Can't Be Without You | Jungkook

Part 3

**

Another week rolls by and you're just glad it's over.

In between counseling the kids are program reviews and report writing for each case you're handling. You were looking forward to tonight, at least the first half of it, because of your scheduled "dinner out" with Jin, a man you'd met 2 months ago over a cup of coffee because his had been taking too long and the seat in front of you was the only available one he could wait at.

You remember that day. You'd been so immersed reading an article on childhood trauma that you didn't notice the man who'd been trying to catch your attention. When you looked up to say that yes, you can take the seat, you felt your words get stuck in your throat at the gorgeous man in his black textured suit, standing in front of you. And yes, that was definitely a Rolex on his wrist.

You engaged in conversation even when his coffee had been served. You'd see him a few more times in the same cafe before he finally asked for your number. He asked you to dinner, careful not to call it a date, although for every time after that, he'd show up dressed immaculately, with flowers in his hands, handing them to you and complimenting you on how you look.

Yoongi, an older friend of yours and Jungkook's from high school, always rolled his eyes at your hesitation to call these dinners as dates. You're still trying to get to know each other and taking your time, you always explain, and with your baggage and the kind of work you do that leaves you broken at times, that's going to take a while.

Jin is respectful about it. He also just wants to "enjoy whatever time we have together, so it doesn't matter if it's a date or a phone call. We'll get there when you're ready," he said once, although you're not exactly sure where there is.

It's the third Friday of the month, though, and you always make sure you're home by 10PM, no matter how fun and delicious the dinner had been. Jin isn't the only man in your life, after all.

You're already in your pajamas, impatiently waiting on your couch. It's nearing 11PM and he should be knocking on your door by now. You hate how your mind thinks of about 50 reasons why he's still not here, and as you're about to dial his number, there's a soft knock on the door.

You rush to open it and prepare yourself for a flurry of colorful words you'd tell him for not texting earlier and worrying you to death but you stop on your tracks, the words dying before they could even be formed.

Your eyes widen and your chest tightens at the sight of your best friend, slumped on your door frame with his left arm holding onto his right shoulder, upper lip split open, the areas above his eyes swollen, the area beneath them in ugly shades of purple. A few more cuts decorate his face, over the bulges and his cheeks. You can't tell if his eyes are closed or not, can't tell if he's panting or if he's trying to speak.

You're taken out of your daze when you hear him grunt, and you immediately wrap your arm around his torso and lead his other arm over your shoulder. You direct him inside and gently guide him on your couch. With his head leaned back and trying to catch his breath, you start to remove his shoes and jacket, wondering how he even got to put on anything in this state.

He's laced in sweat and blood that's still dripping from his wounds. You assess his shirt that's splayed with blood, still visible despite the dark shade of his clothing.

"Kook..." you start.

Before you could say more, he uses his limited energy to speak. "I don't have a concussion, don't worry."

"You're badly beat up," you state the obvious.

"I always am, this isn't anything new."

"But this is the worst I've seen you. It was never this bad. How did you? How would you?" You say, but choose to leave the questions hanging.