2

The Jeon penthouse was silent except for the faint hum of traffic far below. On the balcony, the night air wrapped cool around Jungkook’s bare skin. He leaned against the railing, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the ember glowing red each time he took a drag. Smoke curled lazily from his lips before the wind stole it away.

His jaw was tight. His eyes, though fixed on the glittering skyline, were somewhere else entirely. France. The show. The authorities breathing down his neck. A single misstep and all his careful control could crumble.

The sliding door behind him creaked softly. Bare feet padded across the marble floor. Jungkook didn’t turn. He already knew.

“Hyung,” Jungguk’s voice was low, softer than the night air.

Jungkook glanced over his shoulder. His cigarette paused halfway to his lips when he saw him. Jungguk stood there in nothing but Jungkook’s shirt, the hem brushing his thighs, sleeves too long and half slipping from one shoulder. His hair was still damp, a few strands clinging to his temple.

“You should be sleeping,” Jungkook muttered, flicking ash over the balcony edge.

“And you should stop pretending you’re fine,” Jungguk countered, stepping closer. The oversized shirt swayed with his movement, carrying Jungkook’s own scent back to him.

For a moment, silence. Just smoke between them, glowing city lights, and the way Jungguk’s eyes refused to leave his.

“Give me that,” Jungguk said suddenly, plucking the cigarette from Jungkook’s fingers before he could protest. He pressed it out against the ashtray with a sharp little twist, then looked up at him. “You don’t need this.”

Jungkook’s lips curved faintly not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “And what do I need then?” His voice was husky, low from both smoke and something heavier.

Jungguk didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the distance, standing on his toes just enough to brush his forehead against Jungkook’s chest. His hands slipped against his brother’s waist, curling into the warmth of his skin.

The tension in Jungkook’s shoulders cracked. His hand slid into Jungguk’s damp hair, fingers curling tight, tilting his head back. Their eyes met one heavy with stress, the other glowing with stubborn comfort.

“You drive me insane,” Jungkook breathed.

“Good,” Jungguk whispered, lips parting under the faintest pull of a smile.

Jungkook’s hand tightened in Jungguk’s hair, tugging just enough to tilt his face upward. Jungguk’s lips parted, his breath catching, his chest rising against Jungkook’s bare skin. The city lights painted a glow along his cheekbones, the oversized shirt slipping further off his shoulder.

For a second, Jungkook only looked at him. The smoke between them had vanished, but the air was still thick and heavy with the way Jungguk’s brown eyes burned stubbornly into his. His lashes fluttered when Jungkook leaned closer, every inch closing like a storm waiting to break.

Jungguk’s tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip nervously, and that was all it took for Jungkook to lose restraint.

The first press of their mouths was slow barely there like Jungkook wanted to taste the shape of him before daring more. Jungguk’s lips were soft, warmer than the night air, trembling slightly under the weight of it. His fingers dug into Jungkook’s waist, anchoring himself as his knees threatened to give way.

Then Jungkook deepened it. His lips moved harder, claiming, pulling a muffled sound from Jungguk’s throat that melted straight into him. Jungkook angled his head, his nose brushing Jungguk’s cheek, and the kiss turned hungry smoke and salt and the sweetness that was only his mate.

Jungguk gasped when Jungkook’s teeth caught his bottom lip, sharp enough to sting. The sound was swallowed instantly, Jungkook sealing their mouths again, his hand at the back of Jungguk’s neck holding him in place.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was dominance, frustration, comfort, obsession all spilling through the drag of lips and the clash of teeth until Jungguk was left breathless, his body trembling, his hands clutching at Jungkook like he’d never let go.

The world, the show, the pressure all of it faded until there was only the balcony, the night, and the way Jungguk clung to him like he was the only thing that mattered.

When they finally broke apart, a thin string of warmth clung between their swollen mouths. Jungguk’s lips were red, his breath shaky, and Jungkook’s eyes were black fire, still burning, still hungry.

Jungguk rested his cheek against Jungkook’s chest, hearing the thundering beat beneath. “You don’t have to carry it alone, hyung,” he murmured.

Jungkook exhaled, this time without smoke. His arm tightened around the smaller frame, his chin resting on Jungguk’s damp hair. For once, just for tonight, he let himself believe it.

.

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The hotel suite smelled faintly of Celine’s newest perfume release, sharp florals layered over the musk of leather. Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed, robe unbuttoned halfway, a glass of whiskey turning lazy circles in his hand. The city lights poured in through the balcony windows, but his eyes weren’t on the skyline they were on the reflection of himself, perfectly poised, every inch the man who carried Celine’s crown.

Lisa sat across from him on the low chair, legs crossed, her hair falling in waves over the silk robe she hadn’t bothered to tie properly. She studied him, but he didn’t give her much back. Not words, not expression — only silence and that sharp jawline that spoke louder than anything.

“You’re too tense,” Lisa said finally, breaking the stillness. Her voice was casual, but her eyes lingered on the way his knuckles tightened around the glass. “Tomorrow is just a show, Taehyung. You’ve done this a hundred times.”

He chuckled low, bitter. “Not this time.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Then what is it?”

He leaned back, one hand raking through his hair, the glass tipping dangerously before he set it down on the bedside table. His lips curled, not quite a smile. “This show isn’t just about fashion. It’s about something else.”

Lisa’s brows lifted. “Revenge?” she teased, but the word lingered heavy in the air.

Taehyung’s gaze flicked to her sharp, unreadable, a shadow flickering behind his brown eyes. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rose, stepping toward the balcony, pulling the curtain aside with one slow drag of his fingers. The Paris night stretched endless beyond the glass, the city humming like it already belonged to him.

“You talk like there’s someone out there you want to crush,” Lisa pressed, her tone softer now, a half-smile tugging her lips. “Should I know who?”

For a moment, it seemed like he might tell her. His shoulders shifted, his lips parted but then he shut it down with a low hum, brushing invisible lint off his cuff.

“You don’t need to know, Lisa,” he said finally, voice smooth, final. “You just need to be perfect tomorrow. You’re the face of Celine. The rest…” His eyes narrowed, almost glittering in the reflection. “…the rest is mine to handle.”

Lisa studied him a second longer, her teasing expression melting into something more serious. She knew better than to push — Taehyung’s silence was a wall, and when he chose to build it, no one got through.

So she just leaned back, smirking faintly. “Fine. But if this is more than a show, you better make sure we win.”

Taehyung didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The weight in his eyes said enough — tomorrow, the runway wasn’t about fashion. It was war.

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