Silence Behind Glass

Part II

---Jungkook POV before the incident----

Jungkook had been at the gala for forty-seven minutes and already wanted to set the entire building on fire.

He stood near the bar, a glass of whisky untouched in his hand, watching the glittering crowd with thinly veiled contempt. Old money laughed too loudly. New money tried too hard. Everyone wanted something from him—an investment, an introduction, a moment of his time that they would later weaponize into relevance.

Mina had warned him this gala would be tedious. She'd also reminded him that the Jeon Foundation's charitable contributions required face time, a phrase Jungkook loathed almost as much as he loathed small talk.

So he endured. Smiled when expected. Shook hands with politicians whose names he'd forget by morning. Accepted congratulations on acquisitions that had ruined lives.

And tried very hard not to think about the bookshop and the boy.

But they haunted him. The grainy photo on his browser history. The figure in the window, golden lamplight illuminating honey-brown hair. He'd searched for Midnight Pages again this morning, memorized the address, calculated the distance from his office. Eighteen minutes by car. Twenty-three on foot.

He was losing his mind over a stranger. A stranger he'd never even seen clearly.

"Mr. Jeon! There you are." A woman in emerald silk appeared at his elbow, her smile sharp as broken glass. "I've been hoping to discuss the Eastport development—"

"Not tonight." Jungkook drained his whisky and set the glass on a passing tray. "I'm not working."

Her smile faltered. He was already walking away.

The crowd parted for him instinctively. People recognized the walk—the coiled grace of a predator, the utter lack of hesitation. Jungkook moved through the ballroom like a blade through silk, heading nowhere in particular, scanning faces without interest.

And then he saw him.

Across the room, near the champagne fountain. A flash of navy blue and honey-brown hair. A figure folded into itself like a paper crane—shoulders hunched, head down, radiating a "please don't see me from every pore".

Jungkook stopped breathing.

He knew that posture. That hair. That soft, disappearing way of existing in a room.

Midnight Pages.

The boy from the window. From the grainy photo. From the drawings Jungkook had imagined a stranger making, late at night, by lamplight.

He was even more beautiful up close. Even from this distance, Jungkook could see the delicate curve of his jaw, the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks, the silver chain resting against his collarbone like a drop of moonlight. He stood beside a smaller man in white—Jimin, Jungkook's memory supplied, though he'd never been introduced—and he looked terrified.

Not nervous. Not shy. Terrified.

Jungkook's fingers tightened around nothing. He told himself to walk away. This wasn't his business. He didn't do rescue. He did acquisitions and demolitions and the careful art of breaking things.

But he didn't walk away.

He watched as Jimin left the boy's side. Watched as a man in charcoal—Bo-gum, someone's nephew, Jungkook had seen him at three galas prior—approached with a predator's smile. Watched the boy's face drain of color. Watched the way he flinched when Bo-gum touched his back.

Walk away, Jungkook. Not your problem.

He didn't walk away.

He watched Bo-gum guide the boy toward a side door. Watched the boy's head turn, searching for an exit, finding none. Watched the fear in his eyes bloom into something darker—the particular panic of prey who knows it's been cornered.

Jungkook set down his whisky. His feet were already moving.

The corridor was dim. Quiet. He followed the sound of a muffled protest—Please—and found them in the garden, hidden behind a wall of potted ferns.

Bo-gum had the boy pinned against a stone pillar. One hand on his jaw. One hand on his wrist. His body pressed close, too close, and the boy—Taehyung, Jungkook didn't know his name yet but he needed it—was crying. Silent tears streaming down a face gone white as bone.

"Stop. Please, please stop—"

Something inside Jungkook shattered.

Not broke. Shattered. Like a glass wall finally meeting a force it couldn't withstand. In that moment, Jeon Jungkook—the man who had buried his father and his conscience and every soft thing he'd ever felt—ceased to exist. What remained was something older. More primal. A rage so complete it felt like righteousness.

"Get your hands off him."

His voice came out soft. That was the dangerous part. When Jungkook went quiet, people died.

