CHAPTER 34 TO 46

 

Chapter 34: The Room Between Us

 

The morning light bled softly into the mansion, brushing golden over velvet drapes and polished mahogany. For the first time since Jungkook arrived, the house no longer sat in silence. There were soft creaks, scattered footsteps, and the subtle rustle of movement that spoke of life—life that was no longer quietly bleeding beneath grief and distance.

 

The day began, not with V pacing the eastern wing alone, nor with Taehyung cloistered in the sunroom with his muted tea. It began with a shuffle, a sleep-heavy giggle, and a tug of sleeves as Jungkook crawled between the twins on the oversized bed.

 

Yes—the bed.

 

It had started the night before, after a long stretch of time spent curled on the couch between them, Jungkook blinking with sleep and clinging more openly with each passing hour. At first, there was hesitation in the air, a quiet question neither V nor Taehyung voiced aloud. But Jungkook answered it for them when he whispered, still half-asleep, “Wanna sleep with Dada ‘n Daddy…”

 

And they had obeyed. Not out of indulgence, not out of pity.

 

But because it was the first request that made sense.

 

So now, morning poured over the three of them, tangled in plush sheets. V lay on his back, one arm behind his head, eyes still closed but breath slow. Taehyung was half-turned toward Jungkook, his hand loosely draped over the boy’s waist, long fingers splayed like he’d been touching him all night without fully knowing it.

 

Jungkook blinked between them.

 

He was sandwiched, warm and safe and glowing from within.

 

He stared at V first.

 

“Daddy,” he whispered softly, just to test the word again. It made his cheeks warm and his toes curl under the sheet. “You awake…?”

 

V’s lips didn’t move, but a low hum answered him.

 

Then a rough, sleepy voice, “Too early, baby.”

 

Jungkook grinned and wiggled, which earned him a groan and an arm tightening around his middle—from the other side.

 

“Don’t wake him yet,” Taehyung mumbled into his hair. “Just five more minutes…”

 

“I’m not a blanket,” Jungkook giggled, kicking softly, his voice high-pitched and playful in his little space. “You two always sleep too much.”

 

V opened one eye lazily. “Says the one who drooled on my chest.”

 

“Did not!” Jungkook gasped, red-faced. He sat up slightly, straddling V’s chest with puffy cheeks and a stubborn pout. “That was a dream spill!”

 

Taehyung barked a laugh behind him, pulling the blanket over his head to muffle it. “A dream spill? Koo-yah… you're ridiculous.”

 

“Meanies,” Jungkook huffed, crossing his arms.

 

But before either twin could tease him further, V suddenly grabbed his hips and flipped them effortlessly, dragging Jungkook back down against his body. The boy squeaked, wide-eyed and breathless, landing with a bounce on V’s chest, their noses nearly touching.

 

“You’re ours,” V murmured softly, fingers still holding his waist, but gently now. “Whether you drool or giggle or babble…”

 

Jungkook stared, lips parted, all protests forgotten.

 

He felt Taehyung shift behind him again—closer this time—and suddenly he was tucked between both men, limbs cradled, hearts beating on either side of his tiny frame.

 

“You’re ours,” Taehyung echoed, voice so soft it melted into his hair.

 

And Jungkook—Koo—curled in like he belonged to that moment. Like the house had finally allowed itself to breathe through the shape of him.

 

—

 

Later, during a slow brunch prepared by the house staff and served in the sun-soaked glass conservatory, the air shimmered with newfound ease. Jungkook sat cross-legged on one of the lounge cushions, toast crumbs on his lips and fruit juice staining the corner of his mouth.

 

“Can Koo paint today?” he asked suddenly, wide eyes trained on the twins, who were each nursing their coffee with quiet thoughtfulness.

 

“Paint?” Taehyung asked, glancing up.

 

Jungkook nodded eagerly, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth. “Koo feels colors. In his tummy. They wanna come out.”

 

That pulled a soft smile from V, who set his mug down and said, “The west wing has a studio. We haven’t opened it in years, but…”

 

Jungkook's ears perked. “Studio?! Like... like a real one? With windows and paint and and and lights?”

 

“Yes,” V replied, amused at his excitement. “It was our mother’s.”

 

A shadow briefly crossed Taehyung’s face at the mention, but Jungkook didn’t notice—he was already hopping up on his knees, bouncing like a child about to be taken to a candy shop.

 

“Can we go now? Pwease, Daddy? Dada?”

 

Taehyung arched a brow. “Finish your breakfast first, baby.”

 

“Koo's full.”

 

“You’ve only had toast and berries.”

 

“Koo’s soul is full,” Jungkook replied dramatically, hands to his chest.

 

That earned him a warm laugh from both men—something rare, but quickly becoming less so.

 

—

 

The studio was a long, high-ceilinged room with arched windows and a slanted roof. Dust clung to the corners, but the air was fragrant with old oils, dried pigments, and time. Jungkook stepped inside slowly, eyes wide, lips parting in silent wonder.

 

“It smells like dreams in here,” he whispered.

 

The twins exchanged a glance.

 

V nodded once at one of the house staff, who silently moved forward and began uncovering easels, drawers, and carefully preserved canvas rolls.

 

Jungkook walked among them like a wandering spirit, touching old brushes, fingertips ghosting over abandoned palettes, as though trying to read the ghosts in the dried paint.

 

“This is yours now,” Taehyung said gently, coming to stand beside him. “Use it however you like.”

 

Jungkook turned to him with shimmering eyes. “Really?”

 

V stepped forward, brushing a loose strand from his face. “Yes, baby. Paint the world you see. We want to see it too.”

 

And something warm broke open in Jungkook’s chest.

 

He was allowed to create again. Not for galleries. Not for auctions.

 

Just for himself.

 

Just for them.

 

Just for love.

 

—

 

That night, they returned to the same bed.

 

No one suggested otherwise.

 

This time, Jungkook fell asleep tangled in Taehyung’s shirt, one leg tossed over V’s hip, soft murmurs of “Dada… Daddy… love you…” barely whispered into the silk sheets.

 

And long after he drifted off, the twins remained awake in the low blue glow of the nightlight Jungkook insisted they keep on.

 

Taehyung turned to V, voice quiet.

 

“He’s changing us.”

 

V didn’t look at him. “He’s saving us.”

 

They both knew it was true.

 

And neither of them were ready to admit just how deeply they’d already fallen.

 

Not just in love.

 

But into something far more dangerous:

 

Need.

 

 

 

Chapter 35: Colors That Never Fade   M

 

The studio became a living heart in the mansion.

 

It was no longer just a wing filled with dust and forgotten paint—it was his, and through him, it slowly returned to life. Days stretched like velvet in soft tones, filled with the quiet scratch of brushes, the occasional crash of spilled water jars, and the endless hum of soft melodies Jungkook played from a little speaker he carried everywhere like a lifeline.

 

Each morning, he padded barefoot into the studio, hair wild from sleep, oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, and paint already staining his fingers before breakfast. He didn’t ask for permission anymore. He belonged there. The twins let him.

 

And they watched him.

 

They were drawn like magnets.

 

V often lingered in the corner, unreadable gaze locked onto Jungkook's small figure as he perched on a stool, legs crisscrossed, mumbling to himself in Koo’s voice. The boy would tap his lips with the end of a brush and tilt his head, then suddenly burst into action like he’d heard something invisible tell him what to do.

 

“Color’s not right,” Koo muttered one afternoon, tongue pressed to his cheek as he stared at the canvas. “Daddy, do you see yellow or gold here?”

 

V leaned closer without hesitation. “...Gold.”

 

“Knew it,” Koo beamed, dipping his brush into a mixture and flinging it lightly across the corner of the canvas, splattering golden streaks like sunlight melting through leaves. “Daddy’s eyes are super smart.”

 

V’s lips curved upward. “Only when they’re looking at you.”

 

Jungkook turned bright red. He ducked behind the canvas, letting out a flustered squeak. “Stop saying silly things, Daddy!”

 

Taehyung, who had just walked in carrying a tray of fresh fruit and a mug of milk, arched an amused brow. “What did he say now?”

 

“Nothing!” Jungkook yelled from behind the easel.

 

“Everything,” V replied smoothly.

 

Taehyung set the tray down and crouched beside Jungkook, sneaking a peek at the half-finished painting. His lips parted as he took it in.

 

It was… vivid. Emotive. A swirling expression of quiet intimacy—deep blues, scarlet underlayers, and a pair of hands reaching toward something unseen.

 

“Who are they?” Taehyung asked quietly, brushing a curl from Jungkook’s forehead.

 

Jungkook glanced up at him, then back at the painting.

 

“They’re trying to find each other,” he whispered. “But the world keeps pulling them apart.”

 

Taehyung said nothing, but his fingers lingered in Jungkook’s hair.

 

The silence between them was louder than anything.

 

—

 

That night, the tension broke.

 

Not in anger.

 

Not in words.

 

But in touch.

 

Jungkook had been fidgety all evening. Koo was more present than ever—mischievous, needy, and entirely too sweet for his own good. He trailed behind the twins in oversized socks, clinging to their sleeves, crawling between them on the couch with soft hums and sleepy whines. He buried himself beneath their arms and sighed like he’d spent the day carrying invisible weights.

 

He wasn’t asking with words.

 

He was pleading with presence.

 

So when they finally made it to bed, the moment unfolded with quiet heat.

 

Jungkook had stripped down to a soft lavender tank and loose sleep shorts, curling under the covers like a purring kitten. His big eyes shimmered beneath the lamplight as he looked up at both men, lips parted slightly.

 

“Can I…” he began, voice airy, “...sleep close tonight?”

 

“You always do,” V replied gently.

 

“No,” Jungkook murmured, shaking his head. “Not like before. Closer. Wanna feel you. Both of you.”

 

His words, though sweet and sleepy, hit something deeper—something neither man had fully acknowledged yet.

 

V swallowed thickly, gaze flicking toward his brother. Taehyung said nothing. But his hand reached out first.

 

And it started with that—

 

One warm palm on Jungkook’s cheek.

 

Then V’s hand on his waist.

 

Then a kiss. Feather-light. Brushing against the crown of his head. A second one at his temple. Another at the curve of his shoulder.

 

And slowly, deliberately, Jungkook crawled into the space between them, curling with his back to Taehyung and chest to V, like a soft creature searching for a heartbeat to match.

 

“I can feel you,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he tucked himself under their chins. “I like this. It makes Koo feel safe.”

 

Taehyung’s arm slid around his middle. “We’ll always make you feel safe, baby.”

 

“Always,” V echoed, burying his face in Jungkook’s hair.

 

There was no more distance.

 

No more grief thickening the walls.

 

Just warmth. Shared breath. Gentle fingertips brushing over skin, not with hunger, but with the need to hold.

 

It wasn’t lust.

 

It wasn’t innocence.

 

It was intimacy—so charged, so deep, that it lingered on every inch of bare skin.

 

Jungkook’s thighs brushed against Taehyung’s leg as he shifted. V’s lips grazed his shoulder in a kiss that didn’t ask, but promised. And beneath it all, Koo whimpered lightly, pressing closer with every heartbeat.

 

“Don’t let go,” he mumbled, curling his fingers around Taehyung’s wrist.

