Taste Of Algorithm Jinkook/Kookjin story

Coincidence

"You are already unbalanced," Jungkook countered, his hands still moving, relentless in their gentle pressure. "I am simply observing the source. You fear the gift because you cannot control its intention. You fear my touch because you cannot control your reaction to it."

He finally released Jin's shoulders, but he didn't step back. His hands came up, framing Jin's face instead. His touch was startlingly gentle, his thumbs brushing against the high line of Jin's cheekbones. Jin's eyes flew open. He was trapped, held in a grip that was somehow more devastating than any cage.

"The tension is here," Jungkook whispered, his dark eyes holding Jin's, seeing everything. "And here." His thumb brushed the space between Jin's eyebrows. "You carry your fear in your body. You can lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me."

Jin was trembling, truly trembling now. He had no words. No defenses. The verbal spat had evaporated, leaving only this terrifying, electric silence and the feel of Jungkook's hands on his skin.

Jungkook held his gaze for a moment longer, then slowly, deliberately, he lowered his hands. He took a single step back, re-establishing a foot of space between them. The loss of contact was as shocking as the touch itself.

"The cream needs to be chilled for another twenty minutes before piping," he said, his voice returning to its usual, cool neutrality, as if he hadn't just emotionally flayed Jin alive. "The error was not one of skill, but of patience."

He turned and walked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.

"Goodnight, Seokjin-ssi."

And then he was gone.

Jin stood rooted to the spot, his skin burning where Jungkook's hands had been, his heart pounding a frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs. The kitchen was silent again, but the silence was different. It was alive with the echo of his own ragged breath and the ghost of a touch that had felt less like a violation and more like a diagnosis.

He looked at the collapsed rosette on the counter, a symbol of his shattered control. He looked at the piping bag, the tool of his craft that had become a weapon in his opponent's hand.

He couldn't stay here. Not surrounded by the evidence of his own unraveling.

He grabbed his jacket, not bothering to turn off all the lights, and fled out the back door into the cool, indifferent embrace of the night.

The silence in the wake of Jungkook's departure was a vacuum, sucking all the sound and air from the kitchen of Jin Eatries. Jin stood frozen, the ghost of Jungkook's lips a brand on his temple, the weight of his hand a lingering phantom on his neck. The scent of perfectly seared mushrooms—his mushrooms, corrected by that man—filled the air, a taunting testament to his own inadequacy and Jungkook's infuriating rightness.

He could still feel the heat where Jungkook's body had been close to his, the intensity of that dark gaze holding him captive. You are an equation I cannot solve. The words echoed, a confession that felt more like a condemnation. He had been reduced to a problem, and his capitulation—the way his eyes had fluttered shut, the way his knees had gone weak—was just another data point.

Shame, hot and acidic, burned through him. He had been putty in Jungkook's hands. Again.

A choked sound escaped him, half-gasp, half-sob. He stumbled back, his hip hitting the edge of the stainless-steel counter with a painful thud. The physical shock grounded him, yanking him out of the hypnotic daze. He brought a trembling hand to his temple, his fingertips pressing against the spot as if he could erase the sensation. The skin there felt feverish, sensitized.