Saved || A Jungkook fanfic

8.

He smelled like mint and cologne.

A crisp, intoxicating mix that made my head swim.

Jungkook's body pressed into mine, the warmth of his chest seeping through the thin fabric of my clothes as we stood tucked away in the dimly lit hallway, far from the pulsing chaos of the living room. The music still thumped in the distance, but here, away from prying eyes, it wasn't deafening. It wasn't enough to drown out the sound of my own shallow breaths.

Not enough to silence the frantic pounding of my heart.

We both giggled—soft, breathless, like two reckless kids who had just broken the rules and were teetering on the edge of getting caught.

Then his laughter faded.

And all that remained was the weight of his gaze, dark and unwavering.

Those eyes—the same ones that had drawn me in since the moment we met—held me captive now, searching, daring, pulling me deeper into dangerous waters. My back pressed into the cool surface of the wall, a stark contrast to the rising heat licking at my skin.

This was the closest we had ever been.

His broad frame towered over mine, one arm braced against the wall beside my head, the other resting near my waist. There was barely any space between us, just the thin sliver of air crackling with tension, with something unspoken, something unsteady.

He leaned in.

"Jungkook..." His name escaped me in a whisper, barely audible over the pounding in my ears. It was supposed to be a warning, firm and resolute, but instead, it sounded breathy. Weak.

A mistake.

Because the moment he heard it, something flickered behind his eyes. A spark. A challenge.

Power.

His lips curled slightly at the edges, a predator sensing vulnerability, closing in on his prey. My pulse stuttered when our foreheads nearly touched, the heat radiating off him making it impossible to think. I lifted a trembling hand, pressing against his stomach in a feeble attempt to create space between us.

Big mistake.

My palm met the firm ridges of his abdomen beneath his shirt, the hard planes shifting under my touch as he exhaled. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying—and failing—to steady my breath.

"Ailene," his voice was softer this time, coaxing. "Look at me."

I shouldn't have.

I knew I shouldn't have.

But I did.

And when I did, the intensity in his eyes had melted into something else—something gentler, something dangerously tender. His fingers lifted, brushing against my cheek, his thumb drawing slow circles on my skin, and I hated how much I liked it.

"Jungkook," I tried again, barely holding onto the last thread of reason. "I—I can't. We can't. I—"

"We can." His voice was laced with desperation now. "Leave him."

My breath hitched.

I shook my head, forcing myself to look away, to remind myself of the truth, of the bigger picture. "That can't happen," I whispered, my throat tightening. "You don't know the whole story. And besides—even if that wasn't a problem—I barely know you."

Exactly.

I barely knew him. This was all surface-level. Lust, attraction, chemistry—whatever it was, it wasn't real.

What I had with Taehyung—that was real.

...Right?

Jungkook's jaw clenched. "There's something here," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I know you feel it too."

He tilted his head, closing the gap between us, and my breath caught in my throat. His lips brushed—just barely—against mine, a whisper of contact so faint I wasn't sure if I imagined it.

A ghost of a touch.

A promise of something more.

One of his hands slid to the side of my neck, fingers pressing lightly against my pulse, the other finding the small of my back. The air shifted. My skin erupted in goosebumps, every nerve ending in my body attuned to his touch.

"I know I can give you what he can't."

A shiver shot up my spine, colliding with the dangerous fluttering in my stomach.

No.

No.

I exhaled sharply, panic breaking through the haze, and shoved against his chest with everything I had. He stumbled back, brows drawing together in surprise as I took a step forward, my heart slamming against my ribs.

"You don't get it, do you?" My voice was shaking, rising with frustration, with something close to fear.

Jungkook didn't raise his voice in return.

Instead, he held my gaze, his tone impossibly steady. "I might not understand everything about you," he admitted, "but I understand myself. I know how I feel."

The confidence in his voice nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. He was so sure of himself, so certain of this—of us—that I almost believed him.

Almost.

I let out a sharp exhale, dragging my fingers through my hair as the weight of the night settled over me. Slowly, I sank to the floor, exhaustion creeping into my bones.

Jungkook stayed silent.

Then, after a moment, he sighed and leaned back against the wall, sliding down beside me.

Neither of us spoke.

Neither of us looked at each other.

We just sat there in the quiet, staring into nothing, letting the silence act as a truce.

And for the first time—maybe ever—I considered telling someone the truth.

Taehyung's truth.

My truth.

Because maybe, just maybe, it was time someone finally knew.