 

“We’re not going anywhere,” Taehyung whispered against his neck.

 

“We belong to you,” V murmured. “And you belong to us.”

 

The night held them in silence.

 

But their bodies said everything.

 

—

 

The days that followed were filled with slow-blooming changes.

 

Jungkook’s little space began surfacing more often—at breakfast, when he stole strawberries from V’s plate with a proud little smirk; at lunch, when he demanded to sit in Taehyung’s lap just because he missed him while he was gone for half an hour.

 

He filled the mansion with sounds it hadn’t heard in years—giggles, hums, random mewls as he crawled from room to room carrying a stuffed bunny, asking if “Dada” could teach him how to write pretty cursive.

 

And the twins? They indulged him.

 

Fully.

 

If V had once been cold and distant, now he was soft-spoken and ever-present, eyes constantly trailing after Jungkook like he was afraid the boy would disappear the moment he looked away. If Taehyung had once been patient but far-off, now he was near—physically, emotionally, his hands always somewhere on Jungkook, guiding him, grounding him.

 

The mansion had become a nest.

 

And Jungkook was its center.

 

But outside the high walls, the world had begun to stir.

 

And soon… it would come knocking.

 

 

 

Chapter 36: The Whisper Beneath the Door

 

The morning air was sharp and still, the kind of stillness that draped itself over the world like the hush before a storm. The light had not yet fully broken into the halls of the Kim estate, and yet the mansion was not asleep.

 

Not entirely.

 

Down the grand hallway, the quiet hum of life stirred in the softest of ways—footsteps too light to be the twins, a melodic series of muffled hums, the occasional squeak of wood as a door nudged open and closed again.

 

Jungkook was awake.

 

Wrapped in one of V’s oversized silk shirts that hung to his thighs, his hair messy from dreams and sleep still clinging to his lashes, he padded through the halls barefoot. The tip of his thumb pressed lazily to his lips as he followed the scent of something warm—coffee, maybe, or the faint spice of cinnamon from the kitchen downstairs.

 

He was humming again.

 

It was a tune Taehyung had whistled the day before while brushing Koo’s hair—something soft and distant that reminded Jungkook of bedtime and lullabies, of the kind of happiness that never made noise but wrapped itself around you quietly.

 

He reached the entrance corridor just as the doorbell rang.

 

Jungkook froze.

 

Nobody used the bell. Not here. Not ever.

 

Mail and supplies were delivered by private couriers. No strangers came to the estate. No unexpected guests.

 

The chime was so soft he almost wondered if he imagined it.

 

Still, curious and barefoot, he walked to the grand doors and peeked through the small side slit in the heavy wood. No person stood there. Just a single, unmarked white envelope lying perfectly centered on the welcome mat.

 

Jungkook’s fingers hesitated.

 

He bent down slowly, peeking left and right through the glass panels—but the drive was empty. Not a sound disturbed the morning.

 

With careful fingers, he picked it up.

 

There was no stamp. No sender. Just a single name written in fluid, curling ink across the center:

 

“Koo.”

 

His heart skipped.

 

Jungkook looked down at it for a long moment, lips parted. Then, quietly, he turned the envelope in his hands and slowly broke the seal. The paper inside was thick, textured. Expensive.

 

And it smelled faintly of turpentine.

 

Paint.

 

His stomach tightened.

 

He unfolded it.

 

“The world has started looking for you again.

You cannot stay hidden forever.

Your art whispers louder than silence.

 

– A Friend.”

 

No signature.

 

No mark.

 

No return.

 

Jungkook stood motionless in the hallway, the note fluttering slightly in his grip as his thumb pressed again to his bottom lip. A thousand emotions crashed through his chest all at once—panic, confusion, a hollow ache of something too familiar.

 

He had been seen.

 

Somehow, someone had pierced the veil.

 

His knees gave out before his breath did. He sank onto the cold marble floor, curling his legs against his chest as the weight of it crushed over him.

 

He was supposed to be invisible.

 

He had hidden for years—behind paint, behind names, behind voices. No one was supposed to know.

 

Not even the twins had asked who he’d once been before arriving here.

 

But now…

 

The veil was thinning.

 

—

 

“Jungkook?”

 

The soft call came like a hand through water, pulling him gently back to the surface. He didn’t look up at first, even as he felt the quiet thud of footsteps rush toward him. A warm hand touched his shoulder, then cradled his face, forcing his gaze upward.

 

Taehyung.

 

His expression was full of concern, a furrow deepening between his brows.

 

“What happened? Why are you on the floor—baby, what is it?”

 

Jungkook wordlessly held out the letter.

 

He didn’t speak, didn’t blink, just watched Taehyung’s face as his eyes scanned the note, lips slowly thinning into a line.

 

“Where did this come from?” Taehyung’s voice was lower now, sharper, as he stood and crossed to the door.

 

“There was a bell,” Jungkook murmured. “No one there.”

 

Taehyung turned the handle and swung the door open. The driveway was empty. The air outside cold.

 

But still.

 

Someone had reached them.

 

He stepped out cautiously, scanned the hedges, the iron gate far down the path, and then looked up at the distant trees on the hills surrounding the estate.

 

The silence screamed louder than it had in weeks.

 

—

 

V read the letter next.

 

He didn’t say a word.

 

He folded it in half once, then again, then slipped it into his coat pocket.

 

Jungkook had never seen him so quiet.

 

He sat between the twins on the living room couch, knees pulled to his chest, now dressed in one of his softest jumpers. Both V and Taehyung flanked him like shadows, their shoulders tense, their eyes no longer just on him—but on everywhere.

 

"You're not leaving this house alone anymore," V said at last.

 

"Not even to the garden," Taehyung added, softer but no less firm. "Until we know who this is... and how they found you."

 

"But—" Jungkook's voice cracked.

 

"You’re ours," V said, eyes finally meeting his. "And no one touches what’s ours."

 

Taehyung leaned in, pressed a kiss to his temple, fingers brushing against his jaw. “We'll keep you safe, baby. I promise. But you have to trust us now.”

 

Jungkook nodded slowly.

 

But inside, Koo was trembling.

 

Because this letter—it wasn’t just a threat.

 

It was a reminder.

 

Of the world he came from.

 

Of the ghosts he left behind.

 

And the empire that, one day, would come calling for its hidden king.

 

—

 

That night, the twins didn’t let him out of their sight.

 

They showered together—soft and slow, hands gliding over bare skin not with desire, but with a kind of desperate protectiveness. Jungkook clung to them, cheeks flushed, soft kisses stolen between each lather of soap, each whispered reassurance.

 

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly, face buried in V’s chest.

 

“You’re allowed to be,” V replied, running his hands gently down Jungkook’s back. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

 

And later, in the warm cocoon of their shared bed, tangled limbs and hearts pounding in sync, Jungkook lay nestled between them, cheek pressed to Taehyung’s collarbone while V spooned him from behind.

 

Their warmth didn’t just protect him—it anchored him.

 

Hands roamed, fingers gently stroking thighs, waists, lips brushing over sensitive skin.

 

Not hurried.

 

Not frantic.

 

But claiming.

 

Taehyung’s lips found Jungkook’s neck, whispering praises between kisses. V’s hands explored his sides, thumbs brushing under his shirt, grounding him.

 

“I love when you hold me like this,” Jungkook breathed, body relaxing for the first time that day.

 

“We’ll hold you forever,” Taehyung said, voice thick.

 

“No matter what comes,” V added, curling closer.

 

The night was slow.

 

The touches lingered.

 

And though the outside world had finally stirred, the warmth between them remained untouched—an intimacy so fierce, it could not be broken by a single letter.

 

But even so, Jungkook didn’t sleep easily.

 

Because he knew—

 

That letter was only the first whisper.

 

And whispers… always led to noise.

 

 

Chapter 37: Portraits in the Dark   M

 

The days that followed the letter passed not like a storm—but like the silence before one.

 

It wasn’t what was said in the mansion that unnerved Jungkook. It was what wasn’t. V had made calls behind glass walls, speaking in clipped, cold syllables Jungkook could never quite hear. Taehyung had taken to spending longer hours in the east wing library, where a laptop that had never seen use before now sat permanently open. They were preparing for something.

 

And Jungkook could feel it tightening around them like the pull of a thread.

 

But they never pushed him away.

 

In fact, quite the opposite.

 

The twins had become softer with him, but firmer in their protection. Wherever he wandered, one of them followed—not obviously, not possessively, but present. If he sat in the sunroom to sketch, Taehyung would conveniently arrive minutes later with fresh fruit and a book in hand. If he curled up on the leather couch with a blanket trailing off his shoulder, V would slide in beside him, fixing it without a word, his hand remaining over Jungkook’s heart for minutes longer than necessary.

 

Jungkook felt like he was living in a gilded bubble.

 

Safe, warm, but trembling with tension.

 

He didn’t ask about the letter again.

 

But he hadn’t thrown it away, either.

 

It now rested, hidden in a thin sketchbook beneath his pillow. A secret folded into another secret. It didn’t feel threatening—not entirely. But it felt like a whisper from the past. Something old. Something buried.

 

That afternoon, the light hit differently.

 

He stood in the corridor that led to the twins’ private gallery room—the one he had never dared enter. He didn’t know why his steps led him there. Maybe he was chasing distraction. Maybe he just wanted to understand them more—what they saw in color, in canvas.

 

The door was slightly ajar.

 

Not locked.

 

Not protected.

 

Jungkook slipped in.

 

And it was like stepping into another soul.

 

The room was quiet. Dustless. Floor-to-ceiling lighting, all warm and soft, bathed the walls where portraits hung like ghosts. Some of them were finished. Some only half-formed, with outlines and eyes and nothing more.

 

He stepped closer to one.

 

A painting of a woman.

 

Ethereal. Her lips were slightly parted, as though caught in breath. Her eyes weren’t directed at the viewer, but slightly to the left. As though someone stood beside the person looking at her. A twin perspective.

 

He stepped to the next.

 

A man, cold and angry, painted in storm greys and wine-red shadows. His mouth was curved in a smile, but it never reached his eyes.

 

Another canvas—this one blank.

 

Only the shape of a boy’s back was sketched.

 

Nothing else.

 

But Jungkook’s skin prickled as he stared at it.

 

Because that outline—that posture, that tilt of the head—it looked like him.

 

The door clicked behind him.

 

He spun.

 

Taehyung stood there, quiet and unreadable.

 

“I didn’t know you painted portraits,” Jungkook whispered.

 

Taehyung stepped forward, his arms loose at his sides. He didn’t look angry. But he looked... sober. Like his heart had paused mid-beat.

 

“That one,” he said, nodding to the sketched-back painting, “was started the day you arrived.”

 

Jungkook’s breath caught.

 

“I couldn’t see your face yet,” Taehyung said quietly, walking forward until he stood beside the boy. “You were still turning.”

 

They stood in silence for a while, Jungkook’s pulse echoing loud in his ears.

 

“Why haven’t you finished it?” he asked softly.

 

“I’m still waiting,” Taehyung replied, “to know what expression you’d wear if you ever fully turned to us.”

 

Jungkook looked up.

