#2 in fanfiction🏅
𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗙𝗜𝗔 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗗 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘
'𝘼𝙨 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙨 𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙎𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣'
Kim Y/n was meant to be a leverage, an arranged bride offered to the Ko...
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The month flies by, and my brother-in-law or say my tutor—as he's taught me—is surprisingly fun to be around.
He visits every day, sending Yeonjun and Eunwoo away, which saddens me because I miss them.
And Yoongi? I never see him anymore, which hurts.
The bond I had with my brothers wears thin, but time spent with Jimin is an adventure of its own.
He gifted me my very own personalized gun, and together, we work on my shooting skills.
He forces me to spar, making me defend myself, teaching me how to use my speed and small stature to my advantage.
'If you ever find yourself in danger, Tiny----' he says, wiping blood from my lip after a particularly rough takedown,
'------make the fucker regret breathing. Go for the nose.'
We even use Jungkook's gym, where we work out together—him lifting weights while I run on the treadmill.
The endorphins from training are invigorating, a much-needed distraction.
Because Jungkook never calls me back. Never answers my goodnight texts.
And with Yeonjun's gone, I don't know what he's doing, if he's safe, if he's thinking of me at all.
Jimin tells me that Jungkook gets to the penthouse late and leaves early, much like he did when he was here.
I hate it. Despise it.
But Jimin—though he doesn't soothe me with pretty words or empty reassurances—distracts me.
He has breakfast and lunch with me, pulling my thoughts away from the dangers my husband might be facing.
He lets me in, tells me things I don't think he tells anyone.
About how his mother's death effected him. About why people call him Sinner. The story is brutal. Terrifying. It makes my heart bleed for younger Jungkook.
When Jimin leaves in the afternoons, I paint.
I paint every moment, every memory I have with my husband before I lose them all.
As short and fleeting as they were, they are my most favorite.
As I slow down on the treadmill, Jimin drops his dumbbells with a heavy clank, wiping sweat from his face with a towel before walking over.
He hands me my water bottle that Mia had brought down for me earlier, I take it, but it gnaws at my feelings that she refuses to look me in the eye.
I didn't have any gym clothes, so Jimin called Cassandra during breakfast one morning to bring me a few outfits.
Now I have seven brand-new running shorts with matching tanks, while Jimin sticks to his usual—sweatpants and no shirt.
His entire torso is covered in intricate tattoos—not much of his skin is left untouched by ink.
