The third morning on Jeju arrived with a quieter kind of sunshine.
Ivory sat curled up on the villa's porch, barefoot, her fingers wrapped around a warm mug of iced Americano. The waves crashed gently in the distance, and the scent of grilled fish and seaweed lingered from the breakfast she half-heartedly ate.
Jake her, dropping beside her on the cushioned bench, his arm casually slinging over her shoulder. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
"Period gone?" he murmured into her hair.
"Still there," she smirked. "I'll update you when your country is free."
He snorted, laughing softly. "I'll mark that in the national calendar."
But her smile faded as her eyes drifted back to the view.
"I don't want to go back."
He didn't answer right away, just followed her gaze to the wide open beach, the bright blue sky above them.
"You'll miss the seafood," he teased.
"And the sun. The quiet. The way you hum Coldplay under your breath when you're happy," she added softly. "You're different here."
He hummed. "You are too."
Then he reached out and brushed her knuckles. "We can come back."
She shook her head gently. "You'll be busy again. The tour's in a few weeks."
"And then the end of the year..."
"December," she whispered.
Neither of them wanted to say the word enlistment, but it hung in the air like fog.
Jake took her hand and laced their fingers. "I hate that we're already counting down."
Ivory leaned into him. "Promise me we'll make the rest of it count?"
He turned to her, nodding, his eyes soft but intense. "Every second."
A long silence passed. Then Ivory added with a sniff, "And if I start crying at the airport, it's just... because I'm allergic to departures."
Jake smiled faintly. "Then I'll cry too. In harmony."
And they sat like that—wrapped in quiet, in love, in a kind of grief for a tomorrow they couldn't stop but could still hold hands walking toward.
***
They drove to a yellow canola flower field—(the same one from When Life Gives You Tangerines.) Ivory, in her flowing yellow sundress, stood in the middle of the bloom, completely mesmerized. The wind danced through her hair, the flowers swayed like waves, and Jake couldn't take his eyes off her.
"You look like you belong here," he whispered, and she turned, laughing. "What, with all the bees?"
They held hands, took photos, and just basked in the peace—the world faded away for a while.
For Lunch, Ivory had craved for some samgyeopsal. The first dish she tried coming to Korea. Jake already knows a special place to come, trying some Jeju black pork.
The smell of sizzling pork fat wafted through the air the moment they stepped into the humble restaurant tucked just off a quiet Jeju alley. It wasn't fancy—wooden walls, old-school exhaust fans hanging above each table, laminated menus taped to the wall. But it was exactly the kind of place Jake had wanted to bring her to.
"Best black pork on the island," he said with a proud grin, motioning for her to sit as the ajumma running the joint gave him a little nod of recognition.
Ivory looked around, charmed by the simplicity. "So this is your secret spot?"
Jake nodded. "Every time I come to Jeju, I eat here. It's like a rule. Spiritual law. Violate it, and you risk being cursed with bland pork forever."
Ivory giggled. "You take your meat very seriously."
"You have no idea."
The ajumma brought out plates of Jeju black pork—distinctively marbled, cut thick—and the sound of the meat hitting the hot grill made Ivory moan on instinct. Jake caught it with a raised brow. "You're gonna be louder for the pork than you ever were for me, huh?"
"Let the meat do what you cannot," she teased, eyes twinkling.
"Ohhh, so you want me to ruin you in public," he shot back, snatching a piece of pork with his tongs and flipping it dramatically.
She covered her face, laughing.
As the pork cooked, Jake slipped effortlessly into his self-assigned role of boyfriend-tour-guide-local-superstar hybrid. He pointed at each of the little banchan plates.
"Okay, this is myeongnanjeot—fermented pollack roe. Don't look at it too long, it'll stare back. But try it with rice. This is pickled garlic, bossam kimchi—wrap it with your pork for extra flavor. And this here—"
"Is that a full chili pepper?"
"Correct. Do not eat it whole unless you hate yourself."
Ivory leaned in, inspecting everything. "You're such a nerd about this."
He smiled as he flipped the pork with practiced ease, cutting it into juicy bite-sized pieces. "Korean BBQ is an art. Respect the pork."
When she finally took her first bite, wrapped neatly in lettuce with a bit of rice, kimchi, and sauce, she closed her eyes and made a sound so sinful Jake nearly choked on his water.
"That good?"
"Mmm. Okay yeah. This beats black spaghetti," she said through a full mouth. "You have black spaghetti and black pork? What's next, a black porridge?"
Jake laughed. "There is black sesame porridge, actually."
"Are you serious?!"
"I'll take you next time. Jeju's gonna turn you goth."
She rolled her eyes as she reached for more pork. "You're turning me feral, that's what you're doing."
"Feral's a compliment," he replied, resting his chin on his hand as he watched her eat, completely smitten.
"Stop staring at me," she said, catching him.
"I like watching you fall in love with my country. It's almost as hot as you in a silk nightgown."
Ivory threw a lettuce wrap at him. He dodged it, grinning like a dork.
Later, as they finished off the last sizzling bits of pork, Ivory leaned back, full and glowing from the feast.
Jake, wiping his fingers, looked at her like she'd hung the moon.
"Next stop?" she asked, lips still shiny with sauce.