 

Taehyung wasn’t just watching him—he was searching.

 

For answers.

 

For permission.

 

For the missing piece of something that had been aching far longer than either of them could name.

 

“I don't know if I can,” Jungkook said, voice trembling.

 

Taehyung reached up and cupped his cheek. “But you're trying.”

 

And then, slowly, with a gentleness that stole Jungkook’s breath, Taehyung leaned in.

 

The kiss was soft.

 

Too soft.

 

Jungkook gasped quietly, lips parting—and Taehyung took it, deepened it, his hands sliding to the boy’s waist, pulling him close until their chests pressed together and all breath and silence disappeared into the heat of each other.

 

Jungkook moaned quietly, the sound lost against Taehyung’s mouth. He clung to the taller man’s shirt, pressing closer, helpless to stop the soft whimper that slipped when Taehyung’s hands brushed under the hem of his shirt—just a tease, just a ghost of a touch.

 

Then another pair of hands joined.

 

Cooler. Firmer.

 

V’s voice, low and amused, echoed behind them.

 

“Didn’t plan to share?” he asked, arms wrapping slowly around Jungkook’s waist from behind. His mouth brushed against Jungkook’s ear, breath warm. “You always get greedy when he’s vulnerable.”

 

“He walked in here on his own,” Taehyung murmured, still cradling Jungkook’s face as V’s chest pressed to his back.

 

“I don’t mind,” Jungkook breathed, dazed and caught between them.

 

And they devoured him.

 

Between the two—lips at his neck, fingers brushing against the softness of his thighs under the long shirt, one hand tangling in his hair, the other sliding up his stomach—Jungkook melted.

 

They didn’t rush.

 

There was no urgency, no frenzy—only heat.

 

Only claiming.

 

Only intimacy.

 

Soft moans filled the quiet space, echoing lightly against canvas walls. They made him feel beautiful—like a painting in motion, touched and cherished with every passing second.

 

By the time they finally pulled back, Jungkook’s lips were kiss-swollen, his cheeks dusted red, and his pulse so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts.

 

But he smiled.

 

Small. Quiet. Real.

 

Maybe Taehyung would paint that smile now.

 

Maybe V would memorize it before the world ever got the chance to see it.

 

They were pulling him closer every day.

 

—

 

That night, in the quiet of their room, the twins finally gave him the truth.

 

They told him who they were.

 

Not just businessmen.

 

Not just powerful heirs.

 

But owners of a vast empire. Art. Tech. Hidden shares in media. Power woven through old families and new wealth.

 

“They’ll find you through us,” V said plainly, brushing Jungkook’s hair as he lay in his lap. “Whether you hide or not.”

 

“I don’t want them to find me,” Jungkook whispered.

 

“Then we’ll control the way they do,” Taehyung added from his chair nearby, gaze steady. “If your identity leaks, it’ll be on our terms. When we say it’s time.”

 

Jungkook nodded slowly.

 

Because a storm was coming.

 

And maybe—

 

Maybe if he stood between them—

 

He could finally face it.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 38: First Glimpse of Thunder

 

It began with a gallery invitation.

 

A harmless thing.

 

Slipped through the polished slot of the twins’ private mail like an afterthought, wrapped in thick ivory paper and wax-stamped in deep crimson. The Kim brothers received hundreds like it every month. Art events. Elite dinners. Exhibitions curated by billionaires who collected art the way others collected wine.

 

But this one—

 

This one was addressed specifically to V and Taehyung Kim, with a handwritten postscript at the bottom that read: “A private collection of anonymous masterworks—including a few by the reclusive ‘Koo’ himself. Your presence would be an honor.”

 

The room had gone still.

 

And Jungkook had frozen in place, fingers tightening around the glass he was holding as the name echoed like thunder against the quiet walls.

 

Koo.

 

His name.

 

His world.

 

His secret.

 

Taehyung’s gaze flicked up to him first. Then V’s followed. But neither spoke—not yet. Not until Jungkook carefully set the glass down and sat, knees folding beneath him on the floor between them like a guilty child awaiting a verdict.

 

“I didn’t know,” he whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t know they were showing anything. My parents… They never told me.”

 

Taehyung leaned forward, eyes unreadable, one hand resting atop Jungkook’s knee. “You trust them to handle your career?”

 

Jungkook hesitated. “They’ve… always kept it hidden. I never asked to know more. I just paint. They protect it.”

 

V didn’t move from the high-backed chair by the window, his posture regal, still—but the shadows around his eyes darkened. “That secrecy is wearing thin, bunny. And now someone wants us at an event where your art will be shown to the most elite eyes in the city.”

 

Taehyung looked down at the card again, lips pursed. “And they used your name deliberately. Koo. A quiet challenge.”

 

A breath caught in Jungkook’s throat. “What if they know who I am?”

 

“They don’t,” V said immediately, cool and steady. “If they knew, they would never risk exposing you in such a public format. This is bait. Either to test us… or to test you.”

 

“Should we go?” Jungkook asked. His voice trembled, though his posture didn’t.

 

“We’ll go,” Taehyung answered without hesitation. “Because if someone’s looking, we want to look back before they get too close.”

 

—

 

The night of the gallery

 

The world outside their mansion always felt colder to Jungkook. Even the car, rich with leather seats and low lighting, could not warm the nervous flutter under his ribs.

 

He wore black.

 

Tailored, sleek, and high-collared.

 

It wasn’t a mask—but it felt like one. His body was shielded under expensive layers, his expression controlled with the elegance the twins had taught him over the past months. Still, his fingers remained clenched in V’s hand for most of the ride, seeking the grounding force of the elder twin’s calm breath.

 

Taehyung sat across from them, adjusting his cufflinks with slow, deliberate motions. Every movement said power. Quiet control. Poised storm.

 

He wore midnight-blue velvet with black silk gloves.

 

And he looked like a prince forged from moonlight.

 

The car stopped outside a historic estate converted into an art house. Reporters waited beyond the gates, but not for them—yet. The gallery had promised exclusivity. Privacy.

 

But Jungkook still ducked his head as they entered through a side door.

 

Inside, the space was warmth and shadows. Golden sconces. White walls. Polished wood floors that carried no echo. Waiters passed with champagne flutes and discreet glances, and collectors wandered in murmurs of satin and cashmere, their words too polished to be heard.

 

V and Taehyung walked beside Jungkook like sentries.

 

Until they turned a corner—

 

—and froze.

 

There it was.

 

Koo’s Collection.

 

A wing reserved solely for unnamed works. Curated with silence and reverence. And at the center wall stood one painting that made Jungkook’s knees lock.

 

It was the one he had never intended to release.

 

A watercolor on thick parchment, done in secret after his third nightmare in the mansion. It showed two faceless men cloaked in shadow, standing on either side of a boy sitting on the edge of a wide white bed, looking downward. The boy’s eyes were hidden under a mess of dark curls.

 

But the way he sat—legs tucked, fingers clutching a frayed stuffed bunny—was unmistakable.

 

It was him.

 

And it was them.

 

It was everything they had lived in this mansion.

 

Laid bare for strangers to see.

 

V was the first to move. His body blocked the painting entirely, stepping forward as if shielding Jungkook physically from its light.

 

Taehyung was already talking to the curator, his voice low, sharp.

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

The woman, stunned by their sudden approach, blinked rapidly. “It was submitted by Koo’s managing agents. We were told—”

 

“You were told wrong,” V said coldly, not raising his voice once. “This work was never for public sale.”

 

Jungkook stood frozen a step behind them.

 

Somewhere to his left, a man murmured, “It’s haunting. Whoever painted this must know what it’s like to be… owned.”

 

A quiet rage shimmered through V’s body.

 

Taehyung turned to Jungkook then.

 

And he saw it.

 

Saw the shake in his hands. The way his little teeth were pressing into the softness of his lip. How his eyes—wide, blown out like a doe caught in headlights—were beginning to gloss with something between fear and fury.

 

They didn’t speak.

 

Not there.

 

Not then.

 

But within five minutes, the painting was taken down.

 

—

 

Back at the mansion

 

Jungkook didn’t cry.

 

Not at first.

 

He stood in the long hallway leading to his studio, still wrapped in that black coat, unmoving. And when the door clicked behind them and silence settled, he finally whispered:

 

“I didn’t want them to see that.”

 

Taehyung, still gloved, stepped behind him. V followed soon after.

 

“You painted it during your nightmares,” V said. “We know. We’ve seen it. We let it be.”

 

“I didn’t want them to see that side of me,” Jungkook whispered again. “The part that feels… broken. Owned. Like that man said.”

 

Taehyung turned him around.

 

“You’re not broken.”

 

Jungkook shook his head. “But I was. That’s what I painted. I painted the part of me that didn’t know how to speak. That could only sit still and wait for someone to touch him.”

 

And then his voice cracked.

 

His knees folded. He dropped into a crouch right there in the corridor, burying his face in his hands.

 

“I was trying to let that part of me die.”

 

Two sets of arms wrapped around him.

 

One hand stroked his curls. The other pulled him into a lap that cradled his weight like something sacred.

 

“You don’t have to kill him,” V whispered softly into his hair. “You just have to love him. Let us love him, too.”

 

Taehyung’s hand found his cheek, lifting it gently. “We want all of you, bunny. Even the pieces you think no one should see.”

 

Jungkook blinked up at them.

 

Eyes wide.

 

Lips parted.

 

Then—quietly, brokenly, full of surrender—he whispered:

 

“…Dada…”

 

Taehyung’s breath hitched.

 

“…Daddy…”

 

V’s jaw clenched tight.

 

But they didn’t stop him. They didn’t pull back. They leaned in—pressing kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, whispering words only he could hear.

 

Because that broken part of him—his little space—wasn’t shameful.

 

It was his.

 

And now, it was theirs, too.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 39: Under the Gaze

 

The gallery was too quiet for the number of people inside it. Not a museum hush, but something deeper—a reverence wrapped in tension. The kind of silence that pressed against the ribcage. Under the pale skylight, Jungkook stood still, his head slightly bowed, watching from behind tinted glass as bodies moved slowly through the space.

 

None of them knew.

 

None of them saw him.

 

To them, Koo was a name scrawled discreetly beside each painting, carved into the bottom corner of sculpted installations, hidden in the corner of projection rooms. To them, he was an enigma. A ghost who spoke only in color and texture, in the trembling curve of charcoal on canvas or the aching light refracting through his glasswork. They didn't see the boy in the oversized black coat watching from the private suite above. The boy with parted lips and trembling fingers, too overwhelmed to sit.

 

Taehyung and V flanked him on either side—not touching, not speaking, but there.

 

Jungkook didn’t need to turn to know they were watching the room with a predator's calm. Not for threats, but for reactions. For the way curators tilted their heads in awe or critics paused longer than necessary in front of one particular piece.

 

"They're slowing in front of Stillness Number Six," Taehyung murmured eventually, his voice a low hum behind him. "The one you did when you hadn’t slept for three days."

 

Jungkook blinked. His voice was soft. "The one with the red string?"

 

V's eyes were half-lidded, unreadable. "The one you made after crying a lot."

 

He remembered now. The red string tangled around a faceless figure. It had taken root in his hands as if it had always existed and had only waited for him to bring it forward.

