Who? (Jungkook FF)

Chapter 118

         I slip into a white dress that falls just below my knees, smoothing the fabric and fixing my hair in the mirror.

The door creaks open, and Jungkook steps in, his eyes scanning me carefully. "Where are you going, babe?" he asks, his voice calm but curious.

I meet his gaze, hesitating for a moment.

Today, he's chosen to stay home, to spend the day with me instead of drowning himself in work.

"Church," I say softly. "Just for a moment."

He tilts his head slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows as he steps closer. "Church?" he echoes, his voice tinged with suspicion. "Is there something you're not telling me? Something you can't talk to me about?"

I pause, my mind circling back to the fragments I know of his past. He went to church once as a boy, seeking solace, pouring out his pain in silent prayers because he felt like he had no one else to turn to.

But the answers never came. The silence unraveled him, leaving him broken and embittered. Defiant. Disillusioned. He turned his back on God.

And so, I understand. I see why he's so guarded, so secretive. Jungkook grew up in an environment where trust was a luxury he couldn't afford. He learned to bury his feelings deep, to rely on no one but himself. That boy he once was—hurting, brilliant, and alone—still lingers, shaping the man before me.

It breaks my heart. A senseless, aching pain burns in my chest for him. I hate the adults who failed to love him, who left him to navigate the cruel realities of life alone. Jungkook wasn't blind to it either. He was too clever, too perceptive. Even as a child, he could see how people used him, took from him, and gave nothing genuine in return.

What I don't fully grasp—what I can't possibly fathom—is how deeply those memories still grip him.

It seems like to him, every hurt, every loss, every fracture feels as fresh as the moment it happened.

I wonder if that pain from his childhood runs deeper than I can imagine—or if there's something else, something unique to him, that keeps those wounds open. After all, I believe he's a genius. Perhaps that brilliance is a double-edged sword, amplifying everything he's ever felt.

I shake my head softly, grounding myself in the present. "No, it's not that," I say, my voice steady but quiet. "I just... I need to connect with Him. I need to."

"Is this about the 'magical' part?" he asks, his tone teasing but laced with curiosity, clearly referring to my pregnancy.

I smile gently. "Maybe," I admit. "Part of it."

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes searching mine. "Do you really believe it?"

I pause, my gaze dropping for a moment before meeting his again. "I want to," I say softly. "Sometimes, believing in something bigger than us is the only thing that makes sense."

"What about believing this pregnancy came from my sperm and all my hard work pumping you?" he quips, his lips twitching in amusement.

I narrow my eyes at him, my expression icy and silent.

"Babe, it's a joke," he says quickly.

I cross my arms, unimpressed. "I'm about to go to church, and you say something so indecent?" I sulk, turning slightly away from him.

But deep down, it's not the joke that bothers me. It's the truth behind it—that he still doesn't have faith.

"My mistake," he concedes, his tone softening.