Silence Behind Glass

The After

Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Taehyung's studio apartment, but he didn't feel it.

He hadn't slept. The clock on his nightstand had cycled from 2 AM to 4 AM to 6 AM, each hour marked by a different position of his body—curled on his side, flat on his back, knees drawn to his chest. The blankets were twisted around his legs. His pillow was damp with tears he didn't remember crying.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt Bo-gum's hands on his body. His disgusting mouth on his throat. Pinning him against cold stone.

"No one can hear you out here."

Taehyung pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. Breathed. Counted. Tried to remember what Jimin had told him when he finally found him in the garden, wrapped in a stranger's jacket, leaning against a man with dark eyes and a voice like velvet.

"Tae. Tae, look at me. Are you okay? I'm so sorry. I never should have left you."

Jimin had driven him home. Made him tea. Sat with him until 2AM, holding his hand, not asking questions. When Taehyung finally whispered "He touched me and I couldn't move," Jimin had held him tighter and said nothing at all. "That bastard of Bo-gum I'd never thought he would do something like that" said Jimin in disbelief.

Now it was morning. The sun was rising over Seoul, indifferent to Taehyung's pain. His phone buzzed—Jimin, checking in. He didn't answer. Another buzz—the shop owner, asking if he could open early today. Taehyung typed yes with numb fingers, then dragged himself to the bathroom.

The mirror showed him a stranger. Pale skin. Dark circles carved beneath his eyes like bruises. Lips still chapped from where he'd bitten them raw. He splashed cold water on his face, dressed in his softest sweater—purple cream-colored, oversized, the one that made him feel invisible—and left the apartment.

The walk to Midnight Pages was usually his favorite part of the day. The quiet streets. The sleepy cafes. The way the city woke up slowly, like a giant stretching after a long sleep. Today, every shadow made him flinch. Every man with broad shoulders made his heart lurch into his throat.

He unlocked the shop at 7:00 AM. The familiar smell of aging paper and cinnamon tea usually calmed him. Today, it felt like a cage. Suffocating him whole, he wanted to go to his home, his safe place.

His phone buzzed again. Jimin: Can I come see you?

Taehyung stared at the message for five minutes. Then typed: Not today. Need to be alone.

Jimin: Okay. But I'm calling tonight. And you're answering.

Taehyung set the phone down and pulled out his sketchbook. His hands moved without permission, drawing shapes he didn't intend. A sharp jaw. Dark eyes. A mouth that had said "You're safe now" with such certainty that Taehyung had almost believed him.

Jeon Jungkook.

Taehyung had looked up the name last night, lying in bed, phone light illuminating articles about hostile takeovers and corporate empires. Jungkook was ruthless, they said. Cold. A man who collected companies like trophies and discarded people like broken machinery.

But the man in the garden had been neither cold nor ruthless. He'd draped his jacket over Taehyung's shoulders without touching him. He'd said breathe like it mattered. He'd caught Taehyung when his knees gave out and held him like he was something precious.

"Someone who doesn't like seeing beautiful things shedding tears."

Taehyung traced his pencil over the drawing, shading the hollow of Jungkook's cheekbone. His chest ached. He didn't understand it—this pull toward a man who should terrify him. After last night, after that, he would want to hide from everyone. Especially from someone like Jungkook.

But he didn't.

And that frightened him more than anything else.

——————

By 10 AM, Jungkook had read the same merger agreement four times and retained none of it.

The words blurred on the page. His pen hovered over the signature line, frozen. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a loop played on repeat—a boy's tear-streaked face, a whisper of "Who are you?", the weight of a slender body leaning against his chest in a cold garden.

Mina entered with his coffee. She set it down, glanced at the untouched documents, and raised an eyebrow. "You've been staring at that page for twenty minutes."

"I'm thinking."

"You're slacking. There's a difference." Mina had worked for him long enough to earn the right to honesty. "The Hanjin integration team is waiting for your approval. The Tokyo office has been on hold for an hour. And your mother called."

Jungkook's jaw tightened. "My mother can leave a message."

"She said it's urgent."

"Everything is urgent to her." He set down his pen and rubbed his temples. The beginnings of a headache pulsed behind his eyes. "Tell the Hanjin team I need another day. Tokyo can wait until after lunch. And my mother—" He paused. "Tell her I'll call tomorrow."

Mina didn't move. Her gaze was steady, assessing. "You left the gala early last night. You never leave galas early."

"I was tired."

"You never get tired."

Jungkook looked up at her. For a moment, the mask slipped—just enough for Mina to see something raw beneath. She didn't flinch. She'd seen him fire people without blinking, destroy careers without remorse. But she'd never seen him look lost.

"There was a boy," Jungkook said quietly. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He didn't talk about personal things. Didn't acknowledge that he had a heart, let alone that it could be affected by someone. "At the gala. Something happened. I helped him."

Mina waited.

"I don't know his last name. I don't have his number. I don't know anything about him except that he works at a bookshop in Samcheong-dong and he cries silently and he has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen." Jungkook laughed—a hollow, self-mocking sound. "I sound insane."

"You sound human," Mina corrected softly. "It's unsettling."

Jungkook stood and walked to the window. Seoul sprawled beneath him, gray and indifferent. Somewhere out there, in a small bookshop with a gray door, a boy with honey-brown hair was probably shelving poetry and trying not to think about last night.

Is he okay? Did he sleep? Is he scared?

The questions gnawed at Jungkook like rats in the walls.

"I need to see him," he said, more to himself than to Mina.

"Then go see him."

"It's not that simple. I don't—" He pressed his palm against the cold glass. "I don't know how to be soft, Mina. I don't know how to show up and say I've been thinking about you without sounding like I'm obsessed or insane. Everything I touch, I consume and ruin. That's all I know."

Mina was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Maybe you don't need to know how. Maybe you just need to show up."

Jungkook turned from the window. His reflection stared back—sharp suit, dark circles, a hunger he couldn't name burning in his eyes.

"Clear my afternoon," he said.

Mina nodded. "Where should I say you've gone?"

He thought of the grainy photo on his browser history. The gray door. The cluttered window. The golden lamp in the back room, illuminating a figure hunched over a sketchbook.

"Tell them I got personal matters," Jungkook said. And then, because he couldn't help himself: "And Mina? Have the driver bring the car around. I know exactly where I'm going."

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