Worst Behavior | KNJ

Chapter 1: The Equilibrium

The sizzling of the stove filled the kitchen, a rhythmic hiss that almost soothed me, even as tension simmered beneath the surface. My mother, Pamela Lawrence, adjusted the heat under her skillet, flipping pancakes with more force than necessary. "I don't understand why your father devotes so much time to parenting those troublemakers instead of his own child," she muttered, her voice low but thick with frustration.

I sat slouched at the kitchen island, half-listening as I thumbed through documents on my laptop, pen dangling from my lips. Another transfer request, another elderly patient. The steady clinking of utensils against the stove punctuated the silence, a beat to my thoughts. "Why didn't you leave if you didn't like it?" I asked absently, eyes scanning the next section of forms before signing the transfer.

My mother let out a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. "Twenty-nine years of marriage, baby girl. That's a commitment longer than whatever mess your father's involved in now."

I glanced up, catching her tight expression as she placed eggs next to the pancakes on a plate. Her movements were so methodical, so precise, as if controlling the breakfast could control the mess of our lives.

"You've got a point," I murmured, closing the file and leaning back.

"Is that Namjoon's grandmother?" She eyed the folder I slipped into my bag.

"Yeah." I felt the tension in my shoulders as soon as I said his name. I hadn't seen Namjoon in weeks, not properly at least, though his presence lingered everywhere. "She's transferring to the retirement community. Just making sure it goes smoothly."

Mom turned to face me fully, a flicker of something—concern, maybe—crossing her face. "That boy's been the only one looking after her. It's a shame how he's gone and gotten mixed up in that cartel business. Joonie's still young. He had a bright future."

I pressed my lips together, swallowing down the bitter taste of truth. Namjoon had always been the dreamer—intelligent, charismatic, with an undeniable talent for music. We'd spent countless nights talking about our futures, back when everything seemed within reach. It was hard to reconcile that version of him with the one tangled in something dangerous, something I couldn't fully understand.

"I wish he hadn't," I said softly, my fingers tracing the edge of my laptop.

"You two were thick as thieves growing up," she continued, shaking her head. "I'm surprised you never ended up together. He's a good-looking young man, and Lord knows he cares about you."

I smiled, a faint, almost wistful curve of my lips. "That was years ago, ma."

Momma looked at me for a long moment, as if searching for the girl I used to be, the girl who had been inseparable from Namjoon. But that was before things got complicated, before life pulled us in different directions.

"I just want you to be careful, Diavian," she said quietly, her voice taking on a weight that made me pause. "Your father's not in some little gang anymore. It's bigger than all of us, and it's more than concerning."

I frowned, my chest tightening. "What are you saying?"

She set down the spatula, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "It's not just drugs anymore, baby. Your father's trafficking people. Men, women—doesn't matter. The money's good, and that's all he cares about now."

The words hit me like a blow to the chest, the air whooshing out of my lungs. "People?" I whispered, disbelief twisting my insides.

Mom nodded, her face pale. "He's been doing it for a while now. And I've stayed because... because leaving him doesn't mean I escape the danger. You know how it works."

The weight of her words settled over me, dark and suffocating. The man I'd called my father, the man who'd raised me—how had I not seen this? How had it come to this?

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"I thought I was protecting you," she said, her voice breaking. "I wanted to shield you from the worst of it."

Anger surged within me, hot and overwhelming. "Shield me? From my own father?" I pushed away from the kitchen island, the sharp screech of the chair cutting through the air. "I deserved to know."

"I know," she murmured, her eyes filled with guilt. "But now you do, and you have to be careful, Diavian. Your father... he's dangerous."

I couldn't breathe; I couldn't think. I turned on my heel, rushing out of the kitchen and up to my room. I slammed the door shut behind me, the sound reverberating through the quiet house. Collapsing onto my bed, I buried myself under the covers, willing the world to disappear.

Minutes passed—maybe hours. My mother's words echoed in my mind, colliding with everything I thought I knew. My father. Namjoon. The gang. The trafficking.

A soft knock on the door pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. I didn't answer, hoping whoever it was would go away. But the door creaked open, and the familiar presence filled the room.

"Hey," Namjoon's voice was soft, hesitant, as he stepped inside. He crossed the room in a few strides, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I didn't move. His presence was both a comfort and a reminder of everything that was wrong.

