Chapter 65: Cracks of Gold

 

Sunlight bled through the wide windows of the breakfast room like an artist’s brushstroke across canvas, splashing soft warmth over the long dining table made of black marble, where three cups of untouched coffee slowly cooled. The house was too quiet again, even with all three seated at the same table—Kim V at one end, Kim Taehyung at the other, and Jungkook tucked somewhere in between, cross-legged in his oversized ivory sweater, absentmindedly running a fingertip along the condensation of his glass of juice.

 

The mansion—this once-silent fortress of ice and wealth—had changed. Or rather, he had changed it. Slowly, subtly, like spring unfreezing a long-dead garden.

 

But even spring could not prevent the brief return of frost.

 

“Your phone’s vibrating,” Taehyung murmured, his voice smooth as stone, but eyes glinting. His gaze was pinned to the offending device resting on the table in front of Jungkook, buzzing insistently for the third time in five minutes. Again, a call from an unknown number. Again, ignored.

 

Jungkook glanced at it with a small frown, then dragged the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and silenced the call. “They keep calling,” he said softly. “Reporters. Journalists. Curators. People pretending to be fans.”

 

V’s fingers drummed softly on the dark wood, the only sign of tension in his otherwise still body. “They will try every angle now. Gossip, speculation, bribes… You understand this won’t calm down anytime soon, right, Jungkook?”

 

“I know.” He sounded tired. But it wasn’t the exhaustion of fear—it was the kind that came from being seen. From being stripped bare in front of a world he’d tried to avoid. “I didn’t expect them to like it this much,” he added, quieter. “I didn’t mean for it to explode.”

 

“It wasn’t the ‘liking’ that caused this,” Taehyung said, voice dipped in something warmer than usual. “It was them finally knowing who Koo is. You’re not just an anonymous prodigy anymore. You’re the boy who paints nightmares and love with the same hand. You gave them something raw—and they’re hungry for it.”

 

Jungkook’s lips parted, eyes falling to his lap. “Is that…bad?”

 

“No,” V replied, this time leaning forward. “It’s just dangerous.”

 

The air in the room grew heavier, the silence stretching between the three like pulled thread. Jungkook felt it again—the divide. No longer between the twins. But between their world and the one he had just stumbled into.

 

He was the bridge. He was the storm.

 

But also, he was the one being loved—by two shadows carved into perfection, standing on either side of a war he never meant to start.

 

And yet, that war had quieted.

 

The tension had shifted since the night his little space cracked through the silence of the mansion. Since that stormy night when he’d crawled into their shared warmth and whispered “Dada” into Taehyung’s chest and “Daddy” into V’s neck with the trembling trust of someone finally letting himself need.

 

It had been weeks since then, and now, their dynamic had settled into something else entirely. There were no more locked doors between the bedrooms. No more sharp silences. The twins had accepted it—him. Accepted each other. Even when one held him too long or kissed him too soft, there was no jealousy. Only mutual, possessive protectiveness that now extended in both directions like walls around a sanctuary.

 

They had learned how to share. And Jungkook, who once feared being too much or not enough, finally understood he didn’t have to choose.

 

He never would.

 

Later that morning, in the quiet folds of the library, Jungkook found himself curled up on the window seat, sketchpad in his lap, charcoal smudging the tips of his fingers. The sky had turned overcast, the light more subdued, which made the whole room feel wrapped in velvet shadows.

 

Taehyung entered silently, dressed in soft navy slacks and a cream shirt, the top two buttons undone. His eyes immediately went to Jungkook’s form, then slowly drifted to the charcoal-covered fingertips.

 

“You’re drawing again,” he said simply.

 

Jungkook didn’t look up. “Trying.”

 

Taehyung stepped closer, his cologne a quiet whisper of wood and smoke, then sat beside the younger man, not asking for permission. He reached out and gently took the sketchpad.

 

On the paper was a raw, unfinished image—two figures standing in a sea of broken mirrors. One was a boy with too-large eyes and a bleeding heart. The other was an amorphous shadow with two faces, both weeping golden tears.

 

“You always draw pain so beautifully,” Taehyung murmured. “But this one...it’s healing, isn’t it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jungkook whispered. “Maybe. It hurts differently now.”

 

Silence fell again, thick and comfortable this time. Then Taehyung’s hand lifted, slow and cautious, until his fingers threaded through Jungkook’s hair.

 

“I like your curls when they’re messy,” he murmured, brushing them aside from Jungkook’s temple.

 

Jungkook blinked, then leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth. “You’re being soft again, Dada.”

 

The word escaped before he could stop it. A quiet flutter of sound wrapped in affection and mischief.

 

Taehyung stilled for a moment. Then—God help him—he smiled. Full, genuine, beautiful. A rare Taehyung-smile that made Jungkook’s heart ache with how safe it looked.

 

“Is that bad?” he asked.

 

Jungkook shook his head, tilting his chin up, lips pouting ever so slightly. “No. I like soft. But Daddy’ll scold me if I get too spoiled.”

 

“Then I’ll just have to spoil you when he’s not looking,” Taehyung replied with a wink.

 

There it was again—that flutter of intimacy. That playful edge. These were the moments Jungkook now craved. The ones that blurred the lines between comfort and heat.

 

And just like that, Taehyung leaned down, brushing the softest kiss across Jungkook’s cheek, just near the corner of his lips. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t demanding. It was his.

 

Jungkook’s eyes fluttered shut.

 

“I like when you kiss me like that,” he whispered.

 

Taehyung’s voice was lower now, reverent. “There are a hundred more kisses I want to give you, Koo. And I will. Every one of them.”

 

That night, V found him sitting on the floor of the music room, wrapped in one of Taehyung’s long cardigans, holding a paintbrush like a sword, tapping it against the floor to some unknown rhythm.

 

“Are you…okay?” V asked as he stepped in.

 

Jungkook nodded, lifting the brush dramatically. “I’m defending my castle.”

 

V blinked. “From?”

 

“Boredom,” Jungkook deadpanned, then dropped the brush and grinned.

 

V chuckled—yes, chuckled—and walked closer until he could sit beside him. “Want to be kissed instead?”

 

“Very much,” Jungkook said sweetly.

 

And just like that, V leaned in—hands firm, lips more demanding. The kiss wasn’t like Taehyung’s. It was deeper, hungrier, slow but fierce. It made Jungkook shiver, made his back arch just a little, made the brush roll forgotten across the floor.

 

When they parted, breathless, V rested his forehead against Jungkook’s. “You’re ours, Koo. Let them talk. Let the world watch. Just don’t forget who loves you most.”

 

“I won’t,” Jungkook whispered. “Because it’s me who loves you most. Both of you.”

 

And in that soft moment, wrapped in stolen warmth and a thousand unspoken vows, the mansion no longer felt cold.

 

It felt like home.

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