Jake smirked, tossing the car keys in his palm. "Scenic route. You, me, and the wind in your hair."
"Still hungry?"
"Always—for you."
She groaned. "Stop trying to make pickup lines work. You're already dating me."
"Just practicing for marriage."
Ivory blinked. He winked.
And just like that, the island heat wasn't the only thing making her heart race.
***
Later, walking the quaint Jeju street, they share a melon-flavored ice cream—one cone, two spoons. The sky is golden-orange, sun kissing the horizon. Then they hear it—a soft acoustic strumming.
They follow the sound and see a young busker, guitar in hand, singing an old ballad. Ivory turns to Jake with a mischievous glint.
"I dare you."
JungKook raises a brow.
"To what?"
"Sing."
He doesn't even hesitate.
"Hold this," he says, handing her the rest of the ice cream.
He walks up to the busker, asks politely if he could borrow the guitar. The busker's eyes go wide the moment he realizes who it is—but he nods, stunned.
And then JungKook begins to sing.
Soft. Raw. Emotion-filled.
It's his song—a love ballad version of one of his own tracks, reimagined with soft chords and soulful delivery. She had heard it before, he had sang it to her at the beach club. It was Please don't change, but he has changed some of the lyrics. Making the song about them.
Ivory stands still. Heart doing somersaults.
Not from the fact that he's an idol. But from the way he looks at her as he sings. Every lyric feels like it's meant just for her.
People begin to gather, snapping photos, whispering. But he doesn't break eye contact with her. The world disappears.
When the last note fades, the crowd claps, some cheering—still stunned they got a mini-concert for free. Jake hands the guitar back with a bow and walks back to Ivory.
She blinks up at him, eyes slightly glossy.
"You're ridiculous," she whispers.
"You dared me," he shrugs with a boyish grin.
"You're trouble," she says.
"Only for you," he says, pulling her close.
And with the street behind them, filled with the sound of waves and music, they walk hand-in-hand again—like nothing else mattered.
---
Later that evening, from the bustling city of Korea, the makeup room was quiet except for the soft hum of a hairdryer and the excited gasps coming from a tablet screen, balanced carefully on one of the vanities.
Sayuri's styling team—three glam artists decked in black and pink—huddled around it, eyes wide, faces flushed with secondhand butterflies.
"Oh my god, rewind that part—he smiles at her right there," whispered Ji-eun, practically bouncing in her seat.
"Look at his eyes! He looks like he's singing to her and no one else exists," Minhee whispered back, hand on her chest as if she were the one being serenaded.
"It's like... like he's glowing," said Ara. "That's love. That's real love. He looks like he's found the end of his red string."
"He wasn't like this before with unnie, right? JungKook was mostly angry and snappy at everyone." Ji-eun says. Reminiscing the past.
The other two sadly sighed and nodded in unison. "That was a different time, look at him now. Showing his bunny teeth to the woman. It's actually frustrating why she always wear something to cover her face, right?"
On the tablet screen, JungKook's viral Jeju busking video played again, his voice low and honey-sweet as he sang with raw, unfiltered joy. His cheeks were tinged with pink, smile soft, as he glanced repeatedly at the girl beside him—hooded, mostly hidden, but very much the center of his universe.
The team sighed in unison.
Then the door slammed.
Sayuri stood at the threshold, sunglasses perched on her head, jaw clenched tight. "What are you all doing?"
The tablet was snapped shut in a panic.
"N-Nothing," Ji-eun stammered, already halfway up from her stool.
Minhee gave a weak smile. "Just taking a break—uh, watching a clip. Makeup's all set anyway!"
"I don't pay you to gossip and fangirl over my ex," Sayuri snapped, venom lacing her words.
Her tone was sharp, slicing the warm air like a blade.
Silence fell. The stylists exchanged awkward glances before gathering their things.
"Sorry, unnie," Ara mumbled, bowing slightly. "We'll give you space."
They filed out quickly, whispering as they disappeared down the hallway.
"She's so bitter, it's wild."
"Can you blame her? JungKook's glowing and her career's hanging by a thread."
"After that press conference? She's done. He didn't even look at her."
"And now everyone's rooting for the mystery girl. I bet she hates it."
Sayuri's fist curled around her phone, fury boiling just beneath her skin. Her eyes, once icy, now stormed with something darker. Rage. Envy.
She opened her contact list and scrolled—Jeon JungKook.
One ring. Two.
On the third, the call picked up.
But it wasn't his voice.
"Hello?"
It was soft. Feminine. And too calm to be anyone but her.
Sayuri's eyes narrowed. "Where's JungKook?"
A pause.
Then, sweetly, "In the shower. Can I take a message?"
The audacity. The nerve. Sayuri's heart clawed against her ribs.
"I don't talk to fan service."
Ivory didn't even flinch. "Then maybe don't call idols you no longer have access to."
Click.
The line went dead.
Sayuri stood frozen, phone still at her ear, lips parted in disbelief.
From the bathroom of the penthouse, laughter echoed faintly—JungKook's voice, followed by the sound of running water and a splash.
The realization struck like a whip: she hadn't just lost him publicly.
She'd lost him completely.
No, she thought. She tried again. Desperate. Longing.