"You okay?" he asked, his hand hovering just above my shoulder like he wasn't sure if I wanted him there.

"No." My voice was muffled by the blanket, but I knew he heard me.

We sat in silence for a while, the unspoken tension filling the space between us. After a moment, he finally broke the silence, his voice quieter than usual. "I don't know what's eating at you, but I'm here."

Without thinking, I shifted, pressing my face into his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through the soft fabric of his hoodie. He was solid and safe, and his arm instinctively wrapped around me. This wasn't new—this casual intimacy between us—but today, the weight of it felt heavier, different. His hand rubbed small circles on my back, a gesture so familiar that my heart clenched.

He always did that when he knew I was upset, and I let myself sink into it, my forehead resting against his collarbone. His thumb brushed the nape of my neck, a light, absentminded motion that sent a shiver down my spine. It felt so natural, so us—but I knew anyone looking from the outside would think otherwise.

"You're not alone in this, you know?" He said softly, his breath warm against my temple.

I nodded against him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He smelled like fresh soap and the faintest hint of cologne, the same one he always wore. It was comforting and grounding, even though everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

"I don't need you to fix it," I whispered, finally pulling back just enough to look up at him, though I didn't move far. His hand remained on my back, his fingers brushing lightly over my spine. "I need you to be okay."

He looked down at me, his eyes dark and serious. "I'm fine, Diavian."

There was a heaviness in the air between us, the kind that made me hyperaware of how close we were and of the way his fingers still lingered at the nape of my neck. But this wasn't new. This was how we were, how we'd always been. Close. Comfortable.

"Your hair smells good," he said, his voice softer now, a teasing lilt in his tone as he tugged lightly at one of my braids.

I laughed quietly, swatting his hand away, though I didn't move from his side. "You're such a dork."

"Your dork." He grinned, the tension in the room breaking just a bit, though his hand still rested lightly on my waist, his thumb brushing over the fabric of my shirt.

"I know," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, and for a moment, I wondered if maybe we'd been walking this line for far too long.

Finally, he stood, his hand slipping away from me as he stretched. "Your mom says breakfast is getting cold. You coming?"

"Nah, I'm good," I said, and Namjoon let out a dry laugh at my response. He adjusted his dark jeans before sitting back down on the bed next to me. "You're a handful," he teased, kicking off his Converse and stretching out on top of the blanket beside me.

I felt Namjoon's arm slip around me once again, his fingers brushing against my waist as he settled deeper beside me in bed. It was so casual, so natural, and it had been this way between us for years. It wasn't anything to overthink, but there was something about his touch that felt different today. Maybe it was because my world was unraveling at the seams, and he was the one constant in the chaos.

"What's going on, D?" He whispered, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

I wanted to tell him everything, to lay it all out in the open, but the words were stuck in my throat. How could I explain that my father, the man I had idolized as a child, was a monster? That my mother had known and stayed with him despite the horrifying truth?

I turned to face him, pulling myself deeper into the warmth of his embrace. His face was just inches from mine, eyes dark with concern, but his expression softened the moment I locked eyes with him.

"I'm tired, Joon." I mumbled, my fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair. His hoodie was oversized and familiar—he had this habit of leaving his clothes around my parent's place, and I never bothered to return them. This one smelled faintly of the cologne he always wore, mixed with something distinctly him. It was comforting in a way I couldn't quite articulate.

Namjoon's hand stayed resting on my waist, the weight of it solid and grounding. "I've noticed," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. "But you think I'm going to believe it's just about work? I thought you had more faith in me."

I laughed, but it felt hollow even to me. "Maybe you're right." My thumb brushed across the soft fabric of his hoodie, and I could feel his eyes on me, waiting for more.

His hand rested on my waist, a natural, familiar touch that sent a comforting jolt through me. "Diavian. Come on now," his voice stern, his fingers slipping to the back of my head, gently running through my braids with that soft, affectionate touch only he had.

He had a way of getting under my skin—of knowing when I was holding something back and patiently waiting for me to crack. We'd been through so much together, from late-night study sessions to the messes our lives had become. I wanted to tell him everything, but where would I even start?

"Do you ever feel like... like you don't really know the people you thought you knew?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Namjoon's brow furrowed slightly, his fingers brushing along my side in a slow, absentminded way that made my skin tingle. "Yeah," he said quietly, leaning in just a little closer. "Shit happens in life, but what happens is shit."