 

Down below, a man in a designer coat turned to his companion and said something that made her nod fervently. Her hands gestured in broad arcs, reverent and animated. Jungkook flinched and pulled back from the glass.

 

“Why are they looking so hard?” he whispered, voice featherlight. “I didn’t want them to look so hard.”

 

V shifted slightly, gaze trained on Jungkook now instead of the crowd. “Because they’re finally seeing what we’ve always seen.”

 

Taehyung said nothing, but his hand hovered a breath away from Jungkook's back, close enough to comfort, too aware to touch. Jungkook stood between them like a tension stringed tight, unsure where to turn. The weight of their eyes on him was nothing new, but today it had changed.

 

Today, the world was watching too.

 

They left the gallery through the back, shielded by a convoy and black glass. Jungkook didn’t speak during the ride home. He sat pressed against the window, watching buildings streak by like melting memories. His fingers were clasped in his lap.

 

At one point, Taehyung reached out and gently uncurled them.

 

Jungkook didn’t resist. He let Taehyung take his hand and hold it between both of his, thumbs tracing slow arcs along his knuckles. It wasn’t meant to soothe, and yet it did. In the dim light of the car, it felt like the only real thing.

 

V watched silently from the opposite seat, one arm draped across the backrest, legs crossed. His gaze was unreadable. Always unreadable. But Jungkook felt it in his chest—the burn of it. The quiet claim beneath.

 

By the time they reached the mansion, dusk was climbing through the trees, casting long gold across the walls. Jungkook stepped into the marble hall and immediately toed off his shoes like he always did, one foot slipping free before the other.

 

He didn’t go to his room.

 

He didn’t ask where to go.

 

He simply turned toward the east corridor—Taehyung’s wing—as if gravity had tilted that way naturally. No words exchanged. Just steps taken.

 

V watched him go. Said nothing.

 

But he stayed behind.

 

The conservatory was empty when Jungkook passed it. Only the soft clinking of wind chimes. In Taehyung's lounge, there was a faint scent of vanilla and books. He sank onto the long window seat, curling one leg beneath himself, fingers tracing the wooden trim.

 

Taehyung appeared moments later. No words. Just a tray in hand, soft fruit and a teacup steaming faintly. He placed it on the table near Jungkook, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Not a master or a host. Not a businessman.

 

Just a man.

 

Jungkook stared at the tray.

 

“You always bring fruit,” he said after a long moment.

 

Taehyung looked up, eyes warm. “Because you always eat it, even when you’re not hungry.”

 

There it was again. That quiet knowing. That gentle anchor in the storm.

 

Jungkook didn’t reach for the tea, but he did slide down until he was sitting on the floor beside Taehyung, shoulder to shoulder. Not quite leaning, but enough.

 

“They really liked it,” he whispered. “My art.”

 

Taehyung nodded. “They did.”

 

“But I didn’t make it for them.”

 

“You didn’t have to.”

 

Another long silence stretched between them. But this one was softer. More forgiving.

 

Until Jungkook tilted his head just slightly, resting it against Taehyung’s shoulder.

 

“Will it always be like this now?” he asked.

 

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. He reached up instead, gently brushing aside a strand of hair from Jungkook’s cheek. His voice was low when it came.

 

“No,” he said. “But we will.”

 

They sat like that until the light faded, and the gallery's applause became nothing more than a ghost outside their glass walls.

 

Meanwhile, across the house, V stood in the center of the private gallery—the one no one else knew existed. He stared at the one painting not included in the public show. The one with inked wings curled around a figure too small, too soft.

 

He reached up. Touched the edge of the canvas like he was tracing memory.

 

And for a moment, his eyes closed.

 

Not in regret.

 

In promise.

 

 

 

Chapter 40: Fractures in the Spotlight

 

The sun had long slipped past the skyline, but the lights of the exhibition hall still shimmered in Jungkook’s mind like reflections off a rippling lake. He sat alone in the conservatory now, knees drawn up beneath him on the wide cushioned bench where trailing vines from above brushed his shoulder, his oversized hoodie pulled halfway over his legs like armor. Outside, moonlight filtered through the glass dome, throwing pale ripples across the floor—too calm for how loud everything was inside him.

 

It was the first time in years that his art had been seen. Not in corners of obscurity. Not in secret deals made by his parents. This had been loud. Brilliant. A storm of applause, gasps, clicking cameras. A hundred strangers trying to place meaning on brushstrokes Jungkook himself barely understood—because so much of his art came from a place no one was allowed to see. Not even him, sometimes.

 

He clutched the ends of his sleeves, gaze unfocused on the shadows moving in the moonlight. They knew now. Not about him—but about Koo. And that was enough to make the entire world tilt a little sideways.

 

The twins had said nothing.

 

Not after the exhibition. Not when they left. Not when they drove home in identical black cars, V in the front, Taehyung beside him. Jungkook in the backseat alone, hearing the tick of the turn signals as the city fell away behind them.

 

They hadn't asked him anything. They hadn’t praised him. They hadn’t commented on the art, the guests, the gallery’s frenzy over the name “Koo” finally being tied to a silhouette in shadow. Their silence hadn’t been cold—but it had been deep. Watchful.

 

Possessive in a way that didn’t need words.

 

Jungkook wasn’t sure when he’d started recognizing that—when he’d begun to understand the difference between V’s still, sharp glances and Taehyung’s low, unreadable hums. The way they hovered without hovering. The way they stood too near whenever others came too close. The way they looked at anyone who lingered too long at one of his pieces.

 

Like they were memorizing names. Cataloguing intentions.

 

He curled tighter into himself and let out a breath. A long, slow exhale meant only for the plants, the glass, and the ache behind his ribs.

 

Then he heard footsteps.

 

Measured. Familiar.

 

V didn’t speak when he entered the conservatory, but Jungkook didn’t need him to. His presence filled the space like fog spilling through the cracks—cool, silent, all-consuming. He stood there for a moment, one hand gloved, the other bare, resting lightly on the back of a chair as if he were still deciding whether to come closer.

 

“You left the gallery before they finished the final tour,” he said eventually, voice as smooth as black velvet. “You knew the attention was about to turn.”

 

Jungkook turned his head but didn’t speak.

 

“I didn’t like the way they looked at you,” V added softly, almost too low to hear. “As if they had a right to.”

 

Jungkook blinked. “They don’t know me.”

 

“But they want to,” V murmured. “Too much.”

 

The words held no rise, no obvious jealousy. But something about the tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his throat, told Jungkook otherwise.

 

“Were you angry?” Jungkook asked, voice small.

 

V crossed the room without answering. He sat at the far end of the bench, angled slightly toward Jungkook but not reaching out. “No. Not angry. Just… reminded.”

 

“Of what?”

 

“That nothing about you belongs to the world.”

 

There it was again—that weight, the gravity of something cold and unshakable. It should have frightened Jungkook. Should’ve made him pull back. But instead, it settled into him like a stone in water, sinking deeper.

 

“I don’t know how to be seen,” Jungkook whispered. “Not like that. All those people…”

 

“They didn’t see you,” V said sharply. “They saw your art. There’s a difference.”

 

Jungkook looked down at his knees. “It felt the same.”

 

A silence stretched between them, but this time, it wasn’t fragile. It held something. Something solid.

 

V’s gloved hand reached out slowly, knuckles brushing the edge of Jungkook’s sleeve. “You let them have your art. You didn’t let them have you.”

 

Jungkook nodded, but his voice quivered. “You didn’t say if you liked it.”

 

V’s hand stilled. Then: “There are no words for what I felt standing in front of that final painting.”

 

The one he hadn’t signed.

 

The one with the two towering shadows behind the smaller figure curled between them—silent, still, and shrouded in red.

 

“It was you,” V said quietly. “And us.”

 

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

 

“I saw it,” V continued. “And I saw what it meant. That’s more than liking it.”

 

Jungkook turned his face away, pressing his palm against his mouth, hiding something between a smile and a sob. “I didn’t mean to show that one.”

 

“But you did.”

 

There was a pause. A shift. Then V leaned in slowly, his voice a touch lower now, more intimate. “And that tells me you knew what you wanted them to see. Even if you pretend not to.”

 

Jungkook didn't respond.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Because his chest was full. Because his throat was tight. Because something in V’s eyes was unraveling him like thread from the inside.

 

That was when Taehyung stepped in.

 

The air changed.

 

Not colder, not warmer—but sharper.

 

He didn’t say a word, but the silence became jagged, brittle. He stood by the glass door, his figure bathed in moonlight, hands tucked in the pockets of his long coat. His eyes went from V to Jungkook and back again.

 

Jungkook sat straighter, unsure why guilt bloomed in his stomach. They hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t even touched. But the weight of Taehyung’s gaze made it feel like they had.

 

“I was looking for you,” Taehyung said, voice unreadable.

 

Jungkook swallowed. “I—I just needed air.”

 

“We should talk.”

 

He didn’t ask. He just stepped aside, letting the moonlight stretch into the room behind him like an invitation—or a demand.

 

V’s hand drew back. No argument. No expression.

 

Just silence.

 

Jungkook followed Taehyung into the corridor, the conservatory door closing behind them with a hush.

 

The hallway felt longer than usual. Jungkook walked beside him but not too close, pulse thrumming. Taehyung’s pace was calm, deliberate, yet his jaw was tense.

 

They stopped in front of the library.

 

“Inside,” Taehyung said.

 

Jungkook obeyed, stepping into the room that had once brought him peace. Tonight, it felt like stepping into something older. Deeper.

 

The fireplace crackled softly.

 

Taehyung gestured for him to sit on the low sofa near the hearth. Jungkook did.

 

Then the older man turned and poured two fingers of dark amber whiskey into a glass. He took a sip but didn’t offer any to Jungkook.

 

Only when the silence grew unbearably loud did Taehyung speak.

 

“That painting at the end. The one with the shadows.”

 

Jungkook’s breath hitched. “You saw it.”

 

“Of course I saw it,” Taehyung said, voice low. “I watched half the gallery go silent in front of it. Watched them trying to make sense of it.”

 

Jungkook looked down.

 

“Why did you show it?” Taehyung asked, not harsh—but not soft either.

 

“I don’t know,” Jungkook whispered. “It just… felt right. Like it was the only thing that mattered.”

 

Taehyung stepped closer, glass still in hand. “Because it is.”

 

Jungkook looked up, startled.

 

“That’s what bothers me,” Taehyung said quietly. “They saw the painting. They saw something sacred. And they’ll try to take it. To name it. To dissect it.”

 

He set the glass down. Moved forward. Sat beside Jungkook, close enough for his knee to brush against the younger man’s.

 

“I’ve let you wander,” he murmured. “Let you find your place. I told myself it was patience.”

 

He leaned in.

 

“But I’m not patient anymore.”

 

Jungkook’s breath caught.

 

“I won’t share you.”

 

The words weren’t a question. Or a confession.

 

They were a fact.

 

And when Jungkook didn’t pull away—didn’t protest—Taehyung’s hand came up slowly, knuckles grazing Jungkook’s cheek, eyes searching.

 

“You showed them that we exist,” he whispered. “Now I need you to remember who you belong to.”

