Taehyung's pov

The gym used to be my calm place.

There was no thinking when I was lifting weights, or running on the treadmill, or bench pressing. Just me and achievement; lifting more, running longer.

But that peacefulness is lost. Ever since Friday—since earlier, if I'm being honest with myself—my mind drifts back to Jungkook every chance it gets. It doesn't matter that it's seven a.m. or that my breath is coming in painful huffs.

I shouldn't have kissed him, I think for the hundredth time. What had come over me? I wasn't a horny teenager, and I wasn't Eun Ilsung, and still... I'd kissed him right there, right in my office, sitting at my own damn desk.

I turn up the incline on the treadmill another few levels. It's the part of my gym routine I hate the most, but I never skip it. Doing things I don't want to do is my specialty. Getting things done. Playing by the rules, pushing the limits, sacrificing things like pleasure for the plan. In my family, my self-discipline was practically legendary.

But it had crumbled with one look from Jungkook.

Damn man. He was just as infuriatingly stubborn as me, not afraid to speak his mind, and he knew just how to push limits. No person I'd dated would have acted like he did on Friday—drawn up a contract. Taken a seat at my desk. Negotiated for his future.

I run until my legs nearly give out, lungs about to burst in my chest. It's a small testament to the self-discipline Jungkook has tried to ruin. Brick by brick, I'll have to rebuild the layers of control. He'd challenged me to stay away from him.

I'll win, and there's no denying I'll have a hell of a lot of fun doing it, walking the thin line with him.

When I arrive at work, it's mostly empty, as usual. I spend the first two hours working on the opera house and answering emails. The clock hand moves slowly on my desk toward ten a.m.—the time I know Jungkook will be at my door, laptop under his arm, ready for our Monday meeting. My self-control does nothing to dampen anticipation, it seems.

He knocks on my door at exactly ten a.m. A vision in red today - red outfit with white tee—an outfit that follows his body. Hair up in a half ponytail.

The look he gives me in indecipherable. I look right back at him, our gaze locked until there's a smile on his lips. It eases something in my chest—the part of me that had been unsure of how he'd behave around me, given Friday.

"Well," he says, "shall we begin?"

We run through his list of things to check for the coming week. It's not much, given we'll both be out of office on both Thursday and Friday. The urge to tease him about it is nearly overwhelming.

Jungkook gently closes his laptop, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of silky hair behind his ear. "So," he says, "on to my final item."

"Oh?"

"I want more information about this weekend. If I'm to be your date, I want to know what I'm walking into. Is this wedding really going to last four days?"

I lean back in my chair. "Yes, and no. People are coming in from out of town and there are things scheduled from Friday to Sunday. Dinner, games, brunch, that sort of thing."

"And on Thursday?"

"Dinner with my family."

Something like surprise flashes in his eyes. Interesting. "Okay," he says, but there's a faint frown on his lips.

"You still want more information."

He runs a hand over his hair, but stops halfway, as if remembering that he has it pinned tight. "Yes. I'm a planner. An organizer. What if we get asked questions about how we met? What do I work with, if we don't work together? I need details."

I stifle a smile at his rambling. "You want all your bases covered."

"Yes."

A glance from him to the office door proves it's shut, but it still feels too exposing to talk about this, here, in the place where we both need to be professional. "Come over tonight," I say instead. "We'll make a game plan. You can ask all the questions you want."

His eyes widen. "To yours?"

"Yes."

It's risky, but I need to prove to the both of us that we can do the right thing —that we can stay away from each other. That I still have self-control.

His eyes narrow with determination. "I can tell what you're doing."

"Really? And what am I doing?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I'll be there. Seven?"

"Yes. I trust you already have the address?"

Jungkook stands, his eyes meeting mine for one long, breathless moment. "Yes," he says, "I do. Think we can handle it?"

"Being alone together?"

He nods, tucking his laptop under his arm. I run a hand along the edge of my desk and meet his bold gaze straight-on. "You challenged us to stay away from one another. If I remember correctly, you also predicted you'd win."

There's a grin on his lips, hovering right around the corners of his mouth. It makes me want to smile in response. "So I did," he says. "I guess we'll just have to see who does."

-

-

It's seven p.m., and Jungkook's right on time, standing outside my apartment door.

He's let his hair down. Black strands frame his face. For such a small man, he has a huge presence means his aura is lot bigger than he himself. There's nowhere else I want to look when he's around.

