It all started that night. September 22nd.

The city's most exclusive club—Poison Ivy—was alive with sin. Neon lights pulsed to the bass-heavy music, casting shadows over expensive suits, hushed deals, and whispered threats. Everything illegal, everything dangerous, everything desirable—happened here.

Jungkook leaned against the bar, whiskey glass in hand, half-listening to his friends. Until he walked out of the restroom.

Silk and leather.

The stranger moved like he owned the place—like he owned the world. A deep-necked white silk shirt clung to his body, teasing glimpses of golden skin and sharp collarbones. Black jeans hugged his long legs, and a sleek leather jacket hung from his shoulders, making him look effortlessly untouchable.

He ran a hand through his hair, dark strands falling messily over his forehead, and for a split second, under the flashing club lights—

He looked like trouble.

Tasty. Jungkook thought, tongue running over his bottom lip. A beauty like that? Rare. Masculine but elegant, strong but refined. A man like him wasn't easy to find. And even harder to forget.

The man must have felt Jungkook's gaze—because he looked up.

Dark eyes met Jungkook's across the club, steady and unflinching. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't intimidated. He didn't glance away, didn't shift under the weight of Jungkook's stare.

Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow. A silent challenge. A question.

Interested? Or maybe—Try me.

Jungkook's grip tightened around his glass.

Interesting.

Jungkook set his glass down on the counter, pushing to his feet. He didn't hesitate. He never did.

But just as he took a step forward, he froze.

Because someone else had reached the man first.

Min Yoongi.

Jungkook's brows furrowed. What the hell was Min Yoongi—the heir to the Kim Mafia— doing with him?

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. This just got interesting.

The man spoke to Yoongi with ease, with familiarity. Like he'd done it before. Like they weren't just acquaintances, but something more.

Jungkook's jaw tightened. He watched the way they stood—close, comfortable. The way Yoongi's lips curled into a smirk, the way the man tilted his head ever so slightly, speaking in hushed tones as if they shared a secret.

How the hell did they know each other?

Jungkook had seen Yoongi work a room before. Cold, calculating. A man who measured every word, every move. But here? He looked relaxed. Amused, even.

And that made Jungkook's blood hum with something sharp and unsettling.

Jungkook turned to Hoseok, his best friend and right hand. His voice was low, sharp—meant only for him.

"Who's he?"

Hoseok followed his gaze, raising an eyebrow. "Beside Suga?" He exhaled through his nose, as if the answer should've been obvious. "Kim Taehyung. The younger son of the Kims."

Jungkook's grip tightened around his glass.

Kim Taehyung.

So that was his name.

The name of a man he shouldn't be looking at like this.

Jungkook exhaled sharply and dropped back onto his seat at the bar.

Nope.

Looked like there would be no action tonight.

Flirting with a stranger? Sure.
Flirting with the younger son of the Kims? Not in a hundred years.

Hell, not in a thousand.

He grabbed his whiskey and took a slow sip, forcing himself to look away. Whatever this was, he wasn't stupid enough to touch it.

"How come I've never seen him before?" Jungkook asked, eyes still trailing back to Taehyung.

Hoseok shrugged. "He handles the Kim Mafia's Italian Empire. Stays overseas most of the time."

Jungkook hummed, rolling his whiskey glass between his fingers. That explained a lot.

It also meant Taehyung wasn't just some heir sitting pretty in his father's shadow. He had power. Authority. A role important enough to keep him away from Seoul.

Jungkook's jaw tightened. Interesting.

And dangerous.

Jungkook watched as Taehyung strolled to the bar beside Suga, moving with effortless confidence. He leaned against the counter, murmuring his order to the bartender before settling into quiet conversation.

Calm. Composed. Completely at ease.

Like he belonged here. Like he wasn't the son of Jungkook's enemy.

Jungkook's fingers tapped against his glass. He shouldn't care. Shouldn't watch the way Taehyung's lips curled slightly when Suga said something amusing. Shouldn't notice the way he carried himself—sharp, but elegant. Dangerous, but controlled.

And yet, he did.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, tipping back the last of his whiskey before setting the glass down with a dull clink.

"Let's get out of here," he grumbled to Hoseok. "I'm not in the mood to get laid tonight."

Hoseok snorted. "Since when?"

Jungkook shot him a glare before pushing off his seat. Since the son of the Kims walked in and ruined the fun, apparently.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Jungkook cast one last glance at Taehyung.

And that's when it happened.

Taehyung caught his gaze.

Their eyes met—steady, unflinching.

Jungkook expected indifference. Expected Taehyung to look away, to dismiss him like just another face in the crowd.

But he didn't.

Instead, Taehyung held his stare. Calm. Intentional. Like he had been expecting it. Like he wasn't surprised at all.

A slow, knowing smirk ghosted over Taehyung's lips.

Jungkook's pulse ticked in his throat.

Fuck.

Then—Taehyung tilted his head, just slightly.

Not a challenge. Not quite an invitation. Just a quiet acknowledgment that Jungkook was looking. That he had noticed.

Jungkook should have looked away. Should have ignored the way Taehyung's smirk deepened, the way his fingers drummed idly against the bar like he had all the time in the world.

But he didn't.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The club buzzed around them—music, laughter, the clink of glasses—but it all faded into static.

Just him and Taehyung.

Then, as if he'd already won something, Taehyung broke the stare first. Turned back to Suga, murmuring something under his breath. Unbothered. Unrushed.

Dismissive.

Jungkook clenched his jaw. So that's how he wanted to play it.

Hoseok nudged him. "Still leaving?"

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, grabbed his jacket, and stood. "Yeah. Let's go."

But as he walked out of Poison Ivy, the ghost of Taehyung's smirk stayed with him.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Jungkook had gone home alone. Alone.

No one hanging off his shoulder. No lips pressed against his neck. No breathy whispers in his ear, hands tugging at his clothes, nails scraping down his back.

What the fuck?

This wasn't him. This wasn't normal. He should have been tangled in silk sheets by now, lost in someone else's warmth, chasing pleasure until the sun came up.

Instead, he was lying in bed, fully clothed, stone-cold sober, and thinking about Kim fucking Taehyung.

Unbelievable.

--

Taehyung had noticed.

From the moment he stepped out of the bathroom, he had felt it—a sharp, lingering gaze cutting through the noise, tracing over him like a silent question.

He hadn't reacted right away. Hadn't turned to look. Instead, he let it simmer. Let the weight of it settle against his skin, burning slow.

But when he finally did meet those eyes across the room, he wasn't surprised.

Jeon Jungkook.

A name he knew well. A face he had seen in files, in whispers of power plays and bloodied streets. A man who belonged to everything Taehyung should avoid.

And yet—Jungkook had looked at him like he wanted to break every rule.

Taehyung ignored the gaze.

He didn't need to look to know who it belonged to. Didn't need to acknowledge it to feel it linger.

Instead, he turned back to Suga, his expression unreadable as he continued their conversation.

"The Korean branch is stable for now," he murmured, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. "But if they want to move forward, they need to stop underestimating our reach."

Suga smirked, swirling his drink lazily. "That's the problem with men who think they own the world. They forget who built it for them."

Taehyung hummed in agreement. Kept his voice steady. Kept his focus sharp.

And yet—he could still feel it. That damn gaze pressing against his skin, patient, unrelenting.

Like Jeon Jungkook was waiting for something. Like he wasn't the type to walk away empty-handed.