WEDCUFFED (18+)

Mine

The silence between them was a ghost.
It sat quietly in the back seat of the car, stretching between Jin and Taehyung like a third, breathing presence.

The windows were rolled up, the AC hummed a steady lullaby of tension, and the shadows of street lamps skated across Jin's face like prison bars.

Taehyung hadn't said a word since he saw the painting and Jin hadn't asked.

Because he was afraid of what that silence meant-not angry silence, not possessive silence, but something else entirely. The kind that holds back a storm.

He sat with his hands folded in his lap, still faintly smudged with dried colors. His eyes stared out at nothing. But his heart pounded like he had committed a crime. He didn't regret painting Taehyung. But he wasn't sure he should've let him see it. He had poured something raw into that canvas-something not even he fully understood.

Not just what he saw in Taehyung.
But what Taehyung might be becoming because of how he was seen.

When the car finally rolled to a halt before The White Emperia, the tension didn't leave. It stayed there-clinging like smoke-as Taehyung stepped out without a word and walked straight towards the south wing of the estate.

Not a glance back.

Not a single flicker of emotion.

Just long, determined strides until his figure disappeared into the private southern corridor of the mansion-the only part no one else was allowed to enter. Staff avoided it. Guards turned the other way. Even Bo-Yoon, with all her noise, never dared cross that invisible line.

That wing... was his kingdom.

And Jin?

Jin never saw him again that night.

Or the next morning.

Or the entire week that followed.

...

Days turned into quiet hours and hours into a numb ache.

Jin had grown used to Taehyung's dominance-his sharp voice, his possessive hands, the way he bent every moment into a version of control. But this silence?

This cold withdrawal?

It was worse.

Not once during the week did Taehyung return to their shared room. Not once did Jin hear footsteps on the marble outside his door. He might as well have been living with a ghost, but it was better.

But the worst part? Even when the cold man wasn't around, Jin still couldn't bring himself to look at Jong-suk.

Taehyung's warning-his chilling words whispered through clenched teeth-still played like an anthem inside Jin's mind:

"Look at him again like that, and I'll make sure even your bones regret it."

So Jin didn't speak to him.

Didn't look at him.

Didn't even breathe near him.

Even when Jong-suk passed him tea in the lounge or asked if he was feeling better, Jin muttered cold 'nothings' and stared at the floor. Jong-suk's confused glances stabbed deeper than anything else-but Jin couldn't afford softness.

Not anymore.

...

That following week, something else grew inside Jin though. A new kind of restlessness or a need.

A pulsing, desperate ache for answers.

He remembered the strange way the west wing always remained locked, except for a few sitting areas used for guests. And he remembered what he had heard from one of the older maids weeks ago-how Taehyung had one private office in the west, even though the rest of his domain, his study, and even his bedroom were all in the south.