Jake stood awkwardly at the entryway of her house-no, her mansion-still dripping slightly, trying not to let his boots ruin the immaculate floors. Ivory had already tossed her jacket onto a bench and disappeared around the corner like she owned the place. Which, of course, she did. And then going back, tossing him a towel. Her hair in pigtails before, are now loose and hair curled to her sides.
"You're stiff," her voice floated in from the kitchen. "Relax. It's not a royal palace, you won't get kicked out for breathing too loud."
He wandered further in. The interior was warm but not gaudy. The kind of luxury that didn't try to impress, just... existed. Neutral tones, soft lighting, a mix of modern elegance and old soul. Shelves full of books, scattered film cameras, an open fireplace already crackling.
And photos. He noticed them quietly-some of Ivory as a child, climbing trees or covered in flour in a kitchen. Others with people he didn't recognize. All candid. All warm.
"You drink coffee, right?" she called.
"Only if it comes in giant mugs," he replied, finally settling onto the plush couch.
"Good. I make a mean brew."
He heard her rummaging and the comforting hiss of a machine. Minutes later, she returned with two mugs-big, steaming, and aromatic.
"Your couch might be expensive, but it looks nap-worthy," he said, accepting the mug.
"It is. I test everything with naps in mind."
He chuckled and took a sip. "Damn. This is actually good."
"Actually?" she raised an eyebrow, feigning offense.
He leaned back. "You could seriously start a coffee brand."
Ivory plopped down next to him, legs curled under her. "Don't tempt me. I've thought about it, you know? Wine is family legacy. But coffee... that's personal."
Jake watched her for a second. Hair damp, cheeks flushed from the cold, curled up with her favorite mug.
"What would you even name it?" he asked.
She looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Hmm... something warm. Familiar. But not cheesy."
Jake grinned, eyes twinkling. "How about Wake with Jake?"
She blinked. "Why on earth would I name my coffee after you?"
He shrugged, smirking as he took another sip. "Because it's bold, addictive, and leaves you wanting more."
Ivory burst out laughing, nearly spilling her drink. "Oh my god. You're impossible."
"Brewed by Jake" He continues.
"WOW, sounds like you have any role in it."
"Steamy with Jake?"
Ivory didn't hesitate and swatted on Jake with that one, leaving him laughing.
"Jake me Up."
Ivory only gave him that playful "are you serious?" Look.
Then she looked at him for a long moment. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just a soft, unreadable expression.
"JaKe me Up, huh?"
He shrugged, a bit bashful. "Could work. There's a little pun in it."
She smiled slowly. "I'm stealing that."
"I'll sue."
"You won't."
Jake smirked. "You're probably right."
A beat passed, comfortable silence curling between them like steam from a fresh mug.
Then he tilted his head, studying her with curious eyes. "So... is this your place? Or are you staying with family?"
Ivory raised an eyebrow, amused. "Why? You planning something?"
He chuckled softly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. "Just wondering. You seem like the kind of person who'd have a very nosy grandma living down the hall."
"Sadly, no nosy grandma." She leaned back on her hands. "I live alone. Well—used to live with my brother, but he moved to the UK. Big-time business tycoon now, doing whatever tycoons do. Which I assume involves golf, overpriced espresso, and being emotionally unavailable."
He laughed, more freely this time.
She continued, "My parents are in Italy. They manage our wine company in the countryside. Very wholesome. Very vineyard-core."
He nodded, clearly intrigued. "So it's just you?"
She leaned in a little with a sly smile. "Is this the part where you ask if the house is soundproof?"
His face went blank for a second before she burst out laughing.
"I'm joking," she said quickly, waving a hand. "Though if you were secretly a murderer, just so you know—my smart AI home already scanned your face the second you walked in. Probably matched you with Interpol or something by now."
Jake blinked, visibly startled. "Wait, really?"
Her grin widened, almost gleeful. "No. But you should've seen your face."
He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head with a breathy laugh, a bit relieved. "You're dangerous."
Ivory shrugged. "Takes one to know one."
***
The mansion glowed in soft amber light as Ivory guided Jake through its winding halls, barefoot and still laughing from teasing him about the look on his earlier.
"This," she gestured dramatically, "is my sacred place."
He expected a music room, maybe a private library. But no-she threw open the swinging door to the kitchen.
It was spacious but lived-in. Wooden countertops worn at the edges, a colorful array of spices lined like soldiers on floating shelves, mugs hanging above the sink. There was a warmth to it, like stories had been cooked into the walls.
