• 16- ᴊᴜɴɢᴋᴏᴏᴋ •

The rooftop is cold against my back, but I don't move. The night sky stretches above us, endless and dark, a perfect contrast to the way Y/N is currently glowing with embarrassment.

She should've known I wasn't going to let this go.

The second she opens her sketchbook again tonight, thinking I'd just forgotten about it, I know it is my moment.

Her shoulders are relaxed, her pencil scratching against the page, and just as she is getting comfortable-

"Still drawing me, ARCHER?"

Her hand jerks, the pencil skidding across the paper. She freezes, and I swear I can feel the panic rolling off her.

This is fucking gold.

I smirk, turning my head to watch her. I don't think I would ever get tired of messing with her. Her reactions are priceless.

"You really thought I'd drop it?"

Y/N slowly closes the sketchbook, her fingers twitching against the cover. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I raise a brow. "Oh, you don't?"

"Nope." She lifts her chin, fully committing to this delusion.

I push up onto my elbows, grinning. "So when I snatched your sketchbook the other day and you ran away, that was just... what? A normal reaction?"

Her face flames. "I didn't run away."

I tilt my head, amused. "No, you sprinted."

She lets out an exasperated sound and throws herself back onto the rooftop, staring at the sky. I chuckle, stretching my arms behind my head.

Hanging out here has become... kind of a recurring occurrence.

After a moment, Y/N cautiously sits back up, flipping open her sketchbook again, as if testing the waters. I watch her, waiting until she starts to sketch, before hitting her with-

"So tell me, ARCHER. Why exactly have you been sketching me?"

The way she chokes on air is beautiful. She stiffens, clutching the book tighter, and then-predictably-goes on the defensive. "I wasn't sketching you. I was sketching... an emotion."

I hum, pretending to think about it. "Right. And that's why you drew my face."

She falters. "It's not your face, it's-it's just a face."

I snatch the sketchbook from her lap before she can react.

"JUNGKOOK!"

I flip it open, skimming through the pages, and there it is-me. Unmistakably me. The sharp angles of my jaw, the lines of my throat, the detail in my hands, even the scar below my brow. She's drawn me in different poses, my expression varying between neutral and slightly amused, like she's caught me in moments she didn't even realize she was observing.

My smirk grows. "You've been staring at me."

Y/N scrambles forward, grabbing for the sketchbook, but I hold it out of reach. "I have not!"

"Uh-huh." I tilt my head, watching her with slow amusement. "This is impressive detail, ARCHER. What, do you stare at me in my sleep, too?"

"Oh my God-"

"What's next? A shrine? Little love letters tucked under my pillow? Do you like me, ARCHER?"

She looks like she's about to combust. She splutters. "Y-you are insufferable!"

"And yet you sketch me."

She groans, flopping onto her back, covering her face with her hands. "I hate you."

I grin, finally handing her back the book. "Yeah? Then draw me uglier next time."

She sits up just enough to glare at me.

She sits up just enough to glare at me. "Trust me, I tried."

I chuckle, watching as she tucks the sketchbook protectively against her chest. The rooftop falls into a comfortable silence, just the distant hum of the city below us.

She doesn't open the book again right away. Just hugs it to her chest, her fingers drumming lightly against the cover as she stares at the skyline.

The wind picks up, tugging strands of her hair loose, and she exhales, shifting to tuck them behind her ear.

I should look away. But I don't.

She's beautiful. Captivating.

Fuck.

It's not the first time I've thought it-of course I have, I have eyes-but lately, it's like she keeps getting prettier the more I get to know her. Like every stupid expression, every weird little habit just adds to it.

The way she scrunches her nose when she's frustrated.

The way she goes still when she's sketching, like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

The way her lips part when she's about to say something-

What the fuck.

I drag my gaze aze back to the sky, irritation spiking in my chest.

It's just physical. That's all.

Nothing else.

And I've been attracted to plenty of girls before-granted, none of them were Y/N, but whatever. I shake the thought off before it can solidify into something worse.

I stretch my arms behind my head, forcing my voice to stay light. "Well, for the record, I don't mind. You drawing me, I mean."

Y/N stays quiet for a beat. When she speaks, her voice is softer. "Yeah?"

