

"I love you too," he whispered into my hair. "God, I love you so much it terrifies me."

"Good," I said, pulling back to look at him. "Terrifying love is the best kind."

He laughed through his tears, and the sound was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. Then he was kissing me, desperate and hungry and full of six months' worth of longing.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

"Stay," he whispered, echoing my words from that first night.

"Always," I replied.

And this time, I meant it.

The music that drifted through our shared wall after that was different—softer, happier, full of hope instead of heartbreak. Love songs instead of laments. And when the paparazzi eventually found us again, when the stories and speculation started up once more, we faced it together.

Because sometimes love isn't about finding someone who fits perfectly into your world. Sometimes it's about finding someone worth reshaping your world for. Someone worth fighting for, worth the darkness and the light and everything in between.

Someone worth the risk of falling.

Two years later, when Jungkook proposed on stage during a concert in Seoul, in front of thousands of ARMY and millions watching the livestream, I said yes without hesitation. Because I'd learned that some love stories are worth the chaos, worth the scrutiny, worth everything.

And ours was one of them.

*The End*