Jungkook's POV

"I hope you're hungry, Lay," I said, holding the door open as we stepped into the restaurant.

"Yep," she chirped, cheeks flushed from the walk. The place was cozy—dim lighting, dark wood, low chatter. Smelled like sizzling meat and garlic, the kind that made your stomach rumble before you even sat down.

She looked around. "What's your favorite?"

I pulled her chair out before sliding into my own. "Usually, I just eat whatever's fastest. But I always go for barbecue chicken or galbi. Can't go wrong with ribs."

She studied the menu, lips pursed like she was decoding a secret. "How about we try the sampler? That way we can share and try everything."

I grinned. "Good idea. But I'm starving—so maybe we should order two?"

Layla looked scandalized. "That's a lot of food, Uncle Jungkook."

"True. But we'll pack the rest for dinner. Deal?"

She beamed. And just for a second, I saw my sister in her smile. That same quiet spark, the same soft curve of her lips.

"Okay," she agreed.

We placed our order—two samplers, kimchi stew, and extra rice—and the waiter disappeared. I leaned back, letting the warmth of the room sink in, slowly starting to relax. Layla sipped on her citron soda, and I nursed a cold cola. For a while, the silence between us was companionable.

Until she spoke.

"Why won't you tell Y/N who you really are?"

I blinked, her voice pulling me out of my thoughts like a bucket of ice water.

Layla looked straight at me, her expression open and calm. "She's smart. She knows something's up."

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. Of course she noticed. Of course Layla noticed.

"She is smart," I admitted. "But I like that she... likes me without knowing who I am."

"Does she really know you, though?"

I barked a laugh. "You're too damn smart for your own good."

She tilted her head. "She likes who she thinks you are. But when she finds out, she'll be mad. And she will find out."

Her words hit somewhere behind my ribs, like a low warning bell.

"You're so sure?"

Layla nodded without hesitation. "Mom used to say lies can only live in the dark. Eventually the sun comes up, and poof—everyone sees what's real."

Goddammit, Marnie. You raised a philosopher.

"How'd you get so smart?" I asked, genuinely impressed.

"I read a lot," she said proudly. "And Mom and Dad said every moment was a learning opportunity."

I smiled, even as my heart tightened. "That sounds exactly like your mom." Marnie could turn anything—rainstorms, spilled milk, a traffic jam—into some kind of deep metaphor for life. "I hope you apply that same maturity when school starts again."

She rolled her eyes. "Uncle Jungkook."

"I'm serious. Doesn't matter how big of a jerk someone is, you can't just hit them."

She gave me a sly grin. "You said jerk."

I laughed, shaking my head. "If I hear you say that at school, all your devices are gone. For half a year."

She gasped dramatically but still held out her hand. "Deal."

I shook it with mock formality.

"But I didn't hit her right away," she added, voice softening. "I let it go, like Mom always said. She kept making fun of my clothes, the way I talk. Said I was weird because I like books."

I nodded, staying quiet.

"And then one day... she said my parents probably died just to get away from me."

I stopped breathing for a second.

"Ah, shit," I muttered. "That's—" I clenched my jaw. "That's evil."

Layla blinked but didn't flinch at the word. "So I punched her. And I don't regret it."

"She probably deserved it," I muttered, resting my elbows on the table. "But you still don't deserve the punishment you've been carrying. Got it?"

She looked down at her folded hands. "So I'm just supposed to take it?"

"No," I said firmly. "You don't take it. You just change how you fight. The best revenge? Outsmart them. Show them up. Win."

Her eyes lifted again. "You were bullied?"

"Yeah." I didn't say how bad. Didn't tell her how I spent my middle school years pretending to be invisible. "Your mom had my back a lot, but once she left for college, I had to handle it myself."

"How?"

I smiled crookedly. "Let's just say... I got good at outsmarting people."

"Like hacking their grades?" she asked, all innocent curiosity.

I froze. "Who told you that?"

She smirked. "Nobody. Just sounds like something you'd do."

Damn. I was raising a little mastermind.

Before I could answer, our food arrived, sizzling and fragrant, filling the table with meats and stews and little banchan dishes.

Layla clapped her hands, already reaching for the tongs. "Okay. Let's eat, Uncle Jungkook."

I passed her a wrap, still watching her quietly.

She was sharp, observant, stubborn, and so much like my sister it made my throat ache.

And she was right about Y/N.

Because every moment I kept that truth from her—about who I was, what I owned, what I'd done—I risked the only real thing I'd had in years. She laughed—barbecue sauce smeared at the corner of her mouth, her whole face lit up with mischief. "You're like... some kind of evil villain, Uncle Jungkook."

I leaned back in the booth, letting out a real laugh. One of those deep ones that came from the chest. "Nah. Just a desperate, bullied kid who figured out how to use his brain to survive. And to build something better. That's what I want for you, Layla. That's what your mom would've wanted too."

