Chapter 11 || "Professor Kim: A victim. A Survivor. A Saint." || BOOK 2 OF PHOENIX IN HIS ARMS.

 

The soft rustle of silk tulle whispered beneath Jungkook’s fingers as he delicately pinned the final lace appliqué onto the almost-finished wedding gown. The sunlight filtering through the blurred glass partition of his private office gave the fabric a pearlescent glow, and for a moment—just a moment—he was at peace. Lost in creation. Focused.

Ping.

The sudden chime of his phone shattered the calm like a glass slipping from the edge of a counter.

Jungkook blinked. Slowly, cautiously, he reached for the device—still holding a pin between his lips. His eyes scanned the notification, and his soul left his body.

Hyungie 🖤:
Be home early.
You’ve got something to answer for.
I’m clearing the evening just for you.

A chill ran down Jungkook’s spine. His hands froze mid-air. The pin fell from his lips. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

“Why does he sound like he’s planning my funeral?” Jungkook whispered to himself, dropping the phone onto the table like it might explode.

He immediately dialed his friends—all professors now, stuck in lecture halls—but none of them answered. Voicemail. Again. And again.

“Oh COME ON!” he whined, flopping dramatically over his desk like a dying Victorian heroine. “You all dragged me to that stupid club! I told you I didn't want to go! But nooo, ‘Jungkook, you need to let loose!’—and now look where we are. I am going to die in a Gucci robe, in a marble hallway, and my ghost will haunt Kim Mansion forever!”

He called Niki again. No response.

“Ugh, traitor.”

He sat back up, aggressively tying the ribbon on the gown’s waist like it personally wronged him. The silence in his office was deafening, but his thoughts were louder. What kind of punishment? The silent kind? The rope kind? The “you’re not allowed to cuddle me for 72 hours” kind? or some spicy kind?

No. Taehyung was not that mild. Especially not when provoked.

And Jungkook… had absolutely, definitely, completely provoked him.

With a deep sigh, he packed up his materials and closed his design board, eyes flickering toward the clock. It was barely 5:15 PM, but he wasn’t about to keep Taehyung waiting. He didn’t want to die slowly.

By 6:00 PM sharp, Jungkook stepped into Kim Mansion.

And froze.

Dead silence. Not even the rustle of maids moving in the background. No slippers tapping against the polished floors. No, Mr. Kim, sipping wine and mumbling about stocks. No, Mrs. Kim, humming some classical tune in the drawing room.

Just… nothing.

Even the soft lamps glowed in eerie stillness.

Jungkook’s heart skipped. “O-okay. That’s not ominous at all.”

He walked further inside, his eyes darting side to side.

“Where is everyone? Did they all go on a secret vacation without telling me? Did they evacuate before the storm—aka, Kim Taehyung—lands on my existence?”

The moment he stepped into the grand foyer, a soft breeze passed through from the hallway—enough to lift the collar of his shirt slightly. He even forgot to change his formal wear while returning because of the pressure. Jungkook instinctively clutched it.

“Oh God… this is how horror movies start.”

But beneath his nervous chatter and wide eyes… was something else.

Excitement.

His pulse thrummed like a drumline beneath his skin. His cheeks were warm. His breaths, shallow. It wasn’t just fear. No. There was something wild in the air. Something that made the hairs on his neck stand up.

Taehyung had cleared the evening.

He’d cleared the mansion.

He had plans.

And whatever those plans were… Jungkook could feel them tingling under his skin, making his steps faster and slower at the same time.

Was he about to be scolded?

Was he about to be teased, punished, or wrapped up in those strong arms while being told exactly how reckless and disobedient he’d been?

Jungkook swallowed. “It’s going to be something I’ll remember my whole life,” he whispered to himself.

And he wasn’t wrong.

Because somewhere in the shadows of the mansion, Taehyung was waiting.

Jungkook stood at the doorway to their room, shoes now abandoned in the hallway, socked feet making no sound on the marble as he slowly, very slowly, turned the knob and cracked the door open.

His bunny eyes peeked in.

And there he was.

