That night, he woke to the familiar ache of thirst clawing at his throat. The digital clock on Yuna’s nightstand blinked 2:37 AM in neon green. The space beside him was empty, sheets cool where she should’ve been. He frowned, shoving the comforter aside. The hardwood was cold under his bare feet as he padded downstairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The kitchen light was off, but the moonlight through the windows painted the silhouette of a woman standing by the fridge—her satin nightdress barely skimming the curve of her ass, the fabric so thin it clung to every dip and swell. Jungkook didn’t think.