She went quiet for a beat, then leaned in close with narrowed eyes and a wicked smile. "Maybe I'll steal her boyfriend one day. Or worse—her best friend!"

I choked on my cola.

There was a second of silence as I processed what she just said, and then I burst out laughing, covering my mouth with my sleeve. "Goddamn, I want to be terrified of that comment... but the truth is, I'm kinda proud."

Layla grinned like she'd just won something and grabbed a piece of spicy yangnyeom galbi, tearing into it like a little beast. Then she reached over the banchan tray and shoved a handful of crinkle fries into her mouth.

"Thank you," she mumbled through a mouthful of meat and potato.

I looked at her like I was watching a bomb ticking down. "You're going to give me premature gray hair, aren't you?"

She blinked up at me with the fakest innocent face I'd ever seen. "Me? Nooo. Never."

I narrowed my eyes. "You are exactly like your mom. And your mom used to set the rice cooker on fire, Layla."

She gasped, still chewing. "She did not!"

"Oh, she did. Burned a hole through the counter once. Swore she was 'experimenting.'" I made finger quotes and she giggled until her shoulders shook.

Watching her laugh, cheeks stuffed and eyes glimmering, it hit me again—how much of Marnie lived on in this little troublemaker.

Y/n pov

Sitting in traffic on my way back to Jungkook and Layla felt odd. Surreal, even.
I spent the entire weekend burning through half a dozen batteries, thanks to thoughts of the hot, broody nerd I barely knew—and doing something I never do. Daydreaming. About him.
What kind of dark sorcery had he laced that damn kiss with? Because instead of heading to the bar and locking in a one-night distraction like I usually would, I was curled up in my apartment, wearing his hoodie like some tragic K-drama second lead and getting myself off to the memory of his voice, his mouth, and that intense stare that could melt titanium.

"Gross," I muttered as a guy in a cherry red pickup pulled up beside me, licking his lips at me like some dehydrated dog. He wiggled his brows.
"I don't think so, dirtbag."
I flipped him off and gunned it the second the light turned green, leaving his sorry face in the dust.

When I finally pulled up to the Jeon estate, it looked the same as when I left Friday evening. But I didn't feel the same. I'd spent 48 hours trying to forget how his lips felt crashing into mine... and failing. That kiss? It still haunted me. Still burned on my mouth. Still curled low in my gut every time I closed my eyes.
I wanted it again. God, I wanted what that kiss promised. But I couldn't have it.
Wouldn't.
It wasn't just dangerous to my peace of mind—it was a full-blown professional hazard.

So I spent the weekend screwing myself to the memory of his mouth and growling voice, coming undone over and over again like I was possessed. Honestly, I should've invested in rechargeable toys at this point because living under the same roof as Jungkook three days a week was going to get dangerous.

"No time for that, Y/N." I gave myself a mental slap as I parked the car and grabbed my weekend bag. "This is work. Not Tinder. Not your personal Pornhub fantasy house. Work."

The house was oddly quiet for a place with a seven-year-old. I crept inside like a thief, not because I was afraid—but because I wasn't emotionally equipped to see him yet.

Halfway up the stairs, a soft shuffle of feet pulled my attention upward.
"Hey, Layla."

She stood at the top of the steps, her smile as bright as ever. "Hi, Y/N unnie! I finished my story! Wanna read it?"

Her expression was so adorably hopeful it punched me right in the heart.
"If you don't want to..." she started, already clutching the pages closer.

"Of course I do," I grinned and held out my hand. "Hand it over, little genius."

"You sure?"

"I am. Are you?"

"No," she said truthfully.

"All the more reason you have to let me read it then. Art is terrifying for the artiste."
She giggled and shoved the pages into my hand before taking off like she expected me to finish it in under ten seconds.

I shook my head and smiled at her disappearing form. God, I missed her. I didn't expect to, but I did. She was light. Sharp and sweet. The kind of kid who had every reason to shut down but didn't.

After a shower and unpacking, I curled up on my bed with her story. By the time I turned the last page, I was crying—actually crying—at how clever and quietly heartbreaking it was. I needed to tell her. Right now.

"Layla!" I jogged barefoot out of my room, hair still damp, wiping my cheeks with the sleeve of Jungkook's hoodie I hadn't even realized I was still wearing.

I checked the hallway, the media room, even the pantry. No sign of her.
"Layla, where'd you go?"

And then... I saw him.

Jungkook stood at the back patio grill, one hand holding a long silver spatula. A plain white t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and biceps, damp with sweat, his muscles flexing and shifting as he flipped steaks and burgers like some forbidden summer dream.

He turned to face me. "Y/N, you're home."

And fuck.
I really should've bought that rechargeable vibrator.