The air in the house had been shifting for weeks.

Taehyung could feel it every time Hana’s eyes lingered on her a little too long, every time her daughter’s mouth twisted into a frown that she quickly smoothed away. It started small—questions asked with an edge, looks thrown when she thought no one noticed.

At first, Hana’s comments seemed harmless.

Hana, wrinkling her nose one morning: “Mom, why are you always leaking through your tops lately? It’s gross… maybe you should get that checked.”

Tae, embarrassed, clutching her cardigan closed: “It’s… it’s just hormones, Hana.”

Hana, muttering under her breath: “Yeah, hormones. Or maybe you’re just letting yourself go.”

Taehyung swallowed the hurt and tried to smile, blaming her daughter’s sharpness on immaturity. But the barbs came more often.

Hana would glance at her glowing skin and sigh dramatically.

She’d notice the way Jungkook’s eyes softened when Taehyung entered the room and narrow her gaze.

She clung to him more, sliding her arm through his at every chance, laughing a little too loudly, kissing his cheek like she was staking a claim.

And Jungkook—though he played along in public—kept stealing touches at corners of the house. A hand pressed against Taehyung’s lower back, fingers brushing her swollen breasts, a lingering glance that burned hotter than fire.

Hana noticed.

She noticed everything.

One night, it boiled over.

They were at the dinner table, plates of curry and rice between them. Taehyung was eating quietly, exhaustion heavy in her bones, when Hana suddenly scoffed.

Hana, voice sharp: “Mom, do you even try anymore? You just… sit around, eat, and look tired. No wonder you’re putting on weight.”

The fork slipped from Taehyung’s fingers, clattering against her plate. She blinked rapidly, throat tightening.

Jungkook froze, eyes darting between them.

Tae, softly: “Hana… don’t speak to me like that.”

Hana, folding her arms, glaring: “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. You’re not glowing—you’re bloated. And you’re always so… needy. God, it’s embarrassing.”

Taehyung’s lip trembled, tears welling.

Jungkook slammed his chopsticks down, the sound sharp enough to make Hana jump. His voice was low, furious—nothing like the sweet, playful tone she was used to.

Kook: “That’s enough.”

Hana, blinking, defensive: “W-What? I’m just—”

Kook, voice rising: “Shut up, Hana!”

The silence after his yell was deafening. Taehyung’s breath hitched; Hana’s face paled.

Kook, standing, pointing at her: “Do you hear yourself? The way you speak to your own mother? She cooks for you, takes care of you, and you humiliate her at the table? You disgust me right now.”

Hana, stammering: “B-But she—she’s changed—”

Kook, roaring: “Of course she’s changed! She’s beautiful, she’s glowing, she’s… she’s more of a woman than you’ll ever be if you keep acting like a spoiled brat!”

Taehyung gasped, covering her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Hana’s chin wobbled. Her eyes flicked from Jungkook’s furious glare to her mother’s tear-streaked face. She shot up from her chair, muttering something about “going to her room,” and stormed upstairs, the slam of her door rattling the walls.

The house was quiet again.

Taehyung wiped at her cheeks, voice breaking.

Tae: “You… you didn’t have to yell at her like that, Kook.”

Kook, softening immediately, crouching by her chair: “No. I did. She crossed a line. And she needs to know you’re not the problem here, Tae.”

He kissed her trembling hand, his eyes burning with possessive devotion.

Kook, fiercely: “Don’t you ever believe her words. You’re perfect. More perfect every day. And I’ll make sure she never talks to you like that again.”

Taehyung wanted to protest, to tell him not to widen the crack already forming between mother and daughter. But when his lips brushed her knuckles, when his eyes locked on hers, her heart betrayed her—pounding with need and relief.

Because in that moment, no matter how dangerous, she believed him.