Y/N's POV

"Are you sure this is where I'm supposed to be, Serenity?" I sat in my beat-up Honda and stared up at the towering brick mansion that looked like it belonged in a K-drama set, not real life. It was massive, but not tacky—chaebol-level expensive, but clean, restrained. Dark stone walls, brushed metal accents, big gates that whispered money, not screamed it. It wasn't trying to impress anyone. That made it more intimidating.

"This place looks like a damn replica of my last placement," I muttered, stomach twisting.

Serenity laughed in my ear, her voice all husky wisdom. "I'm sure. He's desperate, and I think you're just what they need."

I rolled my eyes, pulling my jacket tighter around me. "I'm not what anybody needs. But I'm good at my job."

"Be that as it may," she replied in that gentle-but-don't-test-me tone all the Elite nannies feared, "Jungkook and his niece Layla could use someone with your particular skill set. And yes, the address I gave you is accurate."

"Perfect," I sighed. "I'll let you know how it goes."

"I have no doubt this is the placement you've been searching for."

The smile in her voice made me suspicious, but I let it slide. "Anything else you can tell me? What he does for a living? What kind of hours I should expect?"

"Jungkook works from home, mostly. But he prefers to keep the details private."

I resisted the urge to make a face. "As long as whatever he's into doesn't put me in danger, it's fine with me."

"You'll be safe, Y/N."

"All right then. Wish me luck."

"Who needs luck when I have you?"

She hung up before I could argue, and I stared at the oversized steel door for a beat too long. I wasn't nervous. I just... didn't want to walk into another cold, glass house full of silence and secrets. But I knew better than most—judging a book by its cover usually meant missing the best parts of the story.

So I inhaled. Stepped out. Adjusted the leather jacket that hugged my waist like a second skin, and tugged down my black t-shirt just enough to keep it classy. My skinny jeans and belt made me feel powerful. My knee-high boots clicked with purpose as I marched up the stone steps and rang the ornate doorbell.

Twice. Because I'm polite, not desperate.

The door opened a moment later, and I immediately wished it hadn't.

Standing there barefoot in black joggers and a fitted grey tee was quite possibly the most devastatingly hot man I'd ever laid eyes on. Thick chestnut brown hair curled messily over his forehead like he'd run his hands through it a hundred times that morning. His jawline? Sharper than my ex's words. His eyes—dark brown eyes with a steel edge—were cool, unreadable, but curious. Built like a man who knew the weight of hard work: broad shoulders, defined chest, and strong, veiny forearms that could do terrible and wonderful things. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, but still managed to make exhaustion look like a designer accessory.

He was gorgeous. Wildly, unfairly, shut-up-and-take-my-soul gorgeous.

I blinked, cursed under my breath, and snapped my gaze back to his face before I made a fool of myself.

"Are you Jungkook?" Please God, let this be a hot cousin or neighbor and not the man I'm supposed to nanny for.

His thick brows pulled together. "Excuse me?"

"Jungkook," I repeated. "Is that you?"

He stared at me blankly for a moment, and then his eyes actually focused. "Who are you?"

"My name is Kim Y/N. Mam Serenity sent me. For the two o'clock interview."

He gave a slow, distracted nod, eyes flicking somewhere past my shoulder like he was either bored or plotting a new video game universe. "The interview's not until two."

"It's ten minutes to two."

He blinked like time offended him, then narrowed his gaze. Looking me up and down, slowly. Not in a creepy way—more like he was running a scan and didn't like the results.

After an uncomfortably long pause, he muttered, "Okay."

I crossed my arms and gave him the look. The one that said I've had enough chaebol heirs in my life to know your type, pal. "I'm here for the nanny position. Only the nanny position."

His lips twitched. "Come on in, Miss Kim."

"Y/N," I corrected smoothly, stepping inside, pretending not to inhale—but absolutely inhaling—the subtle, clean scent that clung to him like a second skin. Something expensive and understated. Woodsmoke, mint, and man. It crept up my nose and took up residence in my bloodstream before I could stop it.

"Y/N," he echoed, and there was something thoughtful in the way he said it. "Great name. Regal. Royal."

I didn't bother responding, just followed his long-legged stride through the foyer. No, I absolutely did not admire the way his black joggers sat low on his hips or how his fitted t-shirt stretched across his shoulder blades. Or how his narrow waist and lean runner's build made me briefly reconsider every life decision that led me here.

The moment we entered his office, I locked down any rogue thoughts. The room was rich and masculine—dark wood, black and brown leather, brass accents everywhere. Heavy books lined the shelves, computer equipment humming softly on a desk that looked far too organized for someone this disheveled.

He glanced over his shoulder, catching me scanning the space. "Maybe the living room would be better," he said with a lazy grin, already turning and walking back the way we came.

Right. Because clearly, my future boss preferred soft interrogation under softer lighting.

