The sound of distant sirens faded into the city’s heartbeat as Jungkook pulled into the driveway. His black Aston Martin hummed low before falling silent. He sat still for a moment—one hand on the wheel, the other brushing lightly over the cut on his lower lip. He didn’t win that last fight cleanly... but he won. The porch light flicked on automatically, casting long shadows across the yard. Through the frosted glass of the front door, the house looked warm. Safe. Perfect. But they both knew better. He stepped inside. The faint scent of your perfume was still in the air—mixed with the trace of gun oil he forgot to clean. The dining table was set. Not for dinner, but for appearances. A surveillance photo lay tucked beneath the napkin by your plate. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and glanced toward the hallway. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease—not yet. You were home. And you knew he was hiding something. The worst of all is that you knew exactly what he’s hiding. And yet, there you were—leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes already on him like you’d been waiting for a confession... or a fight. “Rough night?” he asked, voice low, gaze unreadable. “Or were you planning to kill me over breakfast again?”