 

The silence afterward was thick with electricity. Not anger. Not fear.

 

Possession.

 

Jungkook leaned in.

 

He didn’t speak.

 

But his hand curled into Taehyung’s coat.

 

And that was enough.

 

 

 

Chapter 41: Inked Shadows and Possessive Flames

 

The fireplace crackled behind them, its warmth flickering over Jungkook’s skin like a breath. He sat there in silence, his fingers still clutched gently in the fabric of Taehyung’s coat. Neither of them had moved since Jungkook leaned in—close enough that their foreheads nearly touched, close enough to feel the shared exhale between them. Yet even in the stillness, the space between them pulsed with something dangerously alive.

 

Taehyung’s hand lingered near his face, not cupping it, not pulling away, just resting there like he was afraid even the softest movement might shatter something delicate.

 

And Jungkook? He wasn’t trembling anymore.

 

Because he felt seen. No longer as a fleeting brushstroke or a blurred shadow. But as someone… someone kept. And yet, strangely, not caged.

 

“You’re not afraid of what this means?” Taehyung asked finally, his voice a quiet rumble.

 

Jungkook blinked slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he leaned even closer—until their foreheads touched. His voice was a breath, hushed and delicate, yet firm beneath the softness. “I’m afraid of everything… except this.”

 

Taehyung closed his eyes too.

 

And something in him broke loose.

 

Without another word, he shifted forward, his hand finally cupping Jungkook’s jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his bottom lip where that small, rebellious mole sat like a temptation. The firelight behind them turned gold over their skin. Neither moved fast. They didn’t need to.

 

Because the tension between them had already turned to gravity.

 

And when Taehyung kissed him, it wasn’t a firestorm—it was heat held in velvet gloves. Gentle. Restraint lined with desperate want. Like he’d been waiting for the world to stop spinning so he could finally reach this moment.

 

Jungkook melted, knees curled beneath him on the cushion, hands gently pressed to Taehyung’s chest—not to stop him, but to ground himself. The kiss was slow. Drawn out. Their breaths mingled, warm and fragile. It was intimate in a way that felt like speaking without words. And when Taehyung pulled back just slightly, foreheads still touching, he whispered against Jungkook’s lips.

 

“You were made to destroy quiet.”

 

Jungkook’s breath caught. His lips curled into a small smile. “I already have, haven’t I?”

 

Taehyung’s chuckle was low. “You turned silence into storm, and I can’t decide if I should worship you for it… or be terrified.”

 

“Why not both?” Jungkook teased, eyes fluttering open. They sparkled in the firelight, all traces of fear eclipsed by the kind of vulnerable mischief that only lived inside him.

 

Taehyung leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another just beneath his jaw. “Because I don’t think I could survive both.”

 

The intimate haze was suddenly interrupted by the quiet creak of the door.

 

They both turned—but there was no alarm, no surprise. Only expectation.

 

V stood there, one hand still on the brass doorknob, his frame tall and unmoving in the shadows. His expression wasn’t cold—but it wasn’t soft either. His eyes flickered from Jungkook’s parted lips to Taehyung’s flushed jaw, then back to the space between them.

 

No one spoke.

 

V stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a hush. He didn’t demand explanation. He didn’t glare. He walked—measured and smooth—until he was directly in front of them. The golden light caught the lines of his face, casting one side in soft amber, the other in dusk.

 

Then he crouched.

 

And his gloved hand reached up to gently cup Jungkook’s cheek—the same cheek Taehyung had kissed just moments ago.

 

“Is this what you want?” he asked quietly, voice low but calm.

 

Jungkook nodded, wordless.

 

V's gaze drifted to Taehyung, who hadn’t moved.

 

“You kissed him first.”

 

Taehyung’s eyes were steady. “I needed him to know.”

 

“And now?”

 

Taehyung’s hand remained on Jungkook’s waist. “Now I need him to remember.”

 

V’s lips quirked slightly—an expression that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough to one that Jungkook’s chest clenched.

 

“Then let him be kissed by both,” V murmured, leaning forward to press his lips to Jungkook’s other cheek.

 

Jungkook gasped softly, the warmth of the touch sending a shiver down his spine.

 

“Let him know,” V whispered against his skin, “he belongs to both.”

 

Taehyung’s hand moved then, tracing up Jungkook’s side beneath the hem of his hoodie, not to touch—but to hold. To anchor.

 

Jungkook’s breath was shallow now.

 

“You’re both being unfair,” he whispered, lips trembling slightly.

 

“Why?” V asked, fingers gently brushing his temple.

 

“Because I already made the choice,” Jungkook whispered, voice barely audible.

 

They both stilled.

 

“I chose both of you… a long time ago.”

 

V blinked. Taehyung’s hand tightened on his side.

 

“You’re ours, then,” Taehyung said, voice low and final.

 

Jungkook smiled, but it trembled at the edges. “Only if you’re mine.”

 

V leaned in again, this time pressing his lips softly—too softly—to the top of Jungkook’s head. “We have been,” he murmured. “Since the moment you painted us.”

 

Jungkook leaned forward into the warmth of both of them, his head falling softly against V’s shoulder while his hand curled around Taehyung’s wrist.

 

It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t storm. It was a quiet explosion that didn’t need sound to echo forever.

 

They sat there for a long while, wrapped in the silence that Jungkook had once believed to be lifeless—but now understood was simply waiting. Waiting for a spark. Waiting for a name. Waiting for a boy with moonlight in his eyes and a thousand locked doors behind his lips.

 

When the moment settled, V rose and offered his hand.

 

Jungkook took it.

 

Taehyung followed, his fingers slipping between Jungkook’s in the other.

 

And as they left the library, side by side, the crackling fire behind them cast their shadows long on the marble floors—three distinct shapes… entwined in one story.

 

But outside those walls?

 

The city was starting to stir.

 

News outlets. Fans. Art critics. Whispers about the face behind “Koo” were catching wind in every direction. The media frenzy was only beginning. And the twins knew, from the flickers of cameras that had tried to peek into the car windows after the gallery, that time was running out.

 

Soon, the secrecy would start to fray.

 

But tonight?

 

He was only theirs.

 

And they… were only his.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 44: Shared Gravity

 

The sunlight of late morning spilled over the glass panes in the eastern wing, turning the world golden with a kind of easy serenity. But inside the mansion, that light felt like it struck deeper, setting something old and silent into motion. The hush that had ruled these halls for years was now softened with a new rhythm—a shift that Jungkook had brought with his storm-soaked presence, and now, even more with the warmth of his little space that refused to be hidden any longer.

 

In the bedroom where the three of them had ended the night curled around each other like the interlocking pieces of a story only they understood, the air was heavy with the scent of skin and safety. The sheets were still tangled from movement, but the bed held only one now.

 

Jungkook sat up slowly, his oversized pajama top slipping off one shoulder as he rubbed at his sleepy eyes with the back of his hand. The space beside him was empty, still warm but missing the weight of either twin. A pout tugged at his lips, soft and unconscious.

 

He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, blinking around as his bare feet touched the cold floor. "Dada?" he called softly, not quite in a whisper. Then, a little louder, his voice curling with a sleepy whine, "Daddy... where go?"

 

The hallway outside echoed faint footsteps, measured and deep, followed by a second lighter pair.

 

Jungkook padded toward the door, blanket dragging behind him like a small cloak, his head tilted curiously. The sound led him to the inner sitting room, where both twins were already seated—Taehyung with a newspaper folded on his lap, V scrolling through something on his tablet. The sunlight cut across their profiles, identical in bone but different in shadow.

 

Jungkook paused at the threshold. A quiet, irresistible grin began to bloom on his lips. Then he bolted.

 

The blanket flew from his shoulders as he launched himself at the couch, landing directly in Taehyung's lap with an exaggerated squeal. "Dadaaaaaa!" he chirped, nuzzling into Taehyung's chest as if he hadn’t seen him in days.

 

Taehyung didn’t flinch. He simply let out a soft breath through his nose, arms coming around to steady the sudden weight. One hand settled instinctively at the back of Jungkook’s head, his thumb stroking through the dark strands.

 

"You left," Jungkook murmured, voice muffled against his shirt.

 

"Only to get coffee," Taehyung replied, his lips grazing the crown of Jungkook's head. "You were still dreaming."

 

"I don't dream alone," Jungkook replied, stubborn and soft.

 

Across the room, V finally looked up, eyes locking onto the sight of the two on the couch. Something unreadable flickered over his face, then vanished. He set his tablet down silently.

 

Jungkook noticed. He shifted slightly, peeking from Taehyung’s chest to squint at V.

 

"You too, Daddy," he called, holding out one hand, fingers wiggling in an unmistakable invitation. "Come, sit!"

 

V rose, wordless, moving to perch on the edge of the same couch. Jungkook immediately reached for him, pulling his arm until he was nestled close enough to be kissed on the cheek.

 

"You both feel different," Jungkook mumbled, eyes fluttering half-shut again. "But nice. Warm."

 

V let his head drop slightly, resting his forehead against Jungkook's. "You're the reason," he said quietly. "You're the warm one."

 

The moment passed in a hush thick with unspoken emotion. The kind that didn’t require elaborate declarations. They were tangled together not by ceremony, but gravity—a pull none of them wanted to resist anymore.

 

Later that day, the mansion seemed to adjust itself around their new dynamic. The staff, trained to pretend they saw nothing, moved with even more discretion. No one questioned why Jungkook now walked barefoot through the halls, a paintbrush tucked behind one ear and a twin’s oversized shirt swallowing his frame.

 

In the east wing studio, Jungkook stood at a canvas taller than himself. His fingers were smeared with rich ochres and dusty blues, his lips pursed in concentration. V stood behind him, arms folded, observing not the painting but the painter.

 

"You haven’t signed it," V noted, voice low.

 

Jungkook glanced back, the corner of his mouth curling. "Can’t. Too many eyes now."

 

V stepped closer, sliding his palm over the younger's waist with casual possessiveness. "Let them look. They still won't see you."

 

Jungkook leaned into the touch, lashes fluttering. "You see me?"

 

"Every part."

 

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to.

 

When the painting was finished, Taehyung appeared with a quiet knock and a tray of citrus water. He didn’t comment on the way Jungkook had paint smudged across one cheek. He simply offered the glass, fingers brushing his as it was taken.

 

"You’ve made the east wing your nest," he said, tone warm.

 

"You’ll come visit?" Jungkook asked.

 

Taehyung smiled, slow and sure. "Already here, aren’t I?"

 

That evening, the three dined together in the private garden room—a glass-encased alcove strung with low hanging lamps. The air was perfumed with lavender and soft jasmine.

 

Jungkook sat between them, arms brushing theirs each time he reached for a grape or a slice of cheese. His little space slipped in and out subtly, without needing full retreat into childishness. Sometimes his voice pitched higher in glee. Sometimes he giggled with a mouth full of bread. And sometimes he simply leaned into one twin, then the other, needing no reason at all.

 

By dessert, he was curled sideways, his legs stretched across both their laps, humming some half-remembered tune as he fed V a bite of honeycomb.

 

"You’re spoiling me," V said, but opened his mouth regardless.