Bo-gum froze. The boy wrenched free, stumbling sideways, pressing himself against the pillar with arms wrapped around his own trembling body. He wasn't looking. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking through, his whole frame shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

Jungkook advanced. Each step deliberate. Each step a promise.

"I said," he repeated, close enough now to see the sweat on Bo-gum's upper lip, the rapid pulse in his throat, "get your hands off him. Or I will remove them myself."

Bo-gum laughed. Nervous. Ugly. "This is a private conversation. I don't know who you think you—"

"I'm Jeon Jungkook."

The name landed. Jungkook watched the color drain from Bo-gum's face, watched the arrogance curdle into terror. Good. He wanted Bo-gum to be afraid. He wanted Bo-gum to remember this moment every time he closed his eyes for the rest of his miserable life.

"Mr. Jeon. I—I didn't realize—we were just talking—"

"Leave. Now." Jungkook took one more step, close enough that Sumin could feel the heat of his anger. "And if I ever see you near him again, I will destroy every aspect of your life so completely that your grandchildren will feel it. You have three seconds."

Bo-gum fled red from anger showing on his face. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into the distant sound of the string quartet.

Silence.

Jungkook turned to look at the boy.

He was still crying. Quiet, hopeless tears that left glistening trails down his cheeks. His whole body shook. He hadn't opened his eyes. His arms were wrapped so tightly around himself that his knuckles had gone white. He looked like a bird that had flown into a window—beautiful, broken, not yet understanding that the danger had passed.

Something twisted in Jungkook's chest. Something unfamiliar. Something that felt dangerously close to tenderness. He let go of that feeling.

He removed his jacket slowly, carefully, making no sudden movements. The wool was warm from his body. He draped it over the boy's shoulders, letting the weight settle, not touching him directly.

"Breathe," Jungkook said softly. He kept his distance—a foot of cold stone between them. Enough to be present. Enough to be safe. "You're safe now. No one is going to touch you. But I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?"

A ragged inhale. A sob disguised as an exhale.

"That's it. Again."

Another breath. Easier. The trembling began to slow.

Jungkook watched the boy's eyelashes flutter. Watched his hands uncurl from their desperate grip on his own arms. Watched him raise his head—slowly, as if lifting something heavy—and open his eyes.

Dark. Wide. Filled with tears and terror and something else. Recognition? No. The boy didn't know him. But those eyes traced Jungkook's face like they were memorizing it. Like they'd been waiting to see it.

"Who are you?"

Jungkook felt the question like a hand around his throat. He'd been asked that question a thousand times—by journalists, by rivals, by women in hotel bars who wanted his name for their i********: captions. He'd never answered it truthfully.

But this boy—this trembling, tear-stained, beautiful boy—deserved the truth.

"Someone who doesn't like seeing beautiful things crying," Jungkook said. Then, softer than he'd spoken in years: "What's your name?"

"Taehyung."

Taehyung. The name settled into Jungkook's bones like a prayer. Like a wound. Like the first page of a story he hadn't known he was reading.

"Can you walk?" Jungkook asked. "I'll take you inside. Find your friend."

Taehyung shook his head. His knees buckled.

Jungkook caught him. One arm around his waist, steadying him. His hand hovered just above Taehyung's hip—barely touching, feeling the heat of his body through the borrowed suit. Taehyung smelled like rain and paper and something floral underneath. His pulse fluttered against Jungkook's arm like a trapped bird.

"I've got you," Jungkook murmured.

Taehyung leaned into him. Soft. Trusting. His fingers found the front of Jungkook's white dress shirt, curling into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

And in that moment, standing in a cold garden with a stranger pressed against his chest, Jeon Jungkook understood something he'd spent years trying not to learn:

He was starting to fall.

And he had no intention of catching himself.

Hi! there!🌱💜 1432 words not bad for myself hehe, i used to be called a good writer in school.

Please ignore the mistakes—I'm learning as I go.

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Thank you for being kind to me baiii BORAHAE!💜💜