Kim Taehyung.

Clad in his black formal Pants, the expensive fabric hugging his long legs like it was tailored by sin itself. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show the deep cut of his collarbone, sleeves rolled to his forearms—veins visible, flexing with every small shift of his fingers. 

His discarded tie lay like a warning across the bed. The man himself sat on the balcony chair, wine glass swirling in his hand, eyes lost in the dusky skyline.

A Greek god mid-contemplation.

Jungkook’s soul screamed.

He closed the door in the quietest panic ever executed by a human and bolted down the hall like a squirrel on espresso. “Nope, nope, NOPE. Approaching him is a death wish! I’ll end up a memory on a family photo frame!”

He turned corners, ducked behind a curtain, crawled behind a sofa, and even tried to camouflage behind a decorative plant. But the bush had spikes.

“Ow!”

He sprinted again and—like a fool—dove into the nearest place he could hide: inside the laundry cart. With a towel thrown over his head, he crouched like a criminal in a prison movie, whispering to himself.

“I’m too pretty to die. I’m too young. My wedding dress line hasn’t even launched yet.”

Just then—

“...Kookie.”

The soft, deep voice of doom echoed from behind him.

Jungkook froze.

Slowly turned.

And there stood Taehyung, expression unreadable, one brow raised, sleeves still rolled, and eyes gleaming in amusement—or was it murder? Hard to tell with Taehyung. The man held the laundry cart with one hand, completely unfazed.

“Found you.”

Jungkook yelped. “Noooo wait—”

In the next second, he was lifted like a sack of potatoes, slung over Taehyung’s shoulder with the least amount of effort.

“Hyungie! This is manhandling! I’m fragile!”

Taehyung said nothing.

Nothing.

His silence was more powerful than a thousand scoldings. Jungkook thrashed like a caught kitten. “Is this the silent punishment? At least say you still love me! Am I sleeping on the couch? Or am I getting shipped to Antarctica?? Hyung—!”

Still nothing.

Taehyung carried him like he weighed nothing, striding into the kitchen and placing him gently—but firmly—on the counter. He finally spoke.

“Don’t move.”

His voice was calm. Deep. Laced with steel.

Jungkook nodded obediently, too stunned to resist.

Taehyung walked off.

Was he going to get ropes? A pan? Divorce papers??

But instead, Taehyung returned with a bottle of wine from their private reserve—one Jungkook knew was older than both of them combined—and poured it into a delicate glass.

He handed it to Jungkook with a small smile.

“Mom and Dad are out for dinner with old friends. So I thought…”
“Why don't I cook for you today?”
“It’s been a while since I made something for my baby.”

Jungkook blinked.

“Enjoy the wine until dinner. It’s rich, smooth. Don’t drink the whole bottle unless you want to end up under the table again. Just half.”
“Be good, okay?”

And with that, Taehyung turned around, pulled his hair into a loose bun, tied on an apron (a black silk one), and began cooking.

Jungkook: Buffering...

Thoughts: Not Found.

He looked at the wine. Then at Taehyung.

Then at the wine again.

“This… is not what I expected.”

His nerves began to settle as the warm notes of rosemary, garlic, and butter began to fill the kitchen. The sound of oil sizzling in the pan was like background music, and the warm lighting wrapped around Taehyung like a cinematic spotlight.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook slowly sipped the wine and let out a dreamy sigh.

“Maybe I’m not being punished. Maybe… he really just missed me.”

Then his thoughts drifted in a very different direction.

“God, look at him.”
“Those rolled-up sleeves. Those veins. That back view…”
“How is he so hot just cooking dinner? Is it legal to look that good while chopping herbs?”

His feet dangled off the counter, swinging slowly as he kept sipping and admiring. His cheeks turned pink.

“I must have done some serious good karma to end up married to this man.”
“Look at those muscles. That focus. That aura. That apron—I need therapy.”
“Oof. I’m feeling hot…”

He didn’t know it yet.

But the trap was already closed.

And Jungkook?

He was walking straight into it, one dreamy sigh and one warm sip at a time.

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