Chapter 10 || "Professor Kim: A victim. A Survivor. A Saint." || BOOK 2 OF PHOENIX IN HIS ARMS.

 

The morning sunlight filtered lazily through the sheer curtains, casting golden stripes across the polished wooden floor of the Kim mansion. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the balcony, but inside, the only sound was the soft rustling of sheets and a long, exhausted groan.

Jungkook blinked against the light, his head pounding like a war drum inside his skull.

“Ugh… my head…” he muttered, voice hoarse and grainy from sleep—and perhaps, excessive whining the night before. He sat up, rubbing his temples, trying to piece together how he ended up back in this room instead of at his friend’s place.

A second later, realization hit him like a truck.

He was in Taehyung’s room.
Their room.
In Kim Mansion.

His gaze slowly dropped to the state of the bed… or more accurately, the battlefield that once resembled a bed. The covers were a tangle of kicked-away sheets, the pillows were scattered like debris across the floor—some pressed flat and bearing suspiciously human-shaped imprints. The faint smell of their combined cologne and something muskier still lingered in the air.

“Oh god,” Jungkook whispered, cheeks beginning to bloom a shade too red for early morning.

And then, his eyes moved to the mirror across the room.

His mouth fell open.

Hickies.

So many. A constellation of them painted in deep purples and reds along his collarbone, the side of his neck, even peeking from under the hem of his loose shirt.

He yelped.

“Kim Taehyung, you ducking psycho—!”

But of course, Taehyung was nowhere to be found.

He stumbled out of bed, muscles sore and mildly protesting. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots between floor pillows and his sore thighs. He shuffled to the bathroom with a hand shielding his mortified face, needing a cold splash of water and perhaps divine intervention.

Inside the shower, as the hot water cascaded over his skin, he groaned, trying to scrub away the evidence of the night—or at least, the mental images that kept returning. Faint flashes teased his memory. His own giggles. His pout. Taehyung’s eyes were sharp and filled with fire. His voice—low, teasing. The floor.

He let out a half-laugh, half-whimper.

“No wonder the room looks like a tornado passed through.”

Once clean and mildly composed, Jungkook changed into his fresh, fluffy set of clothes—opting for a high neck under the soft cream hoodie to hide his neck, even though the smug looks he’d get from their parents would likely need more than that.

He glanced around at the mess again and sighed.

Normally, Taehyung never left their mess behind. He was the type to quietly clean it all up before the maids even entered. “Some things,” he’d once said, “should stay between us.” But there were days—rare ones—where he’d leave it untouched. On purpose.

To make Jungkook remember.

And this was clearly one of those days.

Jungkook, still flushed, set to work tidying up the room—fluffing pillows, tossing used tissues into the bin, and wiping away the dried and sticky remains (and heat)from the mirror, floor, and also from his own crazy mind. Every time he folded a sheet or picked up a disheveled piece of clothing, he relived a blurry scene from the night before.

It was embarrassing.
It was exhilarating.
It was maddeningly Taehyung.

By the time he made his way to the dining hall, his face had returned to some semblance of normalcy—though he knew he probably looked like a blushing tomato under that hoodie.

He paused at the threshold.

Mr. and Mrs. Kim were seated at the large dining table, their coffee cups in hand, half done with breakfast. They looked up as one, expectant smiles on their faces.

“Ah, good morning, Kookie,” Mrs. Kim greeted sweetly, though the gleam in her eyes told him she knew exactly what he’d been up to—or what Taehyung had been up to, more accurately.

“Morning,” Jungkook mumbled, bowing a little too low as he shuffled in like a guilty teenager.

“You’re late,” Mr. Kim noted, barely hiding a smirk behind his newspaper. “And a bit sore, are we?”

Jungkook nearly choked on air. “W-What? No! I—I’m just—slept weirdly!”

“Hmm. Must have been a hard and painful hangover, huh?” Mrs. Kim added, sipping her tea, eyes twinkling.

He wanted to die.

Sliding into the chair at the end of the table, Jungkook buried his burning face in his hands. “Please tell me I didn’t do any stupidity or anything last night.”

