Chapter 78: The Canvas Beneath Their Skin

 

Midday sunlight draped softly across the manor’s east-facing windows, painting gentle gold upon the floor of the studio Jungkook had claimed as his sanctuary. The very room that had once held only silent echoes of his presence now pulsed with an undeniable sense of warmth—a heartbeat made up of barefoot steps, teasing glances, and the low, murmuring exchanges shared between three bodies no longer caught in indecision.

 

It had only been two days since the exhibition, and yet the world beyond the gates had begun to whisper his name with cautious reverence. Not Jungkook, not Kim Jeon, and certainly not husband of the Kims. No—only Koo. The elusive artist whose hands shaped anguish into beauty. Whose veiled face now had a breathless edge of scandal hanging beneath it.

 

But inside these walls, where public eyes could not reach, Jungkook wasn’t Koo. He was soft-mouthed and lingering in a sunbeam, oversized sleeves swallowing his fingertips, eyes flicking toward the far end of the room where Kim Taehyung sat reclined on a leather settee—shirt unbuttoned halfway down, sleeves rolled back, collarbone sharp and golden as a sculpture.

 

Across the room, V stood by the open window, a hand tucked lazily into his pocket as he watched the morning news on the tablet resting against the windowsill. His black silk shirt shimmered like spilled ink, his silence commanding.

 

The studio was quiet, save for the distant hum of media echoing from V’s tablet and the occasional flick of Taehyung’s page as he turned through Jungkook’s private sketchbook—his possessiveness masked as admiration, his long fingers careful not to crease a single corner.

 

And Jungkook, curled on the rug like a satisfied cat, was very much aware of the attention. The lingering gazes. The tension that came not from distance anymore, but closeness. Overwhelming closeness.

 

“I didn’t think the painting of the bridge would be the one they talk about most,” Jungkook murmured into the sleeve of his sweater, voice muffled and warm. “It wasn’t even my favorite.”

 

V looked up from the news. “It’s not about your favorite, baby. It’s about what tears them open.”

 

Taehyung closed the sketchbook with a soft click, resting it beside him on the couch as he leaned forward, forearms on knees, eyes gentle but trained. “They’re trying to understand you, Koo. But they never will—not fully.”

 

Jungkook rolled onto his back, dark hair spreading like ink on the pale rug, cheeks pink with sunlight and some deeper, quieter emotion. “I don’t want them to. Not all of me, at least.”

 

“Good,” V answered, pushing away from the window and walking over slowly, crouching beside Jungkook. “Because you don’t belong to them.”

 

A small smile curved Jungkook’s lips, slow and bashful. “I belong to you two, huh?”

 

Taehyung let out a soft exhale of laughter. “You figured that out now?”

 

Jungkook blinked up at them both, lashes fluttering. “Maybe... I like it.”

 

V leaned down, his voice low and smooth. “Then you’ll keep saying it.”

 

The moment stretched, the intimacy simmering just beneath the surface. Jungkook reached out with slow, deliberate fingers, tracing the vein along V’s wrist where it rested on the rug.

 

“You’re warm,” he whispered, more to himself than to them. “Feels like home.”

 

It was those moments—unprompted, unguarded—that carved deep, unshakeable roots into the twin’s cold hearts. That warmth was not just his nature, but his weapon. Disarming. All-consuming.

 

Taehyung moved first, rising from the couch and crossing to crouch beside them, his arm brushing against V’s. He looked down at Jungkook, who tilted his head slightly, big eyes blinking innocently.

 

Without needing words, V leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Jungkook’s temple—slow, warm, lingering. A breath later, Taehyung kissed his cheek from the other side, hand sliding beneath his back and pulling him up between them like a delicate thing meant to be held.

 

Jungkook melted easily, naturally, a sigh escaping as he let himself be tucked into Taehyung’s lap, his arms winding loosely around the elder’s neck. V’s hand caressed his thigh slowly, grounding, possessive.

 

“Have you thought about painting again?” V asked, voice near his ear now. “Something just for us.”

 

Jungkook looked up, nose wrinkling slightly in that soft, teasing way. “Wouldn’t it be greedy? You already have me.”

 

Taehyung laughed softly, brushing hair from Jungkook’s forehead. “Exactly why we want it. Want you, in every form.”

 

V leaned in, lips brushing Jungkook’s pulse. “Let us have you—again.”

 

And just like that, the air shifted.

 

Not rushed. Not ravenous. But slow, sacred, indulgent.

 

Hands guided, voices coaxed, and Jungkook’s shy smile turned molten as he let himself be kissed again, and again, and again—each one like the signature on a painting that only they would ever see.

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