Mine

Jungkook

The office door shut with a soft, almost inaudible click behind me. I made my way across the room, each step slow and deliberate, as if the weight of the day's decisions bore down on my shoulders.

I approached the sitting area where Jimin had made himself at home, casually sipping on a glass of scotch as if he owned the place.

A muscle twitched involuntarily in my jaw, a silent testament to the irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

Our history was long and tangled, a series of debts and favors that bound us together. If not for the significant favor he had done for me, one that I was still repaying, I might have already expressed my displeasure in a more... physical manner.

His casual entitlement to my liquor was one thing, but his little performance in the lobby was quite another. I had clear boundaries, and I expected them to be respected. I didn't take kindly to people laying their hands on what was mine.

"Lighten up, Jungkook," Jimin chided with a smirk, the edges of his eyes crinkling in mirth. He took another leisurely sip, the amber liquid catching the light.

"You wouldn't want your scowl to become permanent. Think of the tragic loss to all those who admire your face."

My voice was light, but the undercurrent of my words held a challenge—one that he was all too familiar with.

My cold smile was a silent testament to the indifference I felt.

"Perhaps if you heeded your own counsel, Jimin, you wouldn't find yourself estranged from your bed—and your wife."

The air seemed to crackle with tension as I watched his eyes narrow, a clear sign that I had struck a nerve. Vilan was his Achilles' heel, just as my relentless dedication to my work was mine.

The intricacies of their tumultuous marriage were beyond me, and frankly, I held no interest in unraveling them.

However, there was a certain dark amusement in watching him bristle at the mere mention of the woman he professed to despise.

It was almost comical, really. Here I was, grappling with my own demons, and yet Jimin's life was a tapestry of complications.

His voice, sharp and cold, sliced through the room. "Point taken," he conceded, the playful facade melting away to reveal the hard-edged man I was more familiar with.

"But let's cut the crap, shall we? I didn't come here to indulge in petty banter about my personal life. I want to know when I can be rid of that damned case. It's a blight on my space."

I shrugged nonchalantly, "No one forced your hand with the case, Jimin. That's on you."

I made my way to the bar, the weight of the day's burdens momentarily forgotten as I focused on the task at hand.

Pouring myself a drink, I took note of the uncapped bottle—Jimin's doing, no doubt. The man had a talent for leaving chaos in his wake, and it seemed my collection of fine scotch was his latest casualty.

"You can stuff it in the darkest corner of your closet for all I care," I said nonchalantly.

He shot back with heavy sarcasm, "Oh, brilliant. I did all that work just so I can tuck it behind my old sneakers and winter coats? Yeah, that won't raise any eyebrows at all."