Jungkook

The building always feels colder when he’s in it.

It’s not the air conditioning—it’s just him. His presence changes the air.

Everyone had been whispering since morning: Taehyung-ssi’s back from Paris.

He’d landed only a few hours ago, yet here he was, already calling me in for a one-on-one evaluation. No rest, no delay, just straight to work.

I told myself it was nothing. Routine. But my heart didn’t believe it.

The studio lights were dimmed except for the ones above the practice floor. He stood near the monitors, black dress shirt rolled to his elbows, watching a playback of one of my performances. Not a word, not a glance in my direction when I walked in.

“You’re late,” he said finally, still facing the screen.

“Only by three minutes,” I replied.

“Three minutes is enough time to ruin a live broadcast,” he said, calmly as ever. “Start from the chorus.”

I swallowed whatever comeback I had and walked to the center. The music began; my body moved on autopilot. Every note, every beat, exactly as drilled into me for weeks. I could feel his eyes—always his eyes—tracking every movement.

When the music faded, I stayed still, catching my breath.

“You fixed the transition,” he said.

“I practiced,” I answered.

“So you do listen.”

He stepped closer, checking the monitor, then me, like comparing the two.

“Again,” he murmured.

Another run. Another round of perfection demanded, given, measured.

Half an hour later, he stopped the music himself.

“Good enough,” he said. “For now.”

He walked toward his desk, jotting something down on a tablet.

I hesitated. This was the window. If I didn’t ask now, I never would.

“Hyung…” I said quietly.

He looked up at that—maybe at the word, maybe at the tone.

“Manager Choi said something,” I continued. “About why you… push me so hard.”

One eyebrow lifted.

“She talks too much.”

“She said you were like me once.”

My voice came out steadier than I expected. “That you had no one either.”

His pen stopped moving. The smallest flicker crossed his face—gone in a second.

“Is that supposed to make you feel special?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It’s supposed to make sense.”

A long pause. The kind that stretches until you start regretting honesty.

“If you think we’re similar,” he said at last, “then you’ve already misunderstood me.”

“Then explain,” I pressed.

He set the tablet down, leaned against the desk. Arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“There’s nothing to explain. I worked. I survived. That’s all the story anyone needs.”

“But you still saw me,” I said before I could stop myself. “You noticed when no one else did.”

“That was business,” he said. “You are a talent, potential. Don’t confuse gratitude with curiosity.”

“I’m not confusing anything,” I said quietly. “I just… want to know why you care.”

That word—care—hung there, wrong and right at the same time.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.

“You shouldn’t waste time trying to understand me, Jungkook. You’ll only end up disappointed.”

“Maybe I’d rather know and be disappointed than stay clueless.”

His eyes met mine for a long moment. Something shifted—something almost human—then he straightened, wall back in place.

“You’re done for today,” he said. “Rest. You have a recording tomorrow.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s all.”

I waited, hoping he’d say more, that he’d let the conversation open a crack wider. But he just turned back to the monitors, dismissing me with silence.

When I reached the door, his voice stopped me.

“Jungkook.”

I turned.

He didn’t look away from the screen.

“Don’t believe everything Choi says,” he said softly. “She remembers a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Then the playback started again, louder this time, covering whatever emotion might’ve been in his tone.

I left the studio with my pulse still hammering.

He thought that was the end of it.

But now that I knew there was something he refused to talk about, I couldn’t stop wanting to know.

---

The rumors about Taehyung never really stop.

They travel through hallways, stick to walls, and hum between whispers like electricity.

“V-Verse’s CEO doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

“He only keeps the best.”

“He handpicks and breaks you till you shine.”

They always say it like it’s terrifying.

Maybe it is.

But I’ve started noticing something else.

The first time was small.

Manager Choi was on the phone with one of the event organizers while I cooled down after dance practice, pretending not to overhear.

“Postpone the final evaluation,” she said flatly.

“Because he said so.”

A pause.

“No, it’s not negotiable. Taehyung-ssi doesn’t want jk overworked before the showcase. He wants results, not exhaustion.”

Her tone was firm, like she was swatting away some invisible protest.