“Not a word,” Mr. Kim said, completely deadpan.

Mrs. Kim nodded. “Though the floor did complain a bit, it said that it was 'you' who fell over it and it did not hit you back at all.”

Jungkook whimpered.

This was going to be a long breakfast.

The warm aroma of buttered toast, eggs, and roasted tomatoes filled the lavish dining hall, but Jungkook could barely taste any of it. He was too busy fidgeting with the edge of his plate, chewing his lips, and glancing nervously at the hallway like Taehyung might suddenly emerge, wrath blazing in his eyes and a punishment list already typed and laminated in his hands.

The silence at the table was beginning to suffocate him—until he blurted, voice small and unsure:

“Was Hyungie angry that I got drunk…?”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Kim paused.

Jungkook looked up, nervously tugging at his clothes. “Wait, I mean—of course he was angry. That’s obvious. The real question is—was he angry to the point that I need to run for my life the next time I see him in front of me?” His voice went higher with each word, nearly cracking.

Mr. Kim chuckled behind his coffee cup, but it was Mrs. Kim who laughed first—soft and melodic, like she was already playing a montage in her mind. “Oh, sweetie. Do you want us to be honest?”

“Please, no,” Jungkook whined dramatically, hiding behind a slice of toast like it was a shield.

“Oh, you were a whole show, Kookie.” Mr. Kim’s grin widened. “You tripped over a floor, yelled at a pillar, and almost fought the refrigerator for hiding Taehyung.”

Mrs. Kim added, “Not to mention you mistook that a person named ‘Drunk’ stole your husband and nearly declared war on the kitchen tiles for betraying you.”

Jungkook covered his face with both hands. “Please… I want the floor to swallow me right now. I’ll even apologize to it for yelling last night!”

The older couple shared a knowing look before Mrs. Kim leaned closer, voice softening. “But no, darling. Don’t panic. Taehyung wasn’t angry this morning. He was… surprisingly calm. He even looked like he slept well.”

“That’s worse!” Jungkook gasped, eyes wide. “If he were mad and yelling, I’d know what to expect. But calm? Calm means he’s plotting. Calm means the next time I breathe wrong, he’ll strike!”

“You might be safe,” Mr. Kim offered helpfully. “This time.”

Jungkook slumped forward, defeated.

Then Mrs. Kim’s tone turned serious, though her smile remained kind. "But Koo… honestly, why did you even get drunk? You know Taehyung has prohibited you from drinking outside the mansion unless he’s there. It’s not just a possessive rule. It’s about safety."  

"You're not a common person, sweetheart. You’re not only Taehyung’s spouse but also the hidden founder and CEO of KJ—and that means eyes are always watching. You can’t afford to get caught in situations that can be used against you or him."

Jungkook's pout returned full-force, but this time it carried guilt.

“I know…” he mumbled. “I wasn’t planning on getting drunk. We were just hanging out. And we all thought the drinks were non-alcoholic. Even the bartender said it was some ‘fusion tonic.’ It tasted weird but not strong. But… I think they were spiked or just mislabeled. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here with a headache and… ‘and hickies the size of small countries’.” Jungkook mumbled the last sentence to himself.

He sank deeper into his seat with a loud, dramatic sigh. “I don’t even remember how I came back. If Hyungie is really, really mad, I’m dead for sure.”

Mrs. Kim reached over and patted his hand. “You’re not dead. Yet. But I’d suggest you bring him flowers. Or something sweet. Like yourself. Preferably wrapped in a red bow.”

Mr. Kim snorted.

Jungkook groaned. “I am the most idiotic person in this family who digs the well and falls into it. And then will get punished by Hyungie for digging and falling as well.”

“No, love. You’re the entertainment of this family,” Mrs. Kim said cheerfully.

Jungkook glared at his toast. “Traitor bread. Even you’re laughing.”

The Kim couple exchanged a fond glance before returning to their tea, while Jungkook sulked quietly—plotting escape routes, bribery ideas, and possibly printing a “Forgive Me” T-shirt before heading to the office.

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