"Yeah, sure. It won't be fancy but it'll taste good and get the job done."

Layla studied me like I was a Rubik's cube she'd already decided she could solve. She tilted her head, then shrugged. "I like her," she declared with the casual finality of royalty and disappeared down the hall, thumping against the floor.

That was it.

The weirdest interview I'd ever had—and I'd once been hired by a woman who ran a vegan commune out of a converted bus.

I turned back toward her uncle, who was watching me with an unreadable expression. Then he swiped his palms over his thighs and took a slow step back, his jaw ticking.

"Can you start today?" he asked, voice rougher now. "I'll double your rate for an entire shift if you say yes."

Of course he would.

I folded my arms. "My normal rate will be just fine... Mr. Jungkook." My tone came out sweet but clipped, just enough to remind him I wasn't impressed by the wallet. "But I will need a day off to pack up a few things. Maybe tomorrow."

He nodded, eyes flicking toward the hallway Layla had disappeared into. "Yeah. Sure. No problem." His voice softened on that last bit, almost like he didn't mean to say it.

Then he stood, really stood, and damn. The man was tall. Built like he boxed for fun but coded algorithms for a living. He offered his hand, and I hesitated half a second too long before reaching out.

The second our palms touched, I regretted it.

A spark—literal, hot, uninvited—shot up my arm and buried itself in my neck like static. My pulse skipped. My breath caught.

I let go faster than I should have, pulling my hand back like I'd grabbed a live wire. What the hell was that?

It was just a handshake.

Just a man's hand.

Just skin.

But—

His dark eyes tracked the retreat of my hand. I saw it, that small flicker of confusion—or interest?—before he masked it with a neutral nod. "Guest room's upstairs. First door on the right."

I swallowed, my throat tight. "Thanks."

He turned, but I caught the pause in his step. The way his fingers flexed at his side like he felt it too and didn't know what to do with it.

I didn't either.

So I followed him upstairs without another word, each step echoing louder than it should've in that sleek, quiet house.

Far from my comfort zone.

Far from reason.

Far from the urge to do something reckless.

Something stupid.

Something dangerous.

Jungkook's POV

Progress.

Nothing felt better than two full days of uninterrupted work—two entire rotations of the clock spent deep in the code, adjusting back-end game mechanics, hiding new easter eggs, tightening up the narrative for our fall launch. Day and night, I sat rooted in my ergonomic office chair, my eyes locked on three curved monitors until they ached and blurred. I hadn't slept. Barely drank water. Ate nothing.

But it was worth it. Because for the first time in weeks, I'd made real progress.

And the best part?

Yn had it handled. Completely.

She'd kept Layla fed, alive, entertained—and not once in forty-eight hours had I heard the fire alarm go off. That alone was a miracle. Honestly, the silence outside my office had been... peaceful.

But now, as the sun dipped into late afternoon, day three already halfway done, my body reminded me I was human. A long yawn cracked my jaw. My stomach growled like a wild animal. I needed to eat, maybe shower, and go prove to my niece that I wasn't dead.

I stood slowly, back stiff, and made my way to the bathroom. As I emerged, footsteps padded down the hallway, followed by a sudden burst of feminine laughter. Not the staged, filtered kind I heard in meetings and networking events—but real, full-bellied laughter. The kind that shook something loose in my chest.

I followed the sound.

Music was playing from the kitchen—old-school, punky, upbeat. My brows drew together. Was that... The Ramones?

"My mom loved this song," I heard Layla say. Her voice was soft but warm, with that rare lift it only took when she was happy. Truly happy. "She always said they had real energy. Like they didn't give a damn."

I leaned against the wall, just out of view.

"I like her already," Yn laughed, shaking her hair as she twirled barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, her hips moving easily to the beat. "Your mom had taste."

Layla—my Layla—beamed. I could feel the smile in her voice. "She did," she said after a pause. Her words came slower now. "I... I miss her."

Yn stopped dancing immediately. Not dramatically—just enough to turn toward Layla with this gentle presence. I couldn't see her face, but her voice lowered like a hug.

"That's the part no one ever tells you, kiddo," she said. "It hurts less with time, but it never fully stops. It sneaks up on you. You'll hear a song, or see a peach at the grocery store—hell, smell her old shampoo—and boom. There she is again."

My chest tightened, and I suddenly wanted to walk away.

But I didn't.

A loud beep rang from the oven. Both of them squealed, and I heard the soft rustle of aprons and socks as they bent down together.

"You think it's ready?" Layla asked, bouncing on her toes.

"Only one way to find out." Yn tapped her nose. "Do we risk undercooking, or be boring and give it five more minutes?"

"Risk it!"

I heard a metal tray slide out and then the satisfied sighs of victory.

"Woah," Layla gasped. "It's huge, Yn-unnie! It actually worked!"

"Of course it did," Yn said, and I could tell she was smiling. I didn't even need to see her to know. "We're a dream team."

I finally stepped into the kitchen, letting the light hit me. Layla noticed first and ran over, still glowing from the inside out.

"Uncle Jungkook, we made hobakjeon! And gyeran-mari! It's sooo good!"

