[ complete ] 𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 || 𝐉.𝐉𝐊 𝐅𝐅

67. Moonlight Calls

Y/n’s POV —

The night had grown softer, quieter, like the sky was holding its breath. I sat on the old swing on the terrace, laptop now shut, legs curled beneath me, and a thin shawl wrapped around my shoulders. The wind whispered through the mango trees, brushing over my face like Jungkook’s hand used to when he’d tuck my hair behind my ear during late-night conversations.

God, I missed him.

The kids had finally gone quiet, curled up between Nani and a pile of pillows and bedtime stories. I had kissed their cheeks, inhaled that sweet, warm scent of milk and sleep, and now… it was just me, the stars, and this ache in my chest.

Rrrring… Rrrring…

My phone lit up beside me.

Jungkook 💬 Incoming Video Call

I smiled before I even answered. Of course.

I clicked it open—and there he was. Jeon Jungkook. Mafia boss. Business tycoon. Full-grown man with abs that broke the internet—and yet, there he sat on his massive California king-sized bed, wrapped in a hoodie with his hair a mess and a pout on his face like a child denied candy.

“Mmmm… You look too calm,” he muttered.

“Hi to you too,” I laughed, tucking the phone into the crook of my knees.

“I’m not joking, woman,” he sulked, voice thick with sleep and complaint. “I’m coming. Right now. Jet or no jet. I miss you in my arms. My pillow doesn’t even smell like you anymore.”

“You changed the sheets yesterday, genius.”

“That’s not the point!” he snapped, leaning closer to the screen like I’d listen better. “Where’s my babies? Aarohi didn’t send me the bedtime selfie. Advait isn’t even answering my messages.”

“They’re sleeping. You want me to wake them up at 11 PM so they can FaceTime you half-asleep?”

“Yes,” he said without shame.

“You’re impossible.”

“And heartbroken,” he added dramatically. “You left me alone, Y/n. This bed is cold. My soul is cold. My heart—"

“Jungkook,” I deadpanned, “don’t you dare get poetic at midnight.”

He gave me the biggest sad eyes in history, the ones that usually made me melt—but tonight, I was immune.

“You’re laughing at me,” he accused.

“No,” I said, snorting. “I’m just remembering that time you threatened to call your secretary every hour if I didn’t answer your texts.”

“I will call her,” he said proudly. “If you cut this call, I swear I’ll call her and talk about my emotional trauma. For two hours straight.”

I squinted at the screen. “Did you forget that time I chased you with a loaded gun because you made her book us a honeymoon on a shared island with your bodyguards?”

He blinked. “Oh.”

“Exactly.”

He sighed, flopping onto the bed. “Fine. I won’t call her. But only because you threatened me with violence.”

“You like it.”

“…A little.”

We both laughed. And then, for a moment, neither of us spoke.

It was that comfortable kind of silence. The one that wrapped around your heart and whispered, This is home. This is your person.

“Seriously, though,” he said softly, voice losing its teasing edge. “I miss you.”