Jeon Jungkook || Sugar daddy

The café was the kind of place where a single cup of coffee cost more than most people's weekly grocery budget—marble tables, soft ambient lighting, and a clientele that spoke in hushed, important tones. Jungkook had chosen it deliberately. Neutral ground. Public enough to be safe, private enough to talk business.

He arrived fifteen minutes early, as he always did. Old habit. His father had taught him that punctuality was a form of control, and control was everything.

She walked in seven minutes late.

He noticed her immediately—not because she was loud or flashy, but because she wasn't. No designer bag, no heels clicking against the floor, no perfume trail that announced her arrival. Just a girl in an oversized denim jacket, hair pulled into a messy bun, a faded tote bag slung over one shoulder. She looked around the café once, spotted him, and walked over without hesitation.

"You're Jeon Jungkook," she said, pulling out the chair across from him. Not a question.

"And you're Kim {User}."

"Obviously." She sat down, dropped her bag on the floor, and looked at him properly. Her eyes traveled over his face, his suit, the watch on his wrist—not impressed, just cataloging. Like she was memorizing details for a painting she hadn't decided to start yet. "You look tired."

Jungkook's brow twitched. "Excuse me?"

"Tired. Dark circles. You probably slept four hours last night." She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. "Just an observation. I'm not being rude."

"You are being rude."

"I'm being honest. There's a difference." She picked up the menu and scanned it. "Also, this place is overpriced. Twelve dollars for a latte is criminal."

"Then order something else."

"I will." She set the menu down and looked at him again, that same unhurried, appraising gaze. "So. You're looking for a sugar baby."

The word hung in the air between them. Jungkook had heard it said a hundred different ways in the past few weeks—flirtatiously, nervously, greedily. She said it like she was reading off a grocery list.

"Yes," he said.

"And I'm looking for a sugar daddy." She tilted her head. "Seems like we're compatible on paper."

"On paper," he repeated.

"On paper," she confirmed. "People are rarely what they are on paper."

The waiter appeared. She ordered a chamomile tea and a slice of lemon cake. Jungkook ordered black coffee, mostly because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

"You're an art student," he said once the waiter left.

"Painting. Third year. Scholarship covers tuition. Nothing else." She said it without shame or self-pity. Just facts. "What about you? Besides the obvious."

"The obvious?"

"Tech empire. Dead father. No social life." She counted off on her fingers. "That's what the internet says, anyway."

Jungkook's jaw tightened. "My father isn't dead."

"Retired. Same difference in the articles." She didn't flinch. "You don't like talking about yourself."

"I don't like wasting time."

"Then we're the same." She leaned back in her chair. "So let's not waste it. You need someone to stand next to you at events. I need money. You don't want clingy. I don't want to be owned. Sound about right?"

He studied her. She was blunt—almost aggressively so—but there was something underneath it. Not arrogance. Not desperation. Just a kind of clear-eyed practicality that he recognized because he saw it in the mirror every morning.

"You're not what I expected," he admitted.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone younger. Someone louder. Someone who would have already mentioned my net worth."

"I googled it in the taxi. Didn't seem worth bringing up." She shrugged. "You know what you're worth. So do I. What's the point of saying it out loud?"

The waiter returned with their order. She wrapped both hands around her teacup and took a slow sip, watching him over the rim.

"Why me?" she asked.

Jungkook considered the question. "Your profile was honest. No games. No filters. Just what you wanted."

"And that was enough?"

"It was different."

"Different," she echoed. "That's a nice way of saying you've been through a lot of bad options."

"I have."

"Me too." She set the cup down. "So let's talk terms."

He nodded. This was the part he had prepared for—the clinical, straightforward negotiation that would define whatever this was. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, sliding it across the table.

She didn't pick it up. She just looked at it, then at him.

"You made a contract?"

"I made an outline."

"Of course you did." She almost smiled. Almost. "Go on, then. Pitch it."

Jungkook leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and even. "You move into my penthouse. Your own room, your own space. I won't invade it unless there's an emergency. Food, clothing, transportation—covered. Monthly allowance, and you can negotiate the number once. In return, you attend galas, dinners, and corporate events by my side. You play the role of my girlfriend. Convincingly."

"And the sugar baby part?"

"Stays between us. No one knows. Not your friends, not mine, not the press."

She nodded slowly, processing. "What else?"

"You're free to see other people in private. I have no reason or right to stop you." He paused. "But when you're at my side, you're mine. Publicly. No exceptions."

"Interesting." She broke off a piece of lemon cake with her fork but didn't eat it yet. "And feelings?"

"No feelings," he said flatly. "On either side. This is an arrangement, not a romance. The moment it becomes complicated, it ends."

She chewed slowly, watching him with those unreadable eyes. Then she set her fork down.

"You've thought about this a lot."

"I don't do things impulsively."

"No," she agreed. "You don't." She reached for the napkin, pulled a pen from her tote bag, and wrote something down. Then she slid it across the table toward him.

Her number.

"First gala is in three weeks," he said.

"I know. I saw the invitation on your desk in the photo you posted last month." She stood, pulling her jacket back on. "Text me the details. Don't call—I don't answer calls."

"You posted—wait, you looked at my profile pictures that closely?"

"I look at everything closely." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "It's my job. Or it will be."

She turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at him.

"One more thing, Mr. Jeon."

"What?"

"You said no feelings. I'll hold you to that." Her expression didn't change. "But just so you know—I don't do anything halfway. If I'm playing your girlfriend, I'll be the best girlfriend you've ever had. And that might be a problem for someone who doesn't want feelings."

She didn't wait for a response. She walked out of the café, the bell above the door chiming softly behind her.

Jungkook sat there, staring at the napkin in his hand, her words settling over him like a slow, quiet warning.

He told himself it didn't matter.

He told himself she was just another contract.

He told himself he needed her only for the galas and events.

Right?

__

Three weeks later, he's in his penthouse pacing here and there calling her number because they need to leave for the event. After cutting his calls a few times she picks up

"What?" She asked

"Oh god.... Where the hell are you?" Jungkook asks

"I'm ready. Just applying mascara" she answers

"...Get your ass in my house within fifteen minutes otherwise the contract cancels" he says trying to stay calm

"Jeez, god, okay, chill." Cuts the call.

After taking her time to reach his penthouse, she entered. He was going to shout at her but paused looking at her. She was looking

Magnificent.

"Finally, you're here." He tries to calm his heart down.

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