I lifted my brows. "You made hobakjeon?" I glanced over to the stovetop where golden zucchini pancakes sizzled gently on a ceramic plate, next to a rolled omelette flecked with chopped veggies and sesame seeds. "Smells amazing."

"Starving?" Yn asked, finally turning to me with her brows raised.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the heat of the stove, a faint smear of flour on her arm. Her hair was pulled into a messy low ponytail, and she was wearing one of my old aprons that practically swallowed her whole.

God help me.

"Yeah," I admitted, clearing my throat. "Haven't eaten since... I don't know. Yesterday? The day before?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Not even a cup ramyeon?"

I shook my head. "Are you joining us for lunch?" Yn asked, one brow raised, already knowing I hadn't eaten a single thing all day.

I opened my mouth to refuse, even though the scent of roasted sesame oil and something sweet and savory had my stomach howling again. "No, I should get back to work," I said weakly—just as another deep growl echoed from my gut like thunder in an empty canyon.

Layla snorted. "Sure, Uncle Jungkook."

Yn didn't even blink. She grabbed another plate like I hadn't said a damn thing and handed it to Layla, her tone light. "Broccoli stir-fry and sweet potato on the side," she said, placing a perfectly shaped roll of gyeran-mari beside the veggies. "Sit."

I frowned. "You're bossy."

"Goes with the job," she replied, handing me a pair of chopsticks and nodding toward the small table in the center of the room, where Layla was already seated with her legs tucked neatly beneath her.

I hesitated, but the food smelled incredible, and something about the quiet calm of the kitchen made it hard to say no.

"This looks good," I murmured, taking the seat opposite Layla. "Thanks for letting me crash your meal."

Yn shrugged like it was nothing, wiping her hands on a towel. "It's your house—and your food. And I'm pretty sure you haven't eaten in what, three days?"

Layla rolled her eyes with practiced sarcasm. "Uncle Jungkook's too busy and important to eat," she said, spearing a piece of broccoli with her chopsticks.

"Oh yeah?" Yn smiled, glancing over her shoulder. "How important are we talking? Government agent? Idol on hiatus? Secretly Batman?"

"Not important," I said quickly before Layla could drop anything about the company, or what I actually do. "Just... really busy right now."

She didn't argue, but the look she gave me said she didn't believe it either. She turned her attention back to her food with a graceful shrug. "Whatever you say."

The three of us sat in a lull of soft chewing and the light hum of the electric fan. I should've gone back to work. My inbox was probably exploding. My dev team always needed decisions. But I stayed.

"How long have you been a nanny?" Layla asked, not even looking up from her plate. It was almost nonchalant, but I knew her well enough to hear the curiosity in her voice.

Yn paused, thoughtful. "Six... no, maybe seven years now?"

That surprised me. Not because of her age—she didn't look old enough to have nearly a decade of childcare under her belt—but because she had that strange combination of calm and command that comes from real-world experience. No textbook bullshit. Just natural instinct.

"I did my master's in early childhood education in New York," she added. "Came back home when things... shifted. Started nannying full-time. It kind of stuck."

I watched her as she spoke. She didn't embellish, didn't perform. She spoke like she lived—steady, deliberate, and confident. Layla didn't even blink when Yn talked about her parents like they were some closed topic, just nodded once and moved on.

"What about you, Layla?" Yn asked gently. "What do you like doing when you're not being the most sarcastic twelve-year-old in Seoul?"

Layla paused. She tucked her hair behind her ear and focused on her plate. "I like drawing. And... writing stories."

My brows lifted. This was news.

"Like webtoons or manhwa?" Yn asked, her voice curious, not condescending.

Layla lit up. Her eyes—deep, dark brown and so expressive when she felt safe—sparked. "Yes! Kind of like webtoons but more fantasy, I guess. But with girls who fight monsters."

"Writers who draw?" Yn grinned, eyes wide. "That's rare and seriously cool. If you ever feel like sharing, I'd love to see what you're working on."

Layla blinked fast, then smiled behind her chopsticks. A real one.

I felt a weird knot in my chest unravel.

Yn wasn't just good with her—she was seeing her in ways I never had. She asked questions I didn't even think to ask. Made her laugh. Made her feel normal.

And me?

I just kept working. Avoiding. Rationalizing.

I took a bite of the sweet potatoes—simple, buttery, lightly sweet. The broccoli had that perfect jang and sesame kick, and the egg roll was tender and warm. Comfort food. Familiar. Unfussy. Perfect.

I ate two helpings without even thinking.

When I finished, I leaned back and exhaled, patting my stomach. "That was exactly what I needed. Thank you, ladies."

"No problem," Yn said, already standing and wiping down the counter.

Just then, my phone buzzed hard in my pocket. I glanced at the screen.

Kai.

My creative director rarely called. Which meant something was wrong.

I stood. "Hey, Kai, what's up?"

As I walked out of the kitchen, I caught Layla's face fall from the corner of my eye. She turned her head away quickly, pretending to focus on her plate—but I saw it.

The disappointment.

The quiet one.