You weren’t supposed to be here tonight.
Tonight was meant to be your one-year anniversary.
A reservation booked weeks ago.
A dress hanging untouched in your closet.
A man you thought you knew.
Now he’s your ex.
Six hours ago, your phone lit up— a call, then an MMS. Photos of his small dick drilling into a whore’s pussy.
And with it came the kind of truth that fractures something permanently. Messages you never asked for. Images you can’t unsee. Proof that loyalty meant nothing to him—that while you were planning a future, he was busy destroying it with someone disposable.
So you didn’t cry for long.
Because grief has an expiration date, and respect doesn’t beg to be repaired.
You walked to your closet with steady hands. A faded denim mini skirt. A lace sleeveless top. Your biker jacket—worn, familiar, protective like a second skin. You wiped the tears before they left tracks, fixed your eyeliner like armor, and turned away from the girl who thought tonight meant something else.
Your fingers closed around your keys.
Black Harley Road King.
Heavy. Loud. Unapologetic.
You were done mourning something that never deserved you.
The underground biking club sat hidden beneath the city like a secret meant only for those who knew how to survive it. Untouched. Illegal. Alive.
You’d joined six months ago—dragged in by Caroline, your ride-or-die and the owner’s daughter. The kind of place where rules bent and pain got drowned in speed.
Inside, the space was cavernous and raw. Exposed beams. Oil-stained concrete. Walls lined with helmets, jackets, and old racing photographs curling at the edges—proof that this place remembered every man who’d ever pushed a bike too far.
The lighting was deliberate. Dim. Nothing here was meant to be fully seen.
Engines revved without warning—violent, alive—rattling glasses at the bar and shaking thoughts loose from your head. Conversation dissolved into gestures and looks. You didn’t talk much here.
You watched.
Men and women of all ages leaned against bikes like extensions of themselves—leather creasing at elbows, knuckles scarred, eyes sharp. The air smelled of whiskey, smoke, heat. Jazz threaded low and sultry through the mechanical chaos, a reminder that control could exist even inside danger.
“Someone’s looking fierce tonight,” Caroline yelled, barreling into you with a whiskey in hand, crushing you in a hug.
“Wait—what about your anniversary date?” she asked.
You rolled your eyes, took the glass from her, and downed it in one go.
You pulled out your phone and slid it across the bar toward her. The MMS played.
“One bourbon. Neat,” you told the bartender.
“Babe—what the fuck,” Caroline gasped. “I swear I’ll kill him. ”
The bourbon burned down your throat, sharp and grounding. “He isn't worth the effort, ” you murmured, ordering another.
She hugged you gently. “Are you okay?”
You scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not crying over that pussy.”
She laughed, but her grip tightened.
A roar tore through the club.
Louder than the engines. Wilder than the music.
The crowd parted instinctively, forming a circle. Cheers and shouts layered over the metallic growl, vibrating through your chest.
“What’s happening?” you asked.
Caroline’s grin was feral. “Come on.”
She dragged you forward.
Two riders stood poised at the track’s edge, leather suits gleaming under neon. Engines revved in unison. The race started in a blur of sound and motion.
The red bike drifted first—too confident. Tires screamed. Sparks flew.
The black bike followed.
Controlled. Precise. Predatory.
Mid-drift, the red rider faltered. Gasps rippled through the crowd. He went down hard, scraping concrete as chaos erupted.
The black rider didn’t slow.
He completed the drift flawlessly, past the fallen bike, dominant and untouched. Cheers exploded. He lifted one gloved hand—just enough—and owned the night.
Your heart slammed into your ribs.
“Insane,” Caroline breathed.
Dangerous, you thought. Magnetic.
Later, the crowd dissolved back into noise. Caroline disappeared—probably with her boyfriend.
You sat at the bar, fifth bourbon in hand, head fuzzy.
“THERE COMES OUR BIKER PRIDE!”
You turned.
The black rider walked in, helmet under his arm.
Calm. Dominant. Unstoppable.
He ran a hand through long, wavy raven hair brushing his collar as his friends pulled him into hugs. Laughter came easy. Someone shoved a drink into his hand.
That smile—
Soft. Teasing. A bunny smile that carved faint wrinkles beneath his eyes and at the corners of his lips. Marks of time, not age.
Leather stretched over broad shoulders. Piercings lined his ears, a lip ring catching neon, even an eyebrow pierced. Tattoos peeked from his wrist and chest—dark promises inked into skin.
Judging by the senior members gathered around him, the respect in their posture—he had to be in his early fifties.
But did he look it?
Hell no.
