Chapter 64: A Canvas Named Us

 

The morning sun filtered in with a gentle golden haze, dancing over the expanse of silk sheets and bare skin. Jungkook stirred first, buried between the warmth of two bodies that felt like home. The quiet hum of city life seeped in through the tall windows, but inside the room, there was only the still rhythm of heartbeats and breath.

 

V’s fingers were curled around Jungkook’s waist beneath the covers, protective, but loose. Taehyung’s face was pressed into Jungkook’s nape, his breath warm where it ghosted against delicate skin. Both twins slept deeply, but Jungkook didn’t move to wake them. He laid there for a moment longer, eyes fluttering open, expression unreadable.

 

He felt the shift in the world outside the glass. Something irreversible had happened—and not just in headlines or public whispers. Something inside him.

 

Later that morning, while the twins remained upstairs, Jungkook padded barefoot into the kitchen wearing one of V’s button-downs. It hung low on his thighs, sleeves too long, swallowing his hands as he prepared a pot of tea in quiet routine. The domesticity of it settled something in his chest.

 

Niki called while he was pouring honey into the steeping pot.

 

“Did I wake you?” she asked quickly. Her tone was sharp, concerned—but gentle in the way only she could be with him.

 

“No,” he said softly, biting his lip. “I was already up.”

 

“They’re requesting interviews now,” she said, without preamble. “Not just art magazines. Vogue. Architectural Digest. Even Elle Korea. They want to talk about your work, your aesthetic, your home. I haven’t confirmed anything yet. I wanted to check with you first.”

 

Jungkook was quiet.

 

Then, “I want to speak. But not with a fashion blog or a business magazine.”

 

Niki waited.

 

“I want to speak to one reporter,” he said slowly, “in a place I can control. I want them to feel what I’ve painted. Not just see it.”

 

Niki exhaled. “You want to host the exhibit yourself, don’t you?”

 

“I want it to be… intimate,” Jungkook murmured. “Just like my art. I want it to be me.”

 

The mansion shifted into motion that same day.

 

Designers were summoned quietly. Rooms were walked through with curators. Art pieces were selected under Jungkook’s sharp gaze—not the little space Jungkook with pouty lips and mispronounced words—but the silent storm behind the artist known as Koo. Calm, but devastating.

 

V watched from the edge of the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

 

Taehyung leaned against the opposite wall, eyes trained on Jungkook’s lips as he explained the placement of a particular sculpture made from melted glass and old oil paint.

 

“He’s never looked more like a king,” Taehyung murmured.

 

V didn’t smile, but his fingers twitched at his side. “He is a king.”

 

Taehyung turned toward him fully, voice low. “And we serve him.”

 

That night, the twins took him upstairs.

 

There was something different in the air.

 

Jungkook had spoken less that evening, not distant, just thoughtful. He spent the night curled between them on the couch while an old Italian film played muted on the projector screen. His fingers traced soft, idle patterns across V’s chest while Taehyung combed through his long hair slowly.

 

“Tell us what’s going on in that head,” Taehyung whispered after a while, pressing a kiss behind his ear.

 

Jungkook looked between them, the movie’s soft flickering light painting shadows on his face. “They’ll know soon. Not just about the art. About you. About us.”

 

V’s voice was a low growl. “Let them watch. Let them guess. No one gets to touch you.”

 

Jungkook’s smile was slow, sensual. “They’ll see me between you, and they’ll wonder who gets to keep me.”

 

Taehyung’s palm slid down Jungkook’s thigh, gentle but possessive. “Both of us.”

 

“Always both,” Jungkook whispered, and then tipped his head forward, kissing V’s lips with aching slowness before turning and giving Taehyung the same. It was no longer rushed, no longer new. It was a shared rhythm now—one they fell into like the ocean meeting shore.

 

Later, in bed, intimacy bloomed again in quiet waves.

 

V kissed down the line of Jungkook’s spine, trailing fire. Taehyung curled behind him, hands anchoring Jungkook’s hips. Their mouths met in the middle, over his heart, over his throat, over the curve of his lips until all that existed was breath and heat and them.

 

Jungkook arched with every touch, sighing soft “daddy”s and “dada”s into the quiet as if the names were a prayer—half love, half surrender.

 

And when they finally held him between their bodies, sweat cooling on flushed skin, Jungkook murmured sleepily, “I want them to see how loved I am. Not by fame. Not by gallery lights.”

 

“But by you.”

 

The next morning, an official statement was released.

 

It was short.

 

Simple.

 

“Koo will host an invitation-only art experience curated by the artist himself. Details to follow. Please direct inquiries to Park Niki, official representation.”

 

And that was it.

 

No dates. No venue. No media outlets confirmed.

 

But the world exploded.

 

The tag #WhoIsKoo trended worldwide for three days. Speculation ran wild. Fan theories doubled down on the connection between the reclusive artist and the Kim twins. The mansion’s security tripled, though no one dared confirm if Jungkook truly lived there.

 

Inside the estate, a ballroom was cleared—floors resurfaced, chandeliers re-strung with filtered crystal, and the atmosphere transformed. Each piece was arranged with obsessive precision. Koo’s world was no longer one of hidden walls and shadows.

 

It would open.

 

And the world would walk through it.

 

As the preparations neared completion, Jungkook sat alone in the center of the room one night—surrounded by sculptures that looked like memories and paintings that looked like dreams. The light around him was dim, golden, like the dawn of something inevitable.

 

V walked in first, silent as always. He didn’t speak—just lowered himself behind Jungkook, wrapping arms around his torso, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

 

“You’re not scared?”

 

Jungkook shook his head. “I’m not alone.”

 

Taehyung entered then, holding three glasses of wine. He handed one to each of them, then raised his own with a devilish grin.

 

“To Koo,” he toasted, “who burns the world without lifting a match.”

 

V clinked glasses with them both.

 

Jungkook looked at them—not as protectors, not as businessmen or shadows in tailored suits.

 

But as his own kind of masterpiece.

 

“To us,” he whispered, and drank.

 

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