We entered a sleek, minimalistic living room—tall windows, low furniture, not a single unnecessary decoration in sight. The couch looked untouched, like it had been placed by an interior designer and never sat on once.

"So, Y/N," he started, settling onto one end of the couch and leaning back, casual but controlled. "Your qualifications are impressive."

Duh.

"Thank you."

He nodded once. "How soon can you start?"

Straight to business. No warm-up, no fluff. He wasn't a man who liked wasting time. Coming from anyone else, it might've set off alarm bells, but with him? It just fit.

"Tomorrow," I said easily, meeting his silver-blue gaze without blinking. "But I'd like to meet Layla first."

His lips curved, just barely. "Of course."
His lips twitched. "Come on in, Miss Kim."

"Y/N," I corrected, stepping inside like I wasn't secretly drowning in the scent of his cologne—woody, expensive, and masculine as sin. It clung to the air like temptation, working its way into my lungs and straight up into my poor, underused brain.

"Such a great name," he murmured, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. "Regal. Royal."

I didn't respond to the compliment. Not because I didn't like it, but because the way it rolled off his tongue like silk had me walking a little too carefully behind him. I did not admire the way his long legs moved with quiet precision, or the way the muscles under his dark gray tee flexed as he shoved one hand into his pocket.

We passed a set of wide glass panels that framed the massive back garden—manicured hedges, a stone path, and an isolated reading bench like some moody rich-boy fantasy. But when we stepped into his office, I barely noticed him at all.

The room was pure masculine elegance: dark walnut walls, black leather couch, sleek mahogany desk with cold brass handles. Bookshelves stretched floor to ceiling, some lined with hardcovers, others crammed with tech gadgets and spare laptop parts. A double-screen setup glowed quietly behind his chair. This wasn't a man cave. It was a command center.

His lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin. "Maybe the living room would be better."

Without waiting for my input, he turned and led me right back through the hallway we came from, finally stopping in the open-concept living room. Modern, minimalist. Not a single family photo in sight.

"So," he said, settling into the leather armchair across from the couch, "Y/N. Your qualifications are impressive."

Duh. "Thank you."

"How soon can you start?"

Straight to the point. If it had been anyone else, I might've called it suspicious. But something told me Jungkook wasn't rude—just brutally efficient.

"Soon," I replied. "But maybe we should chat first, don't you think?"

He frowned. "Why? I need a nanny. You're a nanny."

I tilted my head and gave him my best don't-play-dumb-with-me smile. "Parents—or guardians—who don't ask questions about who's caring for their kid usually end up being problematic employers."

His eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

I leaned back, letting my red lipstick do the talking for a beat. "What do you need from your nanny, Mr... ah, Jungkook?"

He paused, clearly biting down on something smartass, but chose to answer instead. "I need someone who knows kids. Someone who can handle a sharp-tongued, smarter-than-average little girl with a chip on her shoulder."

He went on to explain how Layla had been having problems at school—a bully, a few disciplinary notes, an attitude toward authority figures. "She's mouthy because she's brilliant. She picks up on everything. She's... tough. Too grown for her own good."

My chest tugged. "She sounds incredible."

He blinked at that, his expression softening for the first time. "She is. I think. But I'm not used to children. I didn't expect to raise one. I need someone who can help her connect again. With people, with school, with herself."

I nodded, already building a curriculum in my head. "So emotional regulation, social softening, and academic prep. Got it."

"It's a one-year commitment."

Which, in this industry, was as close to job security as I was gonna get. "I'm in. Can I meet her?"

Jungkook's hand ran through his thick, dark curls. "Layla!"

The kid who appeared a minute later had the same sharp energy in her eyes as her uncle. She was small for her age, and wore black jeans,white socks, and a pink shirt that read Clown Wrangler. Her dark brown eyes locked onto mine like she was sizing me up for dinner—or war.

"You're the new nanny?"

I liked her already. "Maybe. Depends on how we get along. You ever had a nanny before?"

"Nope," she answered, chin tilted. "I went to school and hung out with my parents."

Her voice softened at the word "parents," and the shift didn't go unnoticed. My heart tugged, but I kept my smile steady. "Well, I like your shirt."

She smirked. "I like your jacket."

We were already bonding. "Thanks. I like your bracelets."

Layla looked down at the rainbow stack on her wrist like she forgot they were even there. She smiled, just a little. "Can you cook?"

I shrugged. "Enough to get by. Doesn't a house like this have a cook?"

Her gaze sharpened as she shot a look at Jungkook—one so pointed it nearly spoke out loud.

"I told Uncle Jungkook the same thing," she groaned. "He can afford it, but he said no. He wants to 'keep it simple.'" She said it in air quotes. "Which means we live on noodles and cereal. He won't be happy until I burn the place down."

Jungkook made a sound somewhere between a cough and a groan.

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. "Well, I'm no Iron Chef, but I can teach you enough to avoid the fire department showing up."

Layla perked up instantly. "Yeah?" Her eyes shone with something that looked suspiciously like hope.