Silver threaded subtly through his hair, making him sharper, not older. His storm-gray eyes were calm and unreadable. Every movement deliberate.
He looked like danger wrapped in experience. Like time had tried—and failed—to dull him.
He’s still with his friends—loud, careless, completely at ease. Arms slung around shoulders. Someone pulls him into a hug, another ruffles his hair. He laughs freely, head tipping back, throat exposed, eyes bright and unguarded.
Unaware of the damage he’s doing across the room.
You’re watching without meaning to, like your body made the decision before your brain could object. His hands move when he talks—rings catching the dim light, veins flexing when he lifts his glass.
Hot.
Criminally hot.
The kind of hot that disrupts thought.
He takes a sip.
And then— his eyes meet yours.
It lasts barely a second, but it hits like a slap.
You look away instantly, heart leaping into your throat, panic sharp and humiliating—like a teenager caught doing something scandalous in a pharmacy aisle. God.
Get a grip, Yn.
You fix your gaze on the bar. The bottles. The counter. Anywhere but him.
A beat passes.
Then another.
Curiosity betrays you.
You glance over your shoulder—just enough.
He’s still looking.
Not staring. Not leering. Watching.
A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth, unhurried, deliberate—like he caught everything. Your panic. Your retreat. Your inevitable second glance. There’s something dark in his eyes now. Curious. Assessing. As if he’s not rushing to claim—just deciding.
Your stomach flips.
You turn back to the bar, breath uneven, and lift two fingers. “Another shot,” you mutter, cursing yourself under your breath.
The glass slides toward you. You down it without hesitation.
Your cheeks burn—too warm, too sensitive. You can’t tell if it’s the sixth bourbon finally catching up to you or the fact that a man who looks like that just saw straight through you and enjoyed it.
From the corner of your eye—
you can feel him.
Not footsteps.
Presence.
Leather shifts beside you. The space at your back warms, the air changing subtly, like the room adjusted itself to make space for him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t touch you. He simply arrives, leaning one forearm against the bar like he belongs there.
Like he belongs everywhere.
A cigarette burns lazily between his fingers, ember glowing soft and dangerous. He lifts it to his lips, inhales slowly. The smoke curls around his face, frames his jaw, lingers just long enough to make your lungs ache in sympathy.
“Rough night?” he asks, voice low, amused.
You turn. Too fast. Too obvious.
Up close, he’s worse. Infuriatingly worse. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, the faint smell of smoke and alcohol and something unmistakably him. You straighten instinctively, forcing confidence into your spine.
“I’m doing just fine,” you say, lifting your glass in emphasis.
His gaze drops. To your lips. To the rim of the glass. Then back up.
He lifts the cigarette slightly, offering it without a word.
You blink. Then shake your head. “I don’t take anyone’s leftovers.”
That makes him laugh—deep, rich, vibrating straight through your chest “Is that so?”.
“Yeah,” you say, shrugging like your pulse isn’t screaming. “Cigarettes are… sacred. You only share them when someone means something. Not with everyone.”
Weird. You know.
But it’s your rule.
Something shifts in his expression—amusement giving way to interest, eyes darkening just a shade.
“One whiskey. Neat.”
He says it to the bartender, but his eyes never leave you. Not even for a second.
“So,” he adds casually, turning just enough to face you, “I’m Jungkook.”
He extends his hand.
You look down— and fuck.
His hands are big. Not just large—commanding. Long fingers. Strong knuckles. Veins faintly raised beneath tattooed skin, ink curling around bone and muscle like it belongs there. Hands that look like they know exactly what to do with whatever—or whoever—they touch.
Heat coils low in your stomach, traitorous and immediate.
Get a grip, Yn.
You swallow and place your hand in his. “Yn,” you murmur.
His palm swallows yours whole.
Warm. Solid. Anchoring.
Your breath stutters before you can stop it. His thumb shifts—barely, innocently—pressing into your skin like it’s just how he shakes hands. It isn’t.
Awareness races up your arm, sparks something dangerous in your chest. You’re suddenly far too aware of how small your hand feels in his. How easily he could keep it there if he wanted.
Your teeth sink into your lower lip.
He notices.
Of course he does.
A slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth—not smug, not sharp. Like he felt the exact moment your composure slipped and decided to enjoy it quietly.
“You alright?” he asks, voice low, almost gentle. As if he hasn’t just wrecked your nervous system with a handshake.
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. I’m—fine.”
The word comes out softer than you intend. Embarrassed, you pull your hand back. The absence is immediate. Jarring.
He doesn’t chase it.
