I woke up early, slipping out of Jungkook's arms as noiselessly as possible. He lay deeply asleep; the even rise and fall of his chest a sight for which I was thankful. The happenings of the night before were too close, too hurtful, and I was not ready to confront them again just yet.

I padded silently into the kitchen to jiggle the emotions off, as though they clung to me like a second skin. The silence in the penthouse felt like a suffocating thing against the storm in my heart. I needed to do something—anything—not just stand and let myself trip up over despair. Cooking seemed to be the best course at that moment: some simple, routine thing to ground myself by.

I went to make some breakfast. Familiar motions—cracking eggs, whisking batter, frying bacon—did much to assuage the small comfort of my own frazzled nerves. The odor of food filled the kitchen, and for a small moment, I let myself be focused on nothing else but the task at hand.

I flipped the pancakes, feeling footsteps approach from behind me—heavy, slow. I did not need to turn. That would definitely be Jungkook. The man shuffled into the kitchen, temples of his head rubbed with a grimace, tousled hair, eyes half-closed; in his movement, all the telltale signs of a hangover were there.

"Mornin'," he growled, his voice gravelly from sleep and last night's drinking. He leaned against the counter, blinked bleary-eyed, trying to wake up.

"Morning," I responded, softening myself at the stove. My heart was pounding as I now awaited his mention of last night, but an ominous quiet ensued.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, wincing slightly as his fingers pressed deeper into his temples. "Ugh, my head is killing me. Pretty sure I overdid it last night," he mumbled to himself.

I nodded toward the pancakes, flipping them for the last time. "Yeah, you did," I agreed in a murmur, feeling a small part of my relief. It was obvious that he didn't remember anything from last night, and a part of me felt relieved because of that. He wasn't prepared for all of it: the crying, the confessing, really, the raw embarrassment that had passed between us.

Jungkook sighed long and heavy before he let his shoulders sag against the counter. "Sorry if I was a mess. Not that I remember much of anything," he confessed with a sheepish rub of his neck.

"It's okay," I said, trying to sound as steady as possible, as i dropped a plate of pancakes onto the countertop just in front of him. "You needed the rest."

He looked toward the food, and his lips twisted into the barest suggestion of a smile. "Thanks for this," he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he was testing my mood.

I passed him his coffee, nodding again as I forced myself to smile. "No problem. Just. try not to make a habit of it, okay?

He chuckled lightly, though his face was still pinched with pain. "Yeah, I'll try and take it easy," he promised and sipped at the coffee with a grateful sigh.

As he started eating, my emotions jumbled, I watched him from the corner of my eyes. Here sat the Jungkook I had always known: calm, collected, and in control—so it seemed. How could I forget the one from last night, weeping in my arms, begging me not to leave him?.

I wanted to say something, to broach the subject, but the words caught in my throat. How could I bridge the gulf between the man standing before me and the one that I held tightly just some hours before?

I said nothing at all and continued cleaning up the kitchen. Jungkook ate in silence, save for the tinkle of his fork on the plate and the rustle of the city outside.

I wondered, standing at the sink washing dishes, if we were just ignoring the elephant in the room, acting as though last night had never happened. But for now, I was content to let the silence stretch between us like a fragile truce I wasn't ready to break.

Jungkook only looked up to meet my gaze after he had finished breakfast. By that time, so much time had passed that it was like eternity. There wasn't that much of an expression on his face, but in his eyes, there sat an endless, depressed tinge at their core, as if carrying something heavy he couldn't quite put down.

"I hope I haven't done anything to make you uncomfortable last night," he said softly, his voice careful, almost hesitant.

"Don't call me that," I snapped, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

"Eh?" He blinked, surprised by my reaction.

I looked away, frustration bubbling up inside of me. "Jerk," I muttered under my breath, too low for him to catch.

"What?" He leaned forward, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What did you say?"

"Don't call me Moon," I said again, louder this time, making myself meet his eyes.

He tipped his head to the side, his deep eyes regarding me thoughtfully. "So, what am I supposed to call you, then?" he asked, an eyebrow curved up in inquiry, but there was an undercurrent to his tone—something that felt almost like a challenge.

The words caught in my throat as I hesitated. I knew what I wanted to say, what I needed to say, but that felt like admitting something I wasn't sure I was ready to face. Finally, I sighed, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "My love," I said, trying to sound indifferent, but the words came out sharper than I intended. "You used to call me that so easily. Even if everything was fake, at least keep up the act. Please, just call me that."

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, his phone rang, shattering the moment like glass.

His face hardened instantly; his eyes went cold as ice as he flipped open his phone. "Now what?" he barked into the receiver, his tone totally opposite from the softness of just seconds earlier.

I watched him, the familiar distance settling back between us. It was as if a switch had been flipped—one moment there, then that glimpse of my man, the one that once used to be able to break my heart with just one glance. Then he disappeared again, into this cold, distant Jungkook who seemed to be more concerned with his duties than us.

As he went on speaking, he was still taut and clipped, and those two words—"my love"—continued to hang there in the air between us. Just words, but they held so much history, so much pain, that I wasn't sure whether either of us knew anymore what they really meant.

He finally hung up and looked at me. His face seemed so emotionless. "I have to go," he told me with a voice so flat it was almost taut.

"Of course you do," I replied, my frustration at the whole situation leaking into my voice. Duty first; that was always how it would be.

He paused for a moment, as though he wanted to say more, and then nodded, turning away. I was in yet another gilded cage, but this time something seemed to be different. Before, I had clung to the hope that someone would come and love me—real, true love.

Now, I can see it for what it was: a lie. The love that I had believed in is unreal. It only served as a mask he wore to keep me hopeful, to keep me holding on, and now that mask has slipped away, baring the truth beneath.

More than anything, it hurts. The same man who should save me exposes his real identity; nothing is as it was told. This beautiful place is but a prison and all I am left with is the painful reality that this love I once believed in never existed at all.

I don't know how time slipped by, but before I knew it, it was past lunchtime. I thought about cooking, but the thought alone made me feel exhausted. There was no cook here, and honestly, I was fine with that. I'd had enough bad experiences with cooks—just another trauma I didn't want to revisit. It seemed easier to stay hungry.

Still, I forced myself to check the cupboards, finding some instant food. But even that didn't appeal to me, so I closed the cabinets and decided to lie down for a nap instead.

When I woke up, something smelled... different. A faint, smoky scent filled the air, something cooking, maybe? I sat up, still groggy, and glanced around the room. My eyes widened in shock as I saw Jungkook at the stove, shirtless, stirring something in a pan.

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry as I watched him. He was focused, completely absorbed in what he was doing, and on top of that, he was busy talking on the phone, his voice low and serious.

I couldn't tear my eyes away.