 

Jungkook giggled. "That’s Daddy tax."

 

Taehyung raised a brow. "And me?"

 

Jungkook shifted, placing a piece of peach against his lips. "Dada gets peaches."

 

Taehyung took it, lips brushing Jungkook’s fingers. He didn’t break eye contact. Neither did Jungkook.

 

The hush that settled afterward was not one of silence—but of intimacy. Dense. Warm. Full.

 

And when they returned to their room that night, there was no question who belonged where.

 

The lights dimmed. The doors closed. And the world beyond the mansion faded into the quiet, where only breath and skin and heartbeats mattered.

 

They were not three strangers anymore, nor three individuals caught in a storm.

 

They were a gravity all their own.

 

And Jungkook, nestled between Dada and Daddy, let the night take him with a smile pressed into two waiting chests.

 

A shared lullaby made of peace.

 

 

 

Chapter 42: Shadows in the Spotlight

 

The mansion's walls, once a sanctuary of silence, now seemed to hum with the weight of the world pressing against them. News of the leaked silhouette from the exhibition had spread like wildfire, igniting a frenzy of speculation and curiosity. The art world and media were ablaze with theories about the enigmatic artist known only as "Koo."

 

Jungkook sat in the conservatory, the morning light filtering through the glass ceiling, casting fragmented patterns on the floor. The scent of blooming jasmine filled the air, but its usual calming effect was lost on him today. His sketchpad lay open on his lap, a half-finished drawing staring back at him—a self-portrait, though the features were obscured, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to complete it.

 

The door creaked open softly, and Taehyung entered, his presence as understated as ever. He carried a tray with two cups of tea, the steam curling upwards like ephemeral ghosts.

 

"You've been here all morning," Taehyung observed, setting the tray down on a nearby table. "Have you eaten?"

 

Jungkook shook his head, eyes still fixed on the incomplete sketch. "Not hungry."

 

Taehyung settled into the chair opposite him, studying Jungkook with a gaze that was both penetrating and gentle. "The world is buzzing about Koo."

 

A humorless chuckle escaped Jungkook's lips. "I noticed."

 

"They're captivated," Taehyung continued. "But they don't know you. They know the art, the mystery. Not the man behind it."

 

Jungkook's grip tightened on the pencil. "Isn't that what we wanted? For Koo to be separate from me?"

 

Taehyung leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Anonymity was the plan. But plans evolve. Especially when the unexpected happens."

 

A heavy silence settled between them, filled only by the distant chirping of birds outside. Jungkook finally looked up, meeting Taehyung's gaze. "I'm not ready for this. For them to know me."

 

Taehyung nodded slowly. "Then we control the narrative. We decide what they see, what they know."

 

Before Jungkook could respond, the door opened again, and V stepped in, his expression unreadable. He held a tablet in his hand, the screen illuminated with news articles and social media posts.

 

"It's escalating," V said without preamble, placing the tablet on the table between them. "Speculation is rampant. Some are getting close to the truth."

 

Jungkook glanced at the headlines:

 

'Who is Koo? The Art World's New Obsession'

 

'Mystery Artist Koo: A Young Prodigy in Hiding?'

 

'Exclusive: Inside the Secretive World of Koo'

 

His heart pounded in his chest. "What do we do?"

 

V's eyes softened, a rare glimpse of emotion breaking through his stoic facade. "We stand by you. Whatever you choose."

 

Taehyung reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Jungkook's knee. "You're not alone in this."

 

Jungkook took a deep breath, the weight of their support grounding him. "I need time to think."

 

"Take all the time you need," V said. "We'll handle the media, the speculation. You focus on what you need."

 

As the twins left the conservatory, Jungkook turned back to his sketchpad. He stared at the unfinished self-portrait, then, with renewed determination, began to complete it. This time, he wouldn't hide from himself.

 

The days that followed were a blur of controlled chaos. The twins worked tirelessly behind the scenes, managing the media frenzy and ensuring that Jungkook's privacy was maintained. Statements were released, carefully crafted to neither confirm nor deny the rumors, feeding the public's curiosity while keeping them at bay.

 

Jungkook, meanwhile, found solace in his art. He poured his emotions onto the canvas, creating pieces that were raw and unfiltered. Each stroke was a catharsis, a release of the turmoil that churned within him.

 

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Jungkook stood before a large canvas in the studio. The painting was abstract, a swirl of colors and shapes that seemed to dance and clash in equal measure.

 

A soft knock at the door drew his attention. "Come in," he called, not turning away from the canvas.

 

The door opened, and V stepped inside, his presence a calm amidst the storm. "It's beautiful," he said, nodding toward the painting.

 

Jungkook sighed, setting down his brush. "It's chaos."

 

V approached, standing beside him. "Sometimes, chaos is necessary. It leads to clarity."

 

Jungkook glanced at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Is that your philosophy?"

 

"One of many," V replied, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

 

They stood in companionable silence for a moment before V spoke again. "There's an offer."

 

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. "An offer?"

 

V nodded. "A private collector. They're interested in commissioning a piece. They're willing to pay handsomely."

 

Jungkook frowned, the weight of the world pressing down on him once more. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

 

"You don't have to decide now," V said gently. "Just think about it."

 

Jungkook nodded, his gaze returning to the painting. "I will."

 

As the weeks passed, the media frenzy began to subside, the world slowly turning its attention to other matters. But the experience left an indelible mark on Jungkook. He realized that no matter how much he tried to separate himself from his art, the two were intrinsically linked.

 

One evening, as he sat in the library, a book open on his lap but his mind elsewhere, Taehyung entered, a glass of wine in hand. He offered it to Jungkook, who accepted it gratefully.

 

"Lost in thought?" Taehyung asked, settling into the chair opposite him.

 

Jungkook nodded. "Just reflecting."

 

"On?"

 

"Everything," Jungkook said with a sigh. "The exhibition, the leak, the attention. It's been... overwhelming."

 

Taehyung studied him for a moment before speaking. "You have a gift, Jungkook. One that resonates with people. It's natural for them to be drawn to it."

 

"I just wanted to create," Jungkook admitted. "Without all the noise."

 

Taehyung leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Then create. For yourself. The rest is just background noise."

 

Jungkook met his gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. "You're right."

 

A comfortable silence settled between them, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound. Jungkook took a sip of the wine, the warmth spreading through him.

 

"Thank you," he said softly.

 

Taehyung smiled, a genuine, heartfelt expression. "Always."

 

As the night deepened, Jungkook felt a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in weeks. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with the twins by his side, he felt ready to face whatever came his way.

 

And so, with renewed determination, he picked up his sketchpad once more

 

 

 

Chapter 43: Silent Possession

 

The mansion, once filled with tension and concealed truths, now hummed with an eerie kind of calm. The storm that had broken Jungkook’s anonymity in the art world had quieted for now, at least on the surface. Inside the estate’s walls, however, change continued to ripple beneath every glance, every step, every lingering touch.

 

It was late morning when Jungkook found himself alone in the east wing’s music room, a space he rarely visited. The tall windows overlooked the misty gardens, and a thick velvet curtain had been pulled aside to let the grey daylight filter in. He sat at the grand piano, not playing, just running his fingers across the cool ivory keys, the silence between notes echoing louder than any sound. His bare feet dangled slightly off the stool, his oversized cable-knit sweater pooling at his thighs, swallowing him like a child in grown-up clothing.

 

He was thinking about them—his Daddy and his Dada.

 

The shift had happened quietly, without announcement. One stormy night had unraveled all the stillness in their lives. Since then, the silence was not just broken—it was replaced with something far more intimate. Jungkook had begun to see what lingered behind the twins’ unbreakable façades. He had heard their hearts in the way they whispered to him when they thought he was asleep. He had felt their need in the tremble of their hands when they helped him dry off after a bath. And he had sensed their pain—old, raw, and too-long buried.

 

He was in the middle now, seated at the center of this strange triangle. And he didn’t want to move.

 

Not toward one.

 

Not away from either.

 

They were both his.

 

And he was entirely theirs.

 

The door creaked softly behind him. He didn’t turn—he didn’t have to. His body already knew who it was. He could feel Taehyung’s warm gaze settle on him like morning sun creeping through curtains.

 

“You ran off again,” came the soft baritone, barely above a whisper.

 

Jungkook’s fingers ghosted over the keys. “I didn’t run.”

 

“You disappeared after breakfast.”

 

“I wasn’t hungry.”

 

“You ate three croissants,” Taehyung replied, the barest trace of amusement in his tone. “And licked off the sugar like you were hiding something delicious in your palm.”

 

“I was hiding crumbs,” Jungkook murmured with a grin, though it faded quickly as he added, “I just needed to be alone…for a while.”

 

Taehyung said nothing. Just walked forward, the soles of his house shoes brushing quietly over the carpeted floor. When he reached the piano, he didn’t sit beside Jungkook. He knelt, right there on the thick rug in front of the boy, folding long limbs with silent grace, looking up at him.

 

“You don’t have to be alone in this house anymore, you know,” he said. “You’re not a guest. You’re not a secret.”

 

“You and Daddy didn’t talk last night,” Jungkook said softly, eyes lowering to Taehyung’s fingers as they reached up to brush his ankle, exposed beneath the sweater.

 

“We didn’t need to.”

 

“But you were quiet.”

 

“We were watching you.”

 

Jungkook blinked, lips parting slightly. Taehyung’s hands moved up, sliding under the oversized hem of his sweater, just to rest against his bare thighs, not moving, just grounding him.

 

“I see you slipping into your own head too much these days,” Taehyung continued, voice low, soothing. “You look at your drawings like they’re cages. But they’re not, baby. They’re doors.”

 

Jungkook shifted on the piano bench, suddenly aware of how close they were—how open he was, perched above Taehyung like this, and how calm it made him feel.

 

“Is that what I am now?” he whispered. “A door?”

 

“No,” Taehyung murmured. “You’re the whole house.”

 

Before Jungkook could respond, the door behind them opened again, and this time, it was V who entered—shoulders squared, eyes sharp as always. He didn’t speak as he walked into the room. His gaze landed immediately on the pair, his Jungkook perched delicately on the bench, and his twin kneeling at his feet.

 

“What’s this?” V said finally, his voice cool but not cold. “You two started without me?”

 

Taehyung leaned his head against Jungkook’s thigh, smirking faintly as he turned to glance at his brother. “We were just talking.”

 

“Wasn’t what it looked like.”

 

Jungkook giggled—soft, sweet, and utterly disarming. “D-don’t fight…” he murmured, his voice slipping, lilting—innocent and small. “Koo’s not gonna choose…”

 

V approached slowly, his presence taking over the room. “You don’t have to choose, sweetheart. That was never the deal.”

 

He came up behind Jungkook and leaned down, his chest brushing his back. His hands slipped under the hem of the sweater, palms pressing warmly over the boy’s hips, grounding him. Jungkook let out a little sigh, head tipping back to rest against V’s shoulder, eyes fluttering.

 

“Still,” V murmured against his ear, “you’re being very generous this morning… sitting like a gift on a pedestal.”

 

“I wasn’t doin’ anythin’…” Jungkook pouted, lips soft, full. “Was just thinkin’…”

 

V kissed the side of his jaw, and Taehyung took one of his hands, pressing it against his mouth, kissing each knuckle like a vow.

