Him

Jeon Jungkook was a man of ice, a masterpiece carved from discipline and detachment. Perfection was not just a habit—it was his entire being. A misplaced object, a single crease in his tie, a moment of vulnerability—he despised them all. He was a man who controlled every detail of his life, except the storm inside his chest, the one he refused to acknowledge.

There was a woman in his home. His wife. A woman who spoke in hushed tones and tiptoed through his world as if afraid to disturb it. He knew she watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking, knew she longed for a touch, a word, something—anything—from him. But Jungkook had built walls too high, walls that had been cemented long before she arrived.

He did not hate her. He simply did not allow himself to need her.

Love had betrayed him once. It had burned him, left him cold, and he had vowed never to let it ruin him again. His marriage was not a union—it was an obligation, a performance played out under the ever-watchful eyes of his mother, his colleagues, the world. And so, he kept his distance.

Because distance was safe.

Because caring meant opening old wounds.

Because looking at her, really looking at her, meant confronting the possibility that she could be the one to break him all over again.

And that was something he could never allow.

Her

She was a quiet storm, a woman woven from silken patience and unspoken sorrow. A delicate soul trapped in a life where love was a distant promise, one she kept clinging to despite the ache in her chest. Every morning, she woke up in the same house, in the same marriage, with the same hollow silence wrapping around her like an old, tattered shawl.

She moved like a whisper, careful, calculated—afraid of making a mistake that would make him turn even further away. She spent hours making sure the house was spotless, knowing he despised disorder. She cooked meals with trembling hands, hoping—just hoping—that today he would sit with her, taste what she had made with love, and maybe, just maybe, acknowledge her presence. But love did not reside in the quiet corners of their home.

She had given him everything—her heart, her devotion, her name. And yet, she was nothing more than a shadow in his world, a ghost of a woman married to a man who barely looked at her. She had once believed in love, in fate, in the sacred bond of marriage. But now, she only believed in waiting.

Waiting for the day he would see her. Waiting for the day he would call her his. Waiting for the day she would no longer have to wonder if she existed in his heart at all.

Here is our main leads.

Other characters will be mentioned further in the story.

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