"Maybe," I said, turning my gaze to the ceiling. "But what if what you find out ruins everything?"

His grip tightened slightly, pulling me just a little closer to him, like he was trying to shield me from whatever was weighing on my mind. "You've got nothing to worry about."

I wanted to believe him. Namjoon had always been patient, dependable, and loyal. But he could also be secretive, distant, and unmotivated. The truth about my father's involvement in something so heinous, something I'd never even imagined, had left me reeling. And Namjoon was tangled in all of it too, even if he didn't want to admit it to me.

"Namjoon." I murmured, forcing a smile, though it didn't quite reach my eyes. "You're too good at making me feel better. It's actually annoying."

His lips quirked up into that familiar smirk of his, the one that could pull me out of even the darkest moods. "It's my job. I can't let you mope around all day." He poked my side playfully, eliciting a soft laugh from me, which only encouraged him. "There's my girl."

I rolled my eyes, brushing his hand away, though I didn't move far from him. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it." His tone was light, teasing, but there was something in his eyes that told me he meant it on a deeper level. It was that unspoken tension that had always lingered between us, but we never acknowledged it. Not outright, at least.

Instead of responding, I turned onto my side, facing him again, our faces so close that I could feel his breath mingling with mine. He didn't pull away, and neither did I. There was a moment of quiet that stretched between us, charged with something unnameable but undeniable.

"You've got that look again," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep things light despite the way my heart was racing. "What look?"

"The one where you're overthinking everything."

I shook my head, pressing my lips together to suppress a smile. "You know me too well my dear."

"That's the point," he said, his thumb tracing slow circles against the small of my back. It was such a simple gesture, one he'd done countless times before, but it felt different tonight. Everything felt different.

I shifted slightly, feeling his arm tighten around me, pulling me even closer until there was barely any space between us. It wasn't unusual for us to be this close, not really. We'd been like this for years—leaning on each other, sharing quiet moments. But tonight, the air between us felt thicker, like something unsaid was lingering just out of reach.

"You've been avoiding me, and I don't really like that," he said, breaking the silence, his tone soft but laced with a hint of accusation.

I sighed, unable to deny it. "I've been... dealing with a lot."

"You have me for a reason," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. His hand moved from my waist to my arm, sliding down slowly until his fingers intertwined with mine. "Not going anywhere, never have."

There was a vulnerability in his words that made my chest tighten. This was Namjoon, the boy I'd grown up with, the one who knew me better than anyone. But there was something deeper in the way he was looking at me tonight—something I wasn't ready to face.

"I know," I whispered back, squeezing his hand gently. "I appreciate it."

We lay there in the quiet, our bodies pressed close, and for a moment, the weight of everything else seemed to fade away. It was just us—me and Namjoon, like it had always been. But beneath the surface, I could feel the slow burn of something more. It was there, in the way his fingers lingered on my skin, in the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

He brushed a single braid from my face, his hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "You know, you're the only one who can pull off that serious face and still look cute," he teased, his voice low and soft.

I rolled my eyes, but there was no denying the warmth that spread through me at his words. "You're annoying."

"That's nothing new," he shot back with a soft smile, his thumb stroking my eyebrow.

I laughed, the sound light and easy, and for a moment, the weight of the world didn't seem so heavy. Namjoon had always been able to do that—make everything feel a little less overwhelming, a little more manageable.

We stayed like that for a while, tangled in each other's arms, neither of us willing to break the quiet. His hand moved absently up and down my arm, a slow, soothing rhythm that lulled me into a sense of calm I hadn't felt in days.

But eventually, reality crept back in. The truth about my father, about the dangerous world Namjoon was caught up in, loomed over us like a dark cloud. I couldn't protect him from it, no matter how much I wanted to.

"Namjoon," I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet of the room.

"Yeah?"

I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to tell him everything, to warn him, to make him see the danger he was in. But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I said the only thing I could.

"Be careful."

He frowned, his hand stilling on my arm. "Careful?"

"With my dad," I said, my voice cracking. "I can't lose you, Joonie."

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me, his eyes searching mine. "Nothing will ever keep me from you."

There was a weight to his words that made my heart ache, but I forced a smile anyway. "Better not," I said, my voice light but tinged with a hint of something deeper.

He grabbed my hand and gave it a soft kiss, his lips lingering for a moment longer than usual. "I'm here," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. "Always."