"Looks like a food show set," Jake muttered.
"I call it my kingdom," she replied proudly. "I don't let anyone mess with it. Not even the chef."
She moved around the space with ease, opening cabinets, pointing out ridiculous coffee gadgets, and letting him peek inside the giant double-door fridge. Then she led him upstairs, stopping outside a room with dark wood panels and a wide bed.
"The guest room," she said, tossing a bundle of clothes onto the dresser. "My brother's clothes. He only comes home once in a blue moon. Feel free to wear anything. He won't notice. The bathroom is that door over there, if you want some bath bombs for the tub, there's a ton near the sink."
Jake blinked. "Are you always this... prepared for lost strangers on motorcycles?"
She grinned over her shoulder. "Only the interesting ones, Jake. Come down when you're ready for dinner. I'm making pasta."
-
The kitchen was warm, alive with the scent of garlic and olive oil. Ivory moved around with ease, her hair tied in a loose bun and a soft playlist humming in the background. She tossed cherry tomatoes into the pan, their skins blistering, and reached for the jar of pesto she made from scratch earlier that day.
Steam curled up from the pot as the pasta boiled, and just as she was draining it, she heard the distant sound of the guestroom door creaking open.
Jungkook emerged minutes later, hair damp and curling at the ends, a white shirt clinging to his skin in the softest way. He looked fresher, more alive than when he'd walked in earlier. And hungry.
Ivory was mid-stir, the chicken and pesto blending into a glossy, fragrant masterpiece.
"I didn't expect it to smell this good," he said, stepping into the kitchen, drawn in by the rich aroma.
She didn't mean to glance over.
Really, she didn't.
But she did.
And then—
Oh no.
Jake padded into the kitchen, towel-dried hair curling slightly at the edges, damp strands falling over his forehead like he belonged on the cover of a moody travel magazine. His skin was flushed from the shower, and the white shirt he threw on did nothing to hide the way his collarbones peeked through, or the way it clung just so to his chest.
Too much. This is too much.
Ivory blinked once. Then again. Her wooden spoon paused midair like her brain had short-circuited.
Handsome. Too handsome. Unnecessarily handsome.
Like he was personally trying to ruin pasta for her forever.
He looked over and smiled—not one of those half-lazy ones either. A real smile. Soft. Bare. Honest.
Ivory immediately dropped a cherry tomato.
"Careful," he said, his voice smooth and annoyingly warm.
She cleared her throat. "Slippery little thing," she muttered, chasing it across the counter and not looking at his jawline, thank you very much.
He stepped closer, and she instinctively held her breath as if the scent of his shampoo was an airborne threat to her mental stability.
Control yourself, she warned herself, then turned back to the stove.
Because if she stared too long, she might burn the pasta—or worse, say something deeply embarrassing like "Do you model for secret mountain cologne ads in your spare time?"
Nope. Not today. Not on her watch.
He laughed lightly, pulling out a stool as she plated the dish. The pesto glistened under the warm lights, the roasted tomatoes adding just the right splash of color. Ivory uncorked a bottle of white wine—crisp, citrusy, perfect with the basil and garlic.
He took the first bite in silence, then paused. "Wait. This is... insanely good."
She raised an eyebrow as she sat across from him. "Better than beer and store-bought ramen?"
"Light-years," he said through another bite, already twirling a second forkful.
They ate slowly but happily, the conversation easy, the wine making everything feel warmer. After dinner, Jungkook stood to help, rolling up his sleeves. Ivory washed, he dried—each movement companionable, filled with an odd, comforting silence that didn't need to be filled.
At one point, their hands brushed over a plate. He glanced at her, and she gave him a small smile before returning to the sink.
Later, they stood in the hallway between their rooms.
"Thanks for dinner," he said, voice lower now, softer in the late night stillness.
"Thanks for drying," she replied.
They nodded, an unspoken rhythm settling between them.
"Good night, Jake."
"Good night, Ivory."
Then they each turned into their rooms—two doors closing softly, the scent of basil still lingering in the air.
---
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and something buttery woke him the next morning.
He wandered downstairs in the too-large hoodie she'd left and sweatpants that hung low on his hips. The house was already alive with the clinking of dishes and soft music playing from a speaker tucked by the window.
Ivory was at the stove, flipping something golden on a pan. Her hair was tied in a lazy bun, oversized shirt half-tucked into denim shorts over thermal leggings. The air smelled like comfort.
She looked up. "Hey, sleepyhead."