Instead, he lifts his glass and takes a slow sip of whiskey, eyes still on you over the rim. Watching. Measuring. Like he already knows he’s under your skin and doesn’t need to rush the rest.
The silence stretches.
Thick. Charged.
You clear your throat, fingers dragging through your hair as if that might cool the heat blooming under your skin. Your head feels hazy—bourbon-soft—but your body is painfully alert. Aware of him. Of the space he occupies beside you.
“Another bourbon,” you say too quickly. “Neat.”
The bartender reaches for the bottle.
“That’s enough.”
Jungkook’s voice cuts in—low, even, unhurried.
The bartender freezes.
“You’ve had six already,” Jungkook adds, eyes never leaving yours.
You turn to him, ready to argue—to snap—
And stop.
Because he’s closer now.
Not touching. Not crowding. Just close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the steady calm in his posture. His gaze holds yours, unwavering. Not asking. Not apologizing.
Asshole, you think wildly.
Already trying to control.
“I didn’t say I was done,” you manage, lifting your chin.
A slow breath leaves him—not annoyed. Amused.
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s why I stepped in.”
The bartender hesitates, then carefully sets the bottle aside, suddenly very interested in wiping the counter.
You scoff, irritation curling tight in your chest. “Do you always tell women when they can and can’t drink?”
Jungkook leans back against the bar, relaxed—too relaxed—one arm braced behind him. The movement brings him just a fraction closer, his presence undeniable.
“Only when they’re pushing themselves past the edge,” he replies calmly.“And pretending they don’t care.”
Your pulse jumps.
“You don’t know me,” you say, your voice steady by sheer force of will.
His gaze dips—to your mouth. Just for a heartbeat.
“I know you’re not as fine as you’re pretending,” he murmurs. “And I know another bourbon won’t fix whatever you’re trying to drown.”
Silence stretches between you. Tight. Charged. Heavy with things neither of you says.
You look away first, then down at your phone, checking the time like it might untangle the chaos curling in your chest.
“I think I’ll go,” you murmur, sliding off the stool too quickly. “It’s late.”
Your foot catches.
A hand steadies your waist—firm, sure, impossible to ignore.
“Easy,” he murmurs, low and warm near your ear. No teasing. No humor. Just concern.
Your fingers curl into his forearm, grounding yourself. “I—I’m fine,” you whisper, even as heat blooms under your skin.
“You’re not,” he says softly, command without force. “And you can’t ride like this.”
Before you can argue, his black card slides across the bar, covering both drinks. Then, without asking, his fingers lace with yours.
The contact is deliberate. Intimate.
Outside, the night air bites at your flushed skin. He settles his helmet over your head, adjusts the strap with careful fingers. Then he shrugs off his leather jacket and wraps it around your waist.
It shields your denim skirt from the wind—soft, heavy, unmistakably his. The warmth of him presses through the leather along your side.
Your eyes drift to his left arm. The tattoos—dark, intricate, disappearing beneath rolled sleeves—aren’t decoration. They’re history. A warning.
The engine roars.
“Hold tight,” he says, steady and commanding.
You do. Arms circling his waist as the bike surges forward, the city blurring past. The speed isn’t reckless—it’s controlled, precise, like everything about him.
Your forehead rests against his back, cheek brushing leather. Every shift of his body, every measured breath, pulls you taut, electric.
When he finally stops, the engine dies. Silence settles—heavy, intimate.
You swing off, removing the helmet with unsteady hands.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
He turns. Close. Too close. The air between you hums.
“You’re still shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’ll be fine.”
You hand him his helmet. Your fingers brush his, linger just a second too long. Neither of you moves away.
You look up. He’s already watching you—calm, composed, unnervingly steady—while you’re all heat and nerves. The wind teases your skin, lifts loose strands of hair. Your gaze drops to his lips—the glint of his piercing makes you gulp.
Your breath stutters. You try to look away, but six bourbons have stolen your restraint.
You lean in.
Your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing faint lines at the corners of his eyes, and you kiss him. Eyes closed. No hesitation. His hands settle at your waist, firm, anchoring.
When you pull back, he doesn’t let you go. He draws you in again—deeper this time. His tongue teases, then claims as you part your lips willingly. Your arms slide around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Heat crashes through you, knees weakening—you’d already be on the ground if he weren’t holding you.
He pulls back just enough to leave you breathless.
“My apartment—” you begin, voice rough.
He stops you.
“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, low and unyielding. “And I want you to remember everything I do to you.”
Your breath catches. His hands tighten slightly at your hips. Every word lands heavy—promise without explanation.
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