He gives me a businesslike nod and steps past me. "So this is your apartment."

"Yes."

"It's very close to work."

"Convenient."

He hangs his thin jacket up on one of the pegs in the hallway and walks into the living room unescorted. I hang back, watching in silence as he looks around.

His fierce beauty makes my neutral apartment look dull in comparison.

"Huh," he finally says. "It's nothing like I expected."

"How so?"

He stops at the coffee table, eyes roaming over a large book on ancient Roman architecture. "It has... personality."

Hah. Bemused, I put my hands in my pockets and just look at him. He glances up and seems to realize his words. "Sorry. That didn't come out the way I meant it."

"Not the first time I've heard it," I say. My apparent "lack of personality" has become a common refrain from friends and family at this point. Lighten up. Smile. Why so serious?

"Have you been?" I ask, nodding at the book.

"To Italy? No."

"You'd love it."

A faint, dreamy smile softens his lips. It changes his features, the alertness momentarily gone. "Of that I have no doubt," he murmurs.

He's so beautiful with his guard down, and the fierce desire I feel is not something I'm used to; I want to bring out that softness again, over and over, in quiet moments when there's no one around but us.

I clear my throat. "A glass of wine, and then we'll start with your questions. White?"

"Yes. Please."

He leans against the kitchen island as I open the wine cooler and find a bottle of Sancerre. It's light, easy, the complete opposite of the conversation I'm sure we're about to have.

"So..." he begins.

"So," I echo, uncorking the bottle. "Let's get our story straight. That's what you wanted, right?"

He slides into one of the tall chairs by the kitchen island and runs a hand over the marble. "Do you cook?"

"Sometimes," I answer calmly.

"This kitchen is meticulously clean. Did you scrub it down with bleach before I came?"

"Cleaners come twice a week."

He nods, like he expected nothing else, and lets his eyes wander. They slide around the open kitchen space, the large windows, the sofas that beckon. I wonder what he thinks of my place—what it says about me. We're architects, after all. Forms and shapes are never just functional.

"Where's the wedding?"

"In Paradise beachside," I say. "It's a seaside town in Daegu."

"Ah," he says, a whole world conveyed through that one word. It's not hard to imagine what he's thinking. He accepts the wineglass I hand him, twirling it thoughtfully by the stem. "Think I'll fit in?"

The thought that he wouldn't hadn't even crossed my mind. "Absolutely."

"Is that where you grew up?"

"Yes."

He slides out of the chair and walks, wineglass in hand, to the large sofas in the adjoining living room. They're all gray; there's barely any color in sight. I watch in silence as he runs a hand over the high back. "If we're going to do this, we need to know more about each other."

I gesture for him to sit down, and he does, as far away from me as the couch allows. Smart. Despite the distance, my body is painfully aware that he's here, with me, in my home. Alone. Control, I remind myself. Boundaries.

"You're right," I say. "Tell me about where you're from."

He sighs, his gaze slipping from mine again to land on the sleek fireplace. Not for the first time, it strikes me just how beautiful he really is. It was something he'd mentioned in his cover letter—that he wasn't taken seriously because of it. The notion that people only see his face, and not the fierce intellect beneath it, makes me just as angry on his behalf.

"I'm from a small town in the Busan," he says. "You wouldn't know it."

"Ohh."

"Yes. My parents are amazing. They had me when they were really young, and money was always tight, but they gave me the best they could." His eyes are proud—like he's waiting for judgement. Has he received it in the past?

"I'm sure they did."

"My father came here as an immigrant when he was a teenager. He worked every job he could." A small, indulgent smile spreads on his face. "He's the one I call whenever I have a problem, of any kind. He knows how to repair a dishwasher, how to fix chipped paint on a car... absolutely anything."

"He sounds great."

He nods. "He is. My mom is mid western but used to live in busan, born and bred. She got her teaching degree when I was still a kid, and she's worked as a third-grade teacher ever since."

"What did they think of you moving out here?"

"They were supportive. I mean... they don't really understand what I do, but they'd never be anything but positive about the whole thing."

The picture he is painting is lovely. "Any siblings?"

"Nope, only child." He pulls his knees up, loafers left abandoned on the carpet. "But this is going the wrong way around. I have questions for you."

I steel myself. "All right."