 

“I missed you,” V said, voice rough now, like it scraped against some restraint. “Even though you were only gone for an hour.”

 

“I was never far,” Jungkook whispered, his voice smaller now, almost laced with his little space again.

 

Taehyung rose to his feet, and the three of them remained close, pressed together like gravity itself was folding the universe inward.

 

“I don’t care what the media says,” Taehyung said suddenly, brushing Jungkook’s hair out of his eyes. “They can chase Koo until the sun burns out. But this—” He pointed gently to Jungkook’s chest. “This stays here.”

 

V’s arms tightened. “He’s not going anywhere.”

 

“Nope,” Jungkook murmured cheekily, already slipping back into his playful, soft headspace. “Daddy an’ Dada gots me. Locked up.”

 

“That we do,” V chuckled, voice low and hot against his neck. “And we plan to keep you that way.”

 

Later that night, as the mansion settled into its usual quiet hum, a soft kind of domestic chaos filled the master bedroom. Clothes were tossed across chairs, sketchbooks littered the floor, and a very naughty Koo—still high on sugar and affection—was crawling across the massive bed in nothing but one of V’s silk shirts, clearly stolen from the closet.

 

Taehyung stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, brow raised. “Where are your pants?”

 

Jungkook looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Dun need ‘em. Pants’re itchy.”

 

V, lounging in the armchair near the fireplace, smirked behind his tumbler of scotch. “He’s in full chaos mode tonight.”

 

“Koo,” Taehyung warned, climbing onto the bed as if approaching a wild animal, “if you don’t calm down, Daddy’s gonna tie you to the pillows.”

 

Jungkook shrieked in delight, scrambling toward the pillows with wild energy. “Then y-you’ll hafta come rescue me, Dada!”

 

“Oh, I’ll rescue you alright,” Taehyung muttered, grabbing the boy by his waist and hauling him back toward the center of the bed. “Rescue you straight into time-out.”

 

“Time-out with cuddles?” Jungkook batted his eyes.

 

“Time-out with no cuddles,” V called from the chair.

 

Jungkook gasped, scandalized. “Nooo cuddles? That’s mean!”

 

Taehyung laughed as he settled the squirming boy into his lap, arms wrapping around him. “Then behave.”

 

V finally rose, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge, smoothing his hand over Jungkook’s hair. “One more week,” he murmured. “Then the press will move on. The Koo speculation will fade. You’ll be safe again.”

 

“I already feel safe,” Jungkook mumbled sleepily. “When I’m wif you…”

 

Taehyung kissed his temple. “Then rest. No thinking tonight. Only us.”

 

Only them.

 

Only warmth.

 

Only the hush of three hearts beating in the same rhythm, tangled in each other, night after night.

 

And outside, the world could scream about Koo.

 

But inside these walls?

 

He was already home.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 44: Unveiled Whispers

 

The sun rose slowly over the estate, casting its golden light across the quiet garden and filtering through the expansive glass windows of the breakfast lounge. Morning inside the mansion had taken on a rhythm of its own now—quiet, slow, filled with unspoken touches and soft glances. Yet beneath the serenity of routine, something new stirred: the world outside had started to whisper.

 

Jungkook woke between both twins again, his cheek pressed against Taehyung’s chest while V’s arm remained looped tightly around his waist. It had become their unconscious habit, to hold him in their sleep as if letting go would undo something they had worked so hard to build.

 

But this morning, a faint buzzing against the nightstand disrupted the peace.

 

V stirred first, his hand reaching blindly until he caught the vibrating phone and brought it close. His gaze flickered down to the screen, lips pressing into a hard line as he read the notifications rolling in.

 

Taehyung shifted beside him. “Press again?”

 

V nodded once, jaw tightening. “Worse.”

 

Jungkook, still blinking sleep from his eyes, burrowed closer into Taehyung’s warmth and murmured drowsily, “Mmn… Daddy? Dada? What’s wrong?”

 

Taehyung kissed the top of his head gently. “Nothing for you to worry about yet, baby.”

 

But Jungkook was already sitting up, the blanket slipping off his shoulders as he reached for the phone V was holding. He blinked at the screen, slow at first, then faster—wide, rounded eyes scanning the headlines.

 

“Anonymous Artist 'Koo' Rumored to be Connected to Kim Empire.”

 

“Who Is Koo? The Mystery Behind the Art World's Hidden Genius Deepens.”

 

“Koo Caught Leaving Art Exhibit in Black Car Registered to Kim Holdings.”

 

His stomach dropped.

 

“Oh…” he whispered, voice trembling just slightly.

 

“We’ll handle it,” V said immediately, sitting up and tucking the blanket around Jungkook again. “This isn’t your burden, Koo. Let them talk.”

 

“But… but they’re—” Jungkook pointed at the phone. “They’re showin’ pictures. Of th-the car, of the art, of… me…”

 

“They haven’t shown your face,” Taehyung said, firm but calm. “Your identity’s still protected. It’s all guesses and noise.”

 

“But what if they find out? What if Niki—” His voice cracked a little. “What if someone connects the dots?”

 

V cupped his cheek. “Then we erase the dots.”

 

“But—”

 

“Koo,” Taehyung said, gentler this time, one hand running through his messy morning hair. “Look at me.”

 

Big eyes fluttered up to meet his gaze.

 

“You’re not alone anymore.”

 

And in that single moment, all the tightness in Jungkook’s chest began to melt, just slightly. He was used to running, used to hiding, used to building walls too tall for anyone to climb. But here, between these two—between Daddy and Dada—he didn’t have to hide.

 

Still, the outside world was creeping in.

 

And they needed a plan.

 

Later that morning, the three gathered in the study, the same room where most of the empire’s major business deals were signed. But this time, instead of contracts and cold negotiations, the air was filled with concern—and something more primal: protectiveness.

 

Taehyung sat behind the sleek, dark oak desk, fingers steepled under his chin. V stood beside him, arms crossed, his gaze sharp as he reviewed security reports. Jungkook, curled up on the leather couch, had a sketchbook in his lap but hadn’t drawn a single line.

 

“I can stop,” Jungkook said suddenly, breaking the silence.

 

V turned. “Stop what?”

 

“Art. Exhibitions. Everything.” He looked up, eyes wet but steady. “If it’s gonna put your names in danger… if it’ll hurt you—”

 

Taehyung’s hand slapped down on the desk—not in anger, but with sheer finality. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

 

Jungkook flinched slightly.

 

“You’re not our liability,” V added, walking over and crouching in front of him. “You’re our legacy. What you create—what you share—it’s beautiful. Let the world burn in its obsession. We’ll stand in front of the flames.”

 

Jungkook’s lower lip trembled. “But I don’t want anyone to hate you because of me.”

 

“They’ll hate us because we’re powerful. They’ll hate us because they can’t touch us. And now, they’ll hate us because we love someone they can’t find.”

 

V’s voice had dropped, like steel beneath velvet.

 

Jungkook blinked up at him. “You love me?”

 

Taehyung had already left the desk and was walking slowly toward them. “More than anything.”

 

V leaned in, brushing his lips softly over Jungkook’s. “More than everything.”

 

By early evening, plans were already in motion.

 

The twins’ head of security had been summoned. A tighter lockdown on media leaks was implemented. Vehicles were rotated, routes changed, and Jungkook’s assistant Niki was given a carefully worded, non-threatening briefing—just enough to deter curiosity without raising alarms.

 

But Jungkook remained unsettled, even through dinner.

 

He was quieter.

 

Softer.

 

Twitchy in his skin like a boy who feared he’d break something just by being loved.

 

So, after the plates were cleared and the night began to fall around them like a slow, silk curtain, Taehyung took him by the hand and led him into the private greenhouse at the far end of the estate.

 

It had always been a favorite place of Jungkook’s—the warmth of the air, the scent of orchids, the flickering string lights draped across the beams. Tonight, the greenhouse was empty. Silent.

 

“Let’s get that little space out,” Taehyung whispered, guiding him gently toward the center bench. “You’re overthinking.”

 

“I—” Jungkook blinked. “I wasn’t—”

 

“Shh. You don’t have to explain.”

 

Taehyung settled behind him, pulling Jungkook into his lap like a doll. The moment the boy melted back into his chest, his breath hitched.

 

“D-Dada…”

 

“There he is,” Taehyung murmured, nuzzling his cheek. “There’s our little star.”

 

“I was bein’ good…”

 

“You’re always good.”

 

“But I’m scared…”

 

“You don’t have to be. Daddy’s waiting in the bedroom. I just wanted you to be soft with me first.”

 

Jungkook squirmed a little, burying his face into Taehyung’s chest. “Dada… gonna cry…”

 

Taehyung held him tighter. “Then cry. You’re allowed.”

 

And so he did.

 

Not loudly.

 

Not wildly.

 

Just a slow, quiet weeping, like his soul had overflowed.

 

Tears for the unknown.

 

For the danger outside.

 

For the fear that he might be too much to love.

 

And Taehyung held him through all of it—stroking his hair, whispering affirmations, letting every tear soak into his sweater like proof that Jungkook could fall apart without ever being broken.

 

By the time they returned to the bedroom, the lights were low and V was already waiting—sitting on the edge of the bed, a towel around his waist, fresh from a shower. He looked up the moment Jungkook padded in on socked feet, eyes still damp but no longer trembling.

 

“You okay, little one?”

 

Jungkook nodded slowly, then climbed right into his lap without a word, curling against him like a cat seeking its warmest place.

 

“Good,” V whispered, kissing his crown. “Because we need to talk about tomorrow.”

 

Jungkook’s brow furrowed against his skin.

 

“An interview’s been requested. About your art. Not naming you—just the pieces. They want commentary.”

 

“Me?”

 

“No. We’ll handle it. But we want your words.”

 

Jungkook thought for a moment, his voice soft. “I just draw what I feel.”

 

“That’s enough,” V replied, eyes meeting Taehyung’s across the room. “That’s more than enough.”

 

And as the night settled around them once more, the world outside sharpened its claws. But inside the mansion, inside the bed, inside the arms of the only two men who’d ever seen him fully—

 

Jungkook was invincible.

 

 

 

Chapter 45: Pressure Points

 

The day broke with a heaviness that hung not in the sky, but in the tension wrapped tightly around the mansion like a coiled serpent. Outside, clouds shifted fast across the heavens, wind brushing the windowpanes in hushed sighs, as though the world itself knew the balance was teetering.

 

Inside, the scent of coffee and crisp parchment filled the main study. Newspapers had arrived early—an orchestrated leak, V suspected. Both twins sat side-by-side behind the long marble conference table, a handful of trusted staff seated before them. Jungkook was notably absent, kept intentionally tucked away in the upstairs wing, where soft blankets and distraction awaited.

 

“I want surveillance on every outlet that even breathes about him,” V instructed coolly, his fingers flicking through a folder. “Cross-check license plates. Use the art exhibit’s guest list, security footage, service staff—scrub it all.”

 

Taehyung, with his sleeves rolled up and jaw locked, added, “Make it silent. If anyone knows we’re looking into this, they’ll know what to look for.”

