Chapter 68: The World Whispers “Koo”
By dawn, the video had gone viral.
It wasn’t a flash of marketing. It wasn’t overexposed PR.
It was just that—one softly lit recording, one question, and
one voice.
“Because sometimes… when I can’t speak, the colors can.”
The world didn’t know his name.
They didn’t know his age, his face, his story.
But they knew his pain.
And it echoed.
Art curators shared it. Critics wrote long-winded analyses.
Twitter exploded with speculation, poems, fan art, and essays dissecting every
nuance of the short clip. YouTube reaction videos bloomed within hours.
And the phrase—“the colors can”—trended in over thirty
countries.
But within the walls of the mansion, it was quieter.
Jungkook hadn’t even looked at the clip once.
He didn’t know how his whisper had cracked hearts across
oceans. He didn’t care.
He only wanted pancakes.
Messy ones.
The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar.
Jungkook sat on the wide marble counter, legs swinging
freely, wearing only an oversized lavender sweater that dipped off one shoulder
and left one creamy thigh bare. Taehyung was pouring batter into a skillet
while V, sleeves rolled up, leaned in beside the boy, wiping a smudge of syrup
from his lips.
“You’ve got it here,” V said, brushing his thumb across the
soft pink curve of Jungkook’s mouth.
Jungkook grinned impishly. “You can kiss it away, Daddy.”
Taehyung didn’t even flinch.
“We need him fed first,” he muttered, flipping the pancake.
Jungkook giggled, curling closer to V’s chest. “You’re not
jealous, Dada?”
“I don’t need to be jealous,” Taehyung said coolly, reaching
over to slide a strawberry slice between Jungkook’s lips. “Because I know
you’ll be begging to sit in my lap later.”
Jungkook chewed slowly, eyes sparkling. “Mm. Maybe I want
both.”
“You’ll always get both,” V murmured, leaning down to press
a slow, warm kiss beneath his jaw.
The air thickened. Heat, not from the stove, danced in slow
tendrils through the space.
But just as V was about to tilt Jungkook further back into
his arms—cheeks flushed, the hem of the sweater rising dangerously high—the
tablet on the island vibrated with a sharp buzz.
Niki.
Taehyung wiped his hands and answered it first, voice low
and even. “Yes?”
Her voice came in a rush. “It’s working. You have no idea.
The emotion in the clip—it hit everyone. This isn’t just a reveal anymore, it’s
a movement. Koo’s voice… it’s making people cry.”
V pulled the tablet closer. “What’s the fallout?”
“No negative press,” Niki said breathlessly. “Just longing.
Everyone wants more. They’re begging. They think he’s a recluse, someone
recovering from trauma. They’re calling him the ‘Ghost of Feeling.’”
Jungkook blinked. “What’s a ghost?”
“A nickname,” Taehyung explained gently, ruffling his hair.
“People trying to describe what they can’t understand.”
“I don’t wanna be a ghost,” Jungkook mumbled, pouting.
“You’re not,” V said firmly. “You’re ours.”
By afternoon, the mansion had to reinforce its digital
firewall.
Fan pages erupted. A thread on a major art forum broke over
two million comments within hours. Koo’s name wasn’t just trending anymore—it
was reverberating. There were whispers of an art documentary, talk show
interest, and even an international foundation wanting to buy exclusive rights
to his next collection.
Jungkook listened with his head tilted like a sleepy cat.
“I just wanna paint,” he said simply, curling on the library
couch, one leg over Taehyung’s lap and his hand buried inside V’s open shirt.
“And you will,” V replied, fingers lazily stroking over his
navel.
“But now they know my voice,” he whispered.
“Only part of it,” Taehyung said, brushing his lips along
Jungkook’s ankle. “The rest belongs to us.”
That night, the three didn’t go to bed.
They claimed it.
The fireplace burned low. Silk sheets tangled. And Jungkook,
pressed between them, became more than muse, more than mystery—he became
everything.
“I love both of you,” he whispered when the world was silent
again, arms wrapped tightly around their necks.
“You are ours,” V murmured against his temple.
“Our universe,” Taehyung echoed.
And for once, even as storms gathered beyond the estate
walls, the warmth inside the room didn’t waver.
Jungkook’s colors didn’t need to speak.
Because his heart already had.
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