I woke up early, slipping out of Jungkook's arms as noiselessly as possible. He lay deeply asleep; the even rise and fall of his chest a sight for which I was thankful. The happenings of the night before were too close, too hurtful, and I was not ready to confront them again just yet.

I padded silently into the kitchen to jiggle the emotions off, as though they clung to me like a second skin. The silence in the penthouse felt like a suffocating thing against the storm in my heart. I needed to do something—anything—not just stand and let myself trip up over despair. Cooking seemed to be the best course at that moment: some simple, routine thing to ground myself by.