I glance at her, smirking. "Yeah. It means you think I'm attractive."

She groans so loudly it echoes into the night.

. . . . .

I notice them the second I step out of the apartment.

Men in black. Sunglasses, stiff postures, the whole we're definitely not following you act.

I sigh through my nose.

Here we go again.

They're subtle enough for someone normal not to notice, but I'm not normal, and this isn't my first time being babysat by people who would probably jump in front of a moving car if my mother snapped her fingers.

I ignore them at first.

Walk to campus, sit through a lecture on some shit I don't care about, feel my soul leave my body when the professor starts droning on about market analysis.

The men stay.

I deal after class, meet some guys in an alley, trade product for cash.

The men stay.

I swing by Y/N's café. Just for a second. A quick glance through the window. Her ponytail swings as she moves, taking an order, her face lighting up as she laughs at something.

The men fucking stay.

Alright. That's enough.

I duck into an empty alley and pull out my phone, pressing the contact I've been avoiding all week. The line rings once. Twice. Then-

"JUNGKOOK-Shi," my mother answers smoothly, like she's been expecting my call. "How are you?"

I don't bother with pleasantries. "You've got men spying on me again, Mother?"

She doesn't even pretend to deny it. "Well, if you'd tell your mother your address, I wouldn't have to take such measures, would I?"

I grit my teeth. "What do you want?"

"I want to see my son. Tomorrow, dinner. We'll talk, your father and I will pick you up from your place after you give us a tour." A pause. "And I do hope you've been studying well. Your father is eager to retire."

My jaw tightens. There it is.

The reminder that my future isn't mine. That I'm just a piece in their perfect legacy.

I exhale through my nose, forcing my voice to stay level. "Anything else?"

Another pause. This time, calculated. "Oh. Yes. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

I go still.

"You'll like her," she continues. "She's from an excellent family. Smart, well-bred--"

I hang up.

I shove my phone into my pocket, hands curling into fists. My pulse thrums in my ears, a slow, simmering rage burning beneath my skin.

I need to fucking cool down.

. . . . .

The bass pounds through the club, rattling through my ribs. The air is thick with smoke, sweat, and desperation-the usual.

I exhale a slow stream of smoke, watching the haze curl into the dim lights.

My jaw is tight, my fingers twitching around the cigarette between them.

Fucking perfect. As if I needed more problems. As if I wasn't already drowning in the ones I had.

I bring the cigarette back to my lips, inhaling deep, trying to burn the thought away with nicotine.

Then-nails. Skimming down my arm. Light, teasing. A drag of red polish against inked skin.

I flick my eyes up.

Blonde. Eyes the colour of sickly, fading bruise. A slow, knowing smirk.

The girl steps closer, pressing into my side, the heat of her body cutting through the cool air. Her fingers trail down, slow, deliberate, nails scraping lightly as she traces over veins and tattoos.

The corner of her mouth lifts.

She reaches for the cigarette between my fingers, plucking it away like it's hers. A flicker of red-tipped nails, then the inhale -her lips brushing the filter, eyes locked onto mine through the rising smoke.

She exhales. Leans in.

One hand on my chest now, pressing lightly, like she's feeling for my heartbeat.

The other dragging lower, dipping just under the hem of my shirt.

Her perfume is thick-like artificial flowers rotting in syrup.

And suddenly, I am reminded of a different pair of eyes. Big, doe-like hazel ones.

Not green.

Not sultry.

Not calculating.

But warm.

Restless.

Fucking everywhere.

Fucking hell, ARCHER.

I grit my teeth. One problem wasn't enough?

I grab her wrist and push her hand away.

It's not.

"Not interested."

She huffs, rolling her eyes, but doesn't argue. Just mutters something under her breath and walks off, hips swaying like she's still hoping I'll change my mind.

I don't.

I drag a hand down my face, then grab the nearest shot glass and down it in one go. The burn barely registers. I reach for another.

And then it hits me.

I

have dinner tomorrow. And the 'tour' of my fucking room.

I have to sit across from my mother, pretend I don't hate every single word that leaves her mouth, pretend I don't already know what's coming.

Fuck.

I down the next drink.