My towel slipped from my hand.

He’d postponed an entire company event… because of me?

No one told me I was overworked.

He didn’t ask me. He just decided.

I should’ve been angry. I told myself I was. But the quiet warmth in my chest betrayed me.

Weeks passed.

The group—Dex, Jiwoo, Haneul, Minjae, and me—finally started acting like an actual unit instead of five trainees forced into the same cage.

Haneul was the peacemaker, always cracking dumb jokes in the dorms to diffuse tension.

Dex, our oldest, was the practical one. He started inviting me into their late-night ramen sessions, tossing me an extra packet like it was a truce offering.

Jiwoo and Minjae were the troublemakers, but even they tried now—asking me to help choreograph transitions, laughing when I got too serious.

It was new.

Being included.

“You always look like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders, Jungkook,” Jiwoo teased once.

“That’s just his resting face,” Minjae snorted.

I rolled my eyes, smirking. “You guys are lucky I’m your leader.”

“No, you’re lucky Taehyung picked you,” Dex said, but his tone wasn’t cruel. “So make it count.”

For the first time, that sentence didn’t sting. 

Again weeks passed.

With nothing but just vocal practice, rehearsals, group activities, photoshoots etc etc.

Then came the final group evaluation.

The rehearsal hall was alive with tension—camera crews, choreographers, vocal coaches, the smell of coffee and nerves.

And in the middle of it all, Taehyung walked in, sunglasses on, dark coat sharp, aura sharper. I haven't seen him in these few weeks but he looked...handsome as ever. That was something no one in the world could argue about. Proof was every site and poll being held throughout the years.

His name is on the top of every poll with 90%+ votes. His good looks were shining from years to this present day.

Everyone paused when He halted near the stage.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said. Calm. Controlled.

The kind of calm that made everyone else panic.

We lined up, hearts beating like war drums.

He nodded to the choreographer. “Begin.”

The music thundered.

We danced.

I could feel him watching—eyes like scalpel blades, dissecting every move. My pulse stuttered, but my body knew what to do. Every turn, every hit, every breath was perfect. Until—

One of the staff, irritated by the sound tech glitch, snapped:

“Jungkook, can you not move during the reset? You’re blocking the light again—”

Before I could apologize, Taehyung’s voice cut through the noise like ice.

“He’s the center. He stays where he’s supposed to.”

Silence.

Then, colder—

“You don’t raise your voice at him again.”

The staff paled. The entire room froze.

And Taehyung…didn’t even look at me.

He just went back to his notes as if defending me was as routine as breathing.

But something in me twisted.

No one noticed the way his tone softened when he told the lighting director, “Dim it slightly for him. He performs better when it’s not blinding.”

No one saw the faintest curve of his lips when I finished the set, chest heaving.

When the evaluation ended, everyone exhaled relief. Manager Choi clapped lightly.

“Good work, boys. That’s the cleanest run we’ve had.”

Taehyung was already moving toward the exit when his phone rang. He answered with a curt, “What now?”—but his eyes lingered on me for a moment longer than they should’ve.

Maybe it was pride.

Maybe it was possession.

Maybe it was both. 

Later that night, Dex tossed me a drink can while we sat on the rooftop.

“He really does look out for you, huh?”

“He looks out for all of us,” I said automatically.

Dex smirked. “No, bro. You don’t get it. He fights people for you.”

I stared at the city lights below. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“You don’t need to,” Dex said simply. “That’s the weird part.”

He leaned back, sighing.

“You ever think maybe he just sees something in you that the rest of us don’t?”

I thought about the postponed evaluation because of which I could actually rest and balance my single practice and group rehearsals. The lights dimmed to my comfort. The staff’s silence after his single sentence.

And that’s when it hit me—

Taehyung didn’t just control things.

He protected them. Protected me.

He didn’t use words; he used power. Influence. Authority.

That was his way of caring.

And no one saw it…except me.

That night, lying in my bunk, I couldn’t shake the question that had started echoing in my chest:

Why me?

What did he see that made him want to control every part of my world?

I promised myself I wouldn’t ask.

But deep down, I knew I already would.

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