✔️ Unconditionally [Book 2] | Jeon Jungkook

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Morning sunlight filtering in through the window made its way to shine on Jungkook's face, finally rousing him from a dreamless sleep. He held on tighter, burying his face in comforting softness, inhaling deeply the remnants of jasmine and peonies that were so familiar and yet so foreign. A sleepy sigh crossed his lips, and he couldn't decide which helped him to sleep better:

Being in a bed again,
Or being with her again.

That wasn't the truth. The answer was obvious, even if he denied its validity because of pubescent embarrassment. No matter the truer reason, this was the best he'd slept in weeks. Of that, he could confirm without question.

He held just a little tighter, expecting to hear one of those cute little noises she made when they hugged, only to find he was hugging himself. Contrasting eyes slowly opened, the sunlight driving away the languor clouding his thinking and increasing his alertness. His head was no longer nuzzled in the space between her bosom and chin. A pillow took her place, gently diffusing the soft, floral scent that surrounded his being with traces of her presence.

She was away at university.

Stiff muscles protested being moved as he stretched his body, the fibers strained from being held under so much tension the night before. With a satisfying crack of his spine, he was ready to start his morning. He sat up in the cushy bed and looked around, his eyes landing on a care package left for him on the nightstand.

A glass of orange juice, two pain relievers, his phone, glasses, and a handwritten note written in small, block lettering.

Just in case your headache isn't better.
Text me when you wake up.

She ended the note with a heart.

A slow smile formed, her thoughtfulness appreciated. His migraine had diminished, reducing from a throbbing vice grip on his skull to a tolerable dull ache. He took the painkillers anyway, downing the cooled juice with it. Another moment later and his alarm chimed, letting him know it was time to prepare for physical therapy. The shuttle would be there for him in an hour. He sent her a good morning text like she asked, chewing his lower lip as he typed and erased a few times before finally hitting send.

With a deep, motivating breath, he left their bed and crossed the hall to the bathroom, turning on the light and stopping in his tracks to look at the mirror. A heart of sticky notes surrounded his face. He already knew it was there, but after last night, its significance finally blossomed in his chest like a rose through cracked concrete:

He was loved.

Another smile lifted his cheeks as he scanned the messages written on them again, breathing out a laugh at the funnier ones. She really liked his thighs, apparently. He disrobed for his shower and looked down at them, flexing his quads to try and see what she saw, but all he could gather was that he needed to get back to weight training. His muscle definition along with his strength had suffered from the drastic reduction in activity.

He would start that as soon as possible.
But not because she liked them!

Because he just wanted to.