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There's solace to be found in affection, an escape, realistic or delusional, it really doesn't matter, for it fulfills its purpose. The task of painting truths in garish colors that obscure the pitch black that lies beneath the surface of cancerous truths, so that the elation lasts as long as Molly swims in the bloodstream, and poof, the wall is pastel again, and black is just a layer of the past, trivial despite its potency, defeated at the hands of dreamers, love-struck believers, and as crazy as it may sound, the color chart bends to deliver the result.

And you held a barrel of light mauve, and against the towering, unbreakable wall, you spilled the countenance, bringing a new color made of hope and similar to lies, where you were unaware of the truths, where Jungkook was just that: Jungkook from the SNU, the tender boy who had shown you warmth disguised as roughness, who was intent on maintaining the callous facade he had unknowingly inherited, implanted in his DNA by his own demanding and harsh environment, the boy with an unscathed history, without the past you had caused and stained, and to this person you were sure had died of your stabs, you ran, fast and impatient, ready to give the first kiss that would soothe your sense of guilt and heal the wounds.

"Good morning."

Jungkook sat behind his mahogany desk, chest still bare as he flipped through a stack of documents, hastily shoving them into a folder after greeting you. A smile played around his lips and you reciprocated with your own as you stepped out of the doorway and into the room. Jungkook was still bare all right, save from a black sweatsuit that did not hide the waistband of his boxer shorts if it were not for the desk that replaced it in the task, but you weren't far from his lack of exposure either, just a bra that matched the color of your past and your husband's pants and a thong completing the outfit.

"Good morning, love. Why so early?"

You wanted to speak the truth in a moment of weakness, to scream out loud and say that sleep hadn't visited you in days, to shout out the words along with the frustration your heart bore and let it all be known and fuck it all, but you held it together under a smile and a caress of your hand over his face, felt the little hairs he still didn't take care of and silently compared them to the barbs of your history and everything you shared, "I rolled in bed and found your side empty, so I figured you'd be here."

Yeah, you wanted to scream, to yell at him and remind him how much you hated waking up to an empty bed and some cold linen sheets, wanted to throw a tantrum and abandon his office to the same fate he had imposed on your marital room, but in a moment of confrontation with reality, you realized that this bed was actually meant to be frigid, that the warmth and his scent on the fabric were stolen, never belonged, and would one day find their place. Far away from you, from your lies and less than pleasant truths.

"I'm sorry, baby," the apologetic look he wore twisted your stomach violently, and you thanked God in moments like these for the prowess life had instilled in you: Your face that never reflected your feelings. Jungkook's eyes sparkled with affection as he closed the small distance between you and stroked your cheek with his larger palm, soothing the skin with his thumb as he continued, "I didn't mean to wake you up. I figured I'd prepare for a case before I went to court when I couldn't sleep anymore."

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