PROJECT K001

Untitled Part 23

The morning after the storm was unreasonably gentle. Soft sun spilled across the frost-dappled windows, painting the mansion in amber and lilac, like the sky was trying to apologize for the chaos it had spilled the night before. The household stirred slowly, and somewhere deep in the eastern wing, muffled footsteps padded against heated marble floors—unhurried, unbothered, and entirely out of rhythm with the usual quietude that had ruled the estate for years.

Jungkook, or rather the version of him who'd taken over during the storm—the small, pouty-lipped boy with wide eyes and a dangerous amount of charm—was awake far too early for someone who'd cried himself to sleep. Dressed in oversized socks that slouched around his ankles and a long-sleeved shirt that reached mid-thigh, he roamed the halls like a phantom with pockets full of mischief. One hand clutched a small plushie with faded fabric ears, the other smearing condensation on the glass panes as he paused to watch birds fluttering just beyond the greenhouse.

The mansion had changed.

Or maybe it hadn't, not really—but it felt different now, somehow. No longer an endless corridor of silence and restraint. Now, it breathed softer, as though bracing for the unpredictable storm that was Jungkook's little self.

"Dadaaa..."

The soft whine drifted into the morning air as he turned the corner toward the main drawing room, toes barely making a sound. His voice was syrupy, thick with sleep and that inflection of naughtiness that danced just beneath innocence.

Taehyung, who had been seated on the velvet chaise by the tall window, turned his head slowly—hair still tousled from sleep, shirt only half-buttoned over loose slacks. He had been reading again, though the book lay open on his lap, pages catching light like wings.

At the sight of the younger boy, something unfurled quietly across Taehyung's face. Not a smile—not yet—but a softening. As if a tight string had been plucked loose behind his sternum.

"You're here," he murmured, voice deeper in the morning, rich like warmed honey.

Jungkook did not answer. Instead, he walked straight toward him with all the gravity of a five-year-old on a secret mission. When he reached Taehyung's knees, he simply lifted both arms upward, expectantly, plushie hanging limp from one hand.

Taehyung exhaled, barely a sigh, and set the book aside. He didn't ask. He didn't tease. He simply reached down and lifted Jungkook into his lap with practiced ease, settling him against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Dada cold..." came the mumbled complaint as Jungkook curled tighter, cheek against the hollow of Taehyung's collarbone.

"You're always cold," Taehyung replied, voice gentler now, one hand threading through sleep-mussed hair. "Maybe because you don't wear pants."

"Don't like pants," Jungkook huffed. "Scratchy."

The corners of Taehyung's lips quirked slightly as he adjusted the blanket over them both. He didn't press the conversation. Instead, he let the silence stretch—comfortably this time—as his fingers moved in slow, grounding patterns through Jungkook's locks.

Across the hall, just past the open archway, Kim V had been standing unseen for some time. A sleek black turtleneck clung to his frame, sleeves pulled over his hands as he leaned against the polished column. His expression was unreadable, as always—but the flicker in his gaze wasn't. Not jealousy, per se. Something older. Something feral.

The softness Taehyung allowed himself in these moments had always been reserved. Exclusive. Rare. And now, Jungkook—his Jungkook—curled so easily in Taehyung's lap, fit so seamlessly into the space that once belonged only to stillness.