"Tell me about your parents."

"Well, my father is a developer and builder, just like me. My mom doesn't work. She is half korean, half french but... she came here from France there to marry my dad. She was a stay-at-home mom for many years."

Jungkook sits up straighter. "You're half-French?"

"Technically, yes."

"Hmm." He takes a sip of his wine, eyes averted. It's not hard to imagine what he's thinking about. Both of us have one foot in another culture, another language, but the lived experiences of our parents couldn't be more different. It's a similarity that still serves to highlight the difference between us—the same difference he'd outlined in his cover letter.

"Do you speak French?"

"Yes. Had to, to be able to speak to my cousins."

"I'm very much hoping that's not a requirement for this wedding, though."

I snort. "No. Everything will be in English and most of them knows Korean too, don't worry." Most of the French side of the family had not been invited. Jin hyung had wanted it small, after all.

Jungkook nods, letting his fingers trail over the couch. His hand is slender, free from rings, slightly tan. I wonder what it would feel like on my skin. I wonder how he feels about my firm, my apartment, after what he just told me about his upbringing. In his eyes, I suppose it might seem... gaudy. Does it make him think less of me?

But then he cocks his head, smooths his hair back, and sends me a look filled with such challenge that all thought evaporates.

"So, Kim Taehyung... how exactly did we meet?"

I clear my throat. "Through mutual acquaintances."

"Mmm, that's good. At a dinner party."

"Sure."

"We were seated next to each other and found mutual ground over how small the portions were. You offered me a ride home. We stopped at a kebab shop in Gangnam."

I raise an eyebrow. "Detailed, are you?"

"It's what makes me a great assistant."

"Then by all means, continue."

A beautiful, fierce flush rises on his cheeks, but he doesn't break away from my gaze. "You got a massive kebab, I got a smaller one, and we shared a plate of fries. We spoke about our mutual love of architecture."

"Sounds like something we'd do."

A smile ghosts across his lips, the memory of our lunch clear in his eyes. "It does, doesn't it?"

"What did we do after the kebab shop?"

"We didn't call another car. We walked instead, late at night, nearly all the way to my apartment. We spoke about how hard you work, that you've always been driven. I chimed in with my own stories of all-nighters spent in the library, of feeling like a failure if I didn't get an A on my report cards. Our hands brushed as we walked, by accident at first, but later on with purpose." He pauses, taking another sip of his wine. "...and then we reached my apartment building."

"Hmm. It would be late by then," I say.

"Oh, it was." His eyes glitter, challenging and heated. "Well? What did you do next?"

I drape my arm along the edge of the sofa, my hand nearly at his shoulder. "I brushed your hair back—you were wearing it down, like you are now—and asked for your number. You gave it to me, of course."

"Of course," he says with a smile.

"Then I told you that I wanted to take you out the following weekend. Properly, on a date, just the two of us."

He wets his lips. "You wouldn't kiss me? Or come inside?"

Heat and need clenches inside of me at his words. Such a simple question, but such a powerful response. I try to force my mind away from the memory of his soft lips on mine and the way his body had melted against me.

I fail.

"I wouldn't have pushed it. We'd just met, after all. But I can tell you, just between us, that I wanted to, very much."

He picks at the hem of his shirt. "Oh?"

"Absolutely."

There's something about him normally competent self being thrown off that is beyond intoxicating. I have to stop myself from smiling at the look on his face, his lips slightly open, eyes glazed...

I shift closer. "Is that a good enough story for our first meeting, Jungkook?"

"Yes. Yes, I think that'll work..." His voice trails off, his fingers dancing along the back of the sofa.

"We met each other recently, so this is still new. We don't need to know everything about each other to convincingly play this off."

"Smart."

"Thanks," I say, with half a smile. "You're clearly nervous about this. There's no need to be."

Jungkook wants to protest—I can see it in his eyes—but doesn't. Instead, he drains the last of his wine. "Maybe I am, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"Here." I reach for his glass, now empty, and stand. "I'll be right back, and then you can ask me anything you want to put your nerves at ease. All right?"

"All right," he echoes, curling up further on the corner of the couch, and I ignore the feeling that he belongs here. In my life, in my apartment, and on my couch.

It's getting harder to do by the minute.

-

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To be continued.......

Taehyung is on the edge already how long will his control last???!!😉😉

Happy Birthday kookooo