Chapter 29

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Jungkook’s POV

“Yes? Okay, okay, I get it,” I laugh at Sehun’s annoyed tone—I’d maanged to lose him at last night’s party, which, to be honest, I’d dragged his unwilling to. He didn’t know anyone there and came on the condition that I would stay with him for the entire thing, but I’d gotten a little drunk and a woken up next to Minjae from my calculus class and thirteen missed called from Sehun. He yells at me angrily from the other end of the line.

“Oh—oh, what’s that? Can’t hear you, reception’s bad, sorry,” I grin, ending the call.

I’m walking back to my apartment because I’d taken the bus to a suit-and-tie event, which was a little embarassing but my car’s getting fixed. The sky is grey and furious, thunder erupting every few seconds followed by momentary white-hot flashes of lightning. Rain pours down mercilessly on Seoul at one am, silent and heavy. There’s barely any cars or people, just how I like it.

Despite my umbrella, most of my clothes—a two thousand-dollar Armani suit Mom had bought for my birthday and sent over from America, where she’s working abroad—are soaking wet, as is the hair I’d actually bothered to style for once. Now, it hangs in damp strings over my forehead. I’m practically slithering across the pavement, thanks to maybe a glass or two of champagne and the fact I’d used up most of my energy on making small talk with men and women a good twenty years older than me. I can’t wait to get home and sink into a hot, calming bath for an hour or two. The tension in my muscles loosen slightly just from the thought, and I sigh out. I’m completely wrecked.

I finally reach my apartment building, an elegant looming glass building, gated, with gorgeous little landscape gardens. As I go to cross the road, I see a hunched figure, curled up with knees tucked into their chest, sitting on the edge of the pavement outside. I squint to try and see the figure clearly, which is difficult because of the foggy haze the storm has created and the lack of proper lighting. They’re soaking wet, probably going to catch a cold if they don’t get up and leave. The figure reaches out to their side and grabs a lone whiskey bottle, pushing it to their lips and tipping their head back to take a generous swig. I stand there, watching from across the road, unsure of what to do. Especially when the figure throws back their head and lets out a cry, before burying their face in their palms and groaning.

If there’s anything I’ve learnt from living alone, it’s that, rule number one—do not take pity on sobbing drunks sitting outside your apartment estate. But there’s some sort of pull towards this pathetic figure, and I find myself crossing the road and perching down next to them, shielding us both from the torrential rain with my umbrella. The man stops shaking, face still in his hands, as if he’s realised he can’t feel the rain anymore. And then he lifts his head, turns to look at me, and my heart is suddenly in my throat.

“Jimin,” I whisper, a small puff of white escaping my lips in the cold. He looks terrible. His hair is dark brown now, and lies in soaked, dripping ropes over his eyebrows. Bags the size of a crescent moon cirlce his under eyes—and his eyes, they’re empty, two black, hopeless pits. After openly staring at me, jaw slack and eyes wide, like he can’t quite believe it, Jimin goes to take another swig from the whiskey bottle. I shoot out a hand and clasp it over his, gently prying the bottle away from him. When our skin makes contact, he shivers and a chill runs up my spine. No one’s touch, not in the three years I’ve lived without him, has ever made me feel like this one moment.

“Don’t drink any more, it’s not good for you,” I mumble. He nods, slowly, and then wraps his arms around his knees tighter. He’s closed off, that I can see.

“Why are you sitting out here in the rain?”

Jimin looks a mess, and I’ve never known him to be a mess. It worries me.

“I…I got kicked out, because I couldn’t pay the rent,” he mutters. And the sound of his voice does it for me. It’s so helpless, weak, that all the pent-up anger and hate towards the one man that made me fall for him and then ruined my life all in a single year, dissipates. Just like that.

“So your plan is to sit out here, die of hypothermia and intoxicate yourself?” I ask, rather brusquely, and want to swallow back the words when he winces and turns away. “I’m sorry… just… look at me, Jimin.”

He does.

“You can’t stay out here all night,” I say, and my heart wrenches at how pitiful he looks. “Stay at mine. Please, just until you can find a new place.”

“I can’t possibly ask that of you,” Jimin says quickly. “I’ll just be a burden, and… I don’t exactly deserve it, not after… after everything that happened.”

I take his hand, slick with rainwater, in mine. It still fits perfectly.

“That was three years ago. And if you don’t get up right now, I’m going to pick you up and carry you myself,” I say firmly. Jimin’s eyes widen, and I squeeze his hand. “Jimin. I’m asking you. You’re not a burden at all.”

Then, after considering it, Jimin nods and follows me into the apartment building. The bellboy, half-asleep, splayed across the red velvet couch in the lobby, is startled awake when we enter the front reception by the sound of the bell attached to the door. He stands up to attention, and bows.

“Good to see you, Jungkook-ssi,” the young boy, around Jungkook’s age, says nervously. He eyes Jimin warily, but doesn’t comment. “Do you want me to help you carry your bags upstairs?”

I shake my head.

“No thank you,” I say politely. “And you should really go on a break. You look tired.”

The bellboy smiles.

“I am, but I’m getting paid,” he sighs. “Have a good, er, night. Or day.”

“You too,” I say brightly, and gesture for Jimin to get into the elevator with me. The ride up to the top floor, with the penthouse suite, is silent. The air is thick with unspoken words, dying to be uttered aloud, for the past three years. The elevator makes a soft ping as it reaches the top floor, and the doors slide open. I fiddle with my keys until the front door opens, and step into the apartment. When Jimin doesn’t follow, I turn to him.

He doesn’t enter—instead, he just gawks, open-mouthed, at the apartment. I blush, because I realise that he probably hasn’t seen a place like this for a little while, not if he’s been unable to pay rent. And I feel guilty, though I’m not really sure why.

“Come in,” I say gently, and he enters with hesitant steps. I lead him to sit down on the custom-made sofa, which looks good and all but isn’t really the most comfortable piece of furniture out there. I fumble around for a blanket and wrap it around Jimin’s trembling shoulders.

“Jimin?”

He’s been looking around the room distractedly for the past few minutes, and I’m dying to talk to him.

“How… how have you been?” I regret the question, because it’s quite obvious, and me asking is rather rude, I realise. But Jimin just laughs, a pleasant sound that rings in my ears.

“ty, as you can tell,” he says. “But by the looks of it, you’ve been doing well. More than well.”

“I guess,” I shrug.

“I read about you in the news, you know,” Jimin says. “Right from when it all started last year, with all the biogenetics research and all that—‘Korea’s youngest science prodigy releases revolutionary papers on genes’. I always knew you were a science prodigy, my science prodigy.”