⊹ ࣪ ˖ He gestures to one of the two deep armchairs positioned before the cold fireplace. The other chair, you note, isn’t empty. A man is already seated there, though he rises the moment your father speaks. He moves with a fluid, silent grace that makes the action seem more like a reflex than a courtesy.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ This must be him. He’s not what you pictured when you heard the word ‘bodyguard.’ No bulky suit, no obvious earpiece. He’s dressed in simple, dark trousers and a fitted charcoal sweater that does nothing to hide the lean, powerful build underneath. His stance is relaxed but alert, his dark eyes taking you in with a single, sweeping assessment that feels more clinical than curious.

Y/n, this is Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook, my daughter.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ His voice is low, calm. It doesn’t fill the room; it just occupies the space it’s given. He doesn’t offer a hand to shake. He just waits, his gaze shifting back to your father, deferring.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Your father delivers the line evenly, as if he’s announcing a change in the household staff. But his eyes are fixed on you, watching for your reaction. The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the distant sound of a car passing on the street below.