 

A nod of understanding swept across the room.

 

Outside the glass doors, hidden by sheer curtains, Jungkook paced barefoot on the bedroom rug. He kept glancing toward the closed door of the study downstairs, his lips pressed into a tight pout. Even in his adult space, his anxiety hovered just beneath the surface like a rippling pool.

 

He hated not being involved.

 

And worse, he hated feeling like he was a burden again.

 

His sketchbook lay forgotten on the bed. The pages were filled with unfinished faces—eyes that stared without pupils, hands that reached without form. The further he turned the pages, the more chaotic the lines became. Smudged charcoal. Crossed-out emotions. A language written only in pain.

 

A quiet knock broke the silence.

 

“Baby?” It was Taehyung, his voice low, coaxing.

 

The door opened before Jungkook could answer.

 

Taehyung entered first, followed closely by V, who closed the door behind them with a soft click. Their presence immediately calmed something in Jungkook’s chest, but it didn’t erase the storm still twisting in his gut.

 

“I don’t like being left out,” Jungkook murmured without turning. “I feel like… I’m something to be cleaned up after.”

 

V sighed and approached slowly, laying a hand gently on Jungkook’s shoulder. “You’re not a mess, Koo. You’re a masterpiece. The world’s just not used to art that breathes back.”

 

Taehyung sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside him. “Come here.”

 

Jungkook hesitated, then shuffled forward, settling between them. He sat cross-legged, picking at a loose thread on his oversized shirt.

 

“You want the truth?” Taehyung asked, brushing strands of hair from Jungkook’s eyes. “Things are getting loud. Too loud. They’re speculating about ‘Koo’ again. Some people are claiming you’re just a puppet—some rich brat the Kims found to make their art look romantic.”

 

Jungkook’s lips parted, stunned.

 

“It’s not about you being real or fake. It’s about you being ours,” V said. “And that makes people itch.”

 

“They don’t even know I’m yours,” Jungkook whispered.

 

“They suspect. And that’s dangerous enough.”

 

Jungkook looked down at his lap. “So I just stay hidden?”

 

V leaned forward. “No. You get stronger. Louder. Not with interviews. Not with press. But with your art. You show them who Koo is, with every stroke.”

 

Taehyung added, “We’ll handle the war. You? You paint the revolution.”

 

Something stirred behind Jungkook’s eyes—something fierce. Something proud.

 

And something possessive.

 

Later that evening, the three found themselves in the private gallery, where Jungkook’s most intimate pieces had been hung along the walls: sketches of hands entwined, backs arched in silence, silhouettes caught mid-motion—every piece raw, tender, and painfully honest.

 

“You never let anyone see these,” V noted as they walked the room slowly.

 

“I didn’t think they were good enough,” Jungkook murmured, trailing his fingers near a frame without touching it. “But they’re real.”

 

Taehyung stepped behind him, looping his arms around Jungkook’s waist from behind, his voice brushing hot against his ear. “That’s what makes them perfect.”

 

“I feel… like I’m standing naked.”

 

“You are,” V said as he came to stand in front of him, fingers lifting Jungkook’s chin. “But not alone.”

 

The gallery lights were dimmed, shadows dancing over their skin. V tilted Jungkook’s face gently upward and leaned down, his lips brushing softly against his cheek before drifting lower to kiss along his jawline. Taehyung pressed in tighter from behind, his mouth tracing a path across the slope of Jungkook’s shoulder.

 

They weren’t rushing.

 

There was no haste—only worship.

 

Jungkook gasped quietly, a breath catching in his throat as V’s hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers stroking over the curve of his waist with reverence.

 

“I want to mark you in the same way you mark the world,” V whispered. “Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke.”

 

Taehyung’s hands reached forward, unbuttoning the soft fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, peeling it away to reveal more skin, more light, more vulnerability. “Let us remind you that being seen doesn’t mean being unsafe.”

 

Their lips collided with Jungkook’s neck, shoulders, collarbone—kisses soft as whispers, slow as unraveling thread.

 

In between it all, Jungkook’s breath came in little gasps, his voice slipping between his adult self and the faint echo of his little space, his mind caught in the spiral of intimacy and safety.

 

“D-Daddy…”

 

“Yes, love,” V murmured, licking softly against the curve of his throat.

 

“Dada…”

 

“Right here, baby,” Taehyung replied, lips dragging up his spine.

 

“You’re mine,” Jungkook breathed, voice shaky but fierce. “No one else can have you.”

 

V smiled against his skin. “We’ve always been yours.”

 

By the time the night blanketed the estate again, the three of them lay curled in the heart of the gallery, tangled in warmth and the scent of vanilla and candle wax. Their bodies wrapped around Jungkook like armor, his flushed cheek resting on Taehyung’s chest, V’s fingers tracing idle patterns against the small of his back.

 

“I’ll paint something new tomorrow,” Jungkook mumbled, already drowsy.

 

“What will it be?” V asked, voice barely above a hum.

 

Jungkook smiled sleepily. “Us. Not just me. Us.”

 

And for the first time in days, the house held no tension. No stormclouds. Just three hearts, beating in rhythm, against a world that would never understand the kind of love they refused to apologize for.

 

 

 

Chapter 46: The Noise Outside

 

It began with whispers.

 

The kind that slithered through private message threads, festered on anonymous forums, and slipped past moderators faster than any AI could trace. Screenshots of Jungkook’s pieces from the art exhibit were being dissected, not for style or meaning, but for clues. The world was no longer simply admiring Koo’s genius—it was hunting him.

 

“Look at the brushwork. This screams Seoul elite.”

 

“That hand in the painting—it matches someone in this year’s KimTech shareholder gala.”

 

“Do the Kims have a secret lover? Or a hostage?”

 

By midday, hashtags were already trending. #WhoIsKoo, #KooUnmasked, and the more dangerous #KimConsort. News outlets picked it up under the guise of admiration. But the undertones were intrusive. Probing. Ruthless.

 

Inside the mansion, however, the chaos outside felt muted—until it didn’t.

 

—

 

Taehyung was the first to see the headline that made him freeze in the hallway outside the library.

 

“Art or Affair? Mysterious Muse of the Kim Twins Possibly Revealed”

Below the text was a blurry, long-distance image of Jungkook. His back was turned, but even that wasn’t safe anymore. The soft slope of his shoulders. The distinct curve of his nape. The way his hoodie fell. Someone had zoomed in.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taehyung growled, his fingers curling so tightly around the phone it nearly cracked.

 

V arrived seconds later, summoned by the familiar burn of his twin’s rage. One look at the screen was enough. V’s eyes narrowed, his voice a sharp whisper.

 

“They got too close.”

 

—

 

When they reached the upstairs lounge, Jungkook was curled on the couch, sketchbook balanced on his knees. His oversized sleeves were bunched at his wrists, charcoal smeared across the side of his hand like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.

 

He looked up when they entered, immediately sensing the shift.

 

“What happened?”

 

Neither answered at first. Then Taehyung slowly approached, crouching in front of him. “Koo… we need to talk.”

 

Jungkook’s body tensed.

 

“We protected your face,” V said from behind, stepping into the light. “But the world is obsessive. You were seen at the exhibit. They’re comparing images. Guessing. Pulling strings.”

 

Jungkook blinked, his voice small. “So… they know?”

 

“Not yet. But they’re trying to.”

 

He stared at the sketchbook in his lap, slowly closing it with trembling hands. “What do I do? Go back into hiding? Pretend I’m not yours? Stop painting?”

 

V’s tone dropped like steel. “No. You don’t run from the world. We shape it.”

 

Taehyung added, softer, “We’re not afraid. We’re angry. No one has the right to dissect you.”

 

“But what if I’m hurting you?” Jungkook whispered, his eyes glassy.

 

“You’re the only reason we feel, Koo,” V murmured, coming around the couch. “You’re the pulse that keeps this house from going cold.”

 

“I’m scared,” Jungkook confessed, curling slightly in on himself.

 

And in that moment, his voice pitched into something softer. Something smaller.

 

“D-Daddy…”

 

V immediately dropped to his knees, his arms circling around the boy without hesitation. “Shh, baby. I’m right here.”

 

“Dada too?” Jungkook whimpered, reaching back blindly.

 

Taehyung slid in on the other side, pulling him into a sandwich of warmth and quiet strength. “Always, bunny. Always.”

 

—

 

His little space emerged fully that evening, though not with mischief—but with need.

 

Nestled between the twins, Jungkook’s tone slipped into something almost heart-wrenching. Words melted into sobs. His thumbs rubbed together nervously, and he kept asking the same things over and over again.

 

“Will they take me away?”

 

“Am I bad now?”

 

“Did I make you sad?”

 

“No, baby,” Taehyung whispered each time, brushing his lips against the crown of Jungkook’s hair.

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” V echoed, fingers cradling the back of his neck. “You’re our heart. Our everything.”

 

Later that night, when the storm outside picked up again, they retreated to the master suite—no longer Taehyung’s or V’s, but now distinctly theirs. One massive bed, fitted with plush blankets, pillows, and Jungkook’s favorite stuffed fox.

 

Jungkook clung to both of them in his sleep, his breath hitching now and then, even in dreams.

 

—

 

The following morning, everything changed.

 

They didn’t go into hiding.

 

They made a move.

 

While Jungkook stayed upstairs with warm milk and sketchbooks, the twins held a press briefing—not about Koo, but about the exhibit. They praised the collection. Commended the turnout. Thanked the media.

 

And then dropped the bombshell.

 

“None of the pieces will be sold to private buyers,” Taehyung announced smoothly, eyes cold and sharp as cut diamonds. “They are part of a permanent collection we are building, under our foundation’s protection.”

 

“Why?” a reporter asked.

 

V’s smirk was razor-thin. “Because art like this doesn’t belong to billionaires. It belongs to the world. But it won’t be bartered. Not when it’s part of someone’s soul.”

 

A ripple of gasps, then murmurs.

 

“And who is the artist? Will Koo ever show his face?” another called out.

 

Both twins looked at each other for a split second, then back to the crowd.

 

“Koo is not a mask,” Taehyung said. “He is a person. And people deserve privacy. That will be our final word.”

 

—

 

Back at the estate, Jungkook had watched the entire thing from the lounge.

 

His little feet were tucked under a thick blanket, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his lap. As the twins’ voices filled the screen, he stared with wide, awestruck eyes.

 

“Th-they… they protected me.”

 

He didn’t whisper it to anyone in particular. Just the air. The soft clink of the cup being set aside echoed like a punctuation mark.

 

Then Jungkook stood.

 

He walked slowly to his studio—newly expanded and flooded with morning light. He pulled out a fresh canvas.

 

And with no hesitation this time, he painted.

 

The first lines formed the outline of three figures—not quite defined, not overly posed. But unmistakably them.

 

Two tall silhouettes standing on either side of a smaller form, heads bent toward one another, hands touching lightly.

 

No faces. Just shapes. Balance. Trust.

 

The world could spin and scream and speculate—but inside these walls, only one truth mattered.

 

They were his.

He was theirs.

And no headline could ever undo that.

 

 https://novelreadingislife.blogspot.com/2025/05/chapter-47-to-60.html