"You cooked?"
"I always cook," she said simply. "Just because I have a chef doesn't mean I need one."
The maid was setting the table while the chef-suited but relaxed-was already nibbling at a slice of toast. Then the old gardener walked in, wiping his hands with a worn cloth.
"Sit. Eat," Ivory instructed them all.
Jake hesitated. "Should I...? I mean, is it okay-?"
"You're already dressed in my brother's hoodie, Jake. You're basically family now."
The others laughed, and with a hesitant smile, Jake took a seat. They passed plates, exchanged small talk, and despite the soft elegance of the house, everything felt casual. Human.
Then the front door creaked and in stepped a young man in oil-stained overalls, holding Jake's rented helmet.
"Bike's back at the shop," the mechanic announced. "Was a flat alright. You did the right thing walking."
"Thanks," Jake said, standing.
"Don't thank me-thank the girl who told me you'd probably be stranded."
All eyes turned to Ivory, who just sipped her coffee with a smug smile.
-
After breakfast, she leaned against the doorway, arms folded. "You up for a ride today?"
Jake raised a brow. "On what?"
"My other baby," she said, eyes gleaming. "Harley Davidson. I've been saving it for something... or someone. Yesterday's ride got rained out. We can fix that."
He looked out the window. Clear skies. Crisp cold. Just enough sun to make the mountain peaks glow.
He followed her gaze to the window-clear skies this time. The cold clung to the glass, but the sun spilled over the mountain peaks, painting them gold.
Without another word, she tossed him the keys.
He caught them mid-air, brows lifting in amused surprise. "You're serious."
Ivory slipped on her gloves with a practiced snap and jerked her chin toward the garage. "Come on, Jake. Don't make me ride alone."
Her hair was tied in two low pigtails that swung gently as she walked. He followed her through the side door, and with a flick of a switch, she lit up the garage.
It was massive-sleek, spotless, and humming with character. On one side: her car collection, polished and gleaming. His eyes widened when he spotted a familiar shape.
"No way..." he muttered, stepping forward.
There it was-a sleek, pearl-white luxury car, parked beside a row of other high-end machines. His eyes lingered on the details: the custom rims, the leather trim visible through the tinted glass, the subtle spoiler on the back.
"Same model I have," he said without thinking, the words slipping out low. "Mercedes Maybach Exelero."
Ivory turned to him, brows raised. "You have one?"
Jake froze for a second, then scratched the back of his neck. "Uh... yeah. Back home."
She tilted her head, curiosity flickering across her face. "That's not exactly a common ride. Where's 'home,' again?"
"Korea."
She folded her arms, lips quirking. "That's not your usual 'guy on a soul-searching escape' ride."
He shrugged, "Let's just say..." He gave a small, almost forced smile. "My work provides it."
She narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying the dodge. Her brow lifted slightly at the vague answer. His shoulders were a little too straight now, his expression just a bit too measured. That guarded smile again-like he was used to sidestepping questions. But she let it go, for now. Instead, she walked over to her Harley and grabbed her helmet.
"Come on, luxury boy. Let's see if you can actually ride, or if you just pose with expensive things for a living."
Jake exhaled quietly, grateful for the subject change.
That earned her a real smile-crooked, amused, and a little relieved.
She ran a hand over the seat of the Harley. "She's loud, fast, and a little stubborn in the cold. But once she gets going, she'll make you forget every damn thing."
Jake let the keys spin once on his finger before gripping them tight.
"You'll be eating my dust."
Ivory snorted. "Please. You don't even know how to turn her on."
"Who told you?" He asks, cockily starts the engine.
She looked at him sideways, biting back a grin. "Wow, cocky. I like those types."
The hum of engines echoed through the Icelandic countryside as the two bikes cut across the narrow mountain roads like synchronized shadows. The cold bit at Jake's cheeks, but the view? It was worth every second.
Snow had melted along the edges of the cliffs, revealing raw earth and tufts of moss. Jagged peaks pierced the sky in the distance, dramatic and untouched. The wind carried the scent of pine and salt, wild and clean.
Ivory was a blur of yellow ahead of him-her jacket fluttering, her laughter occasionally crackling through the comm device in their helmets.
"You're not bad for a city boy!" she teased.
Jake smirked behind the visor. "You're not bad for a wine heiress."
"I'll take that as a compliment." She slowed slightly, letting him pull beside her. "Race you to the clearing."
Before he could answer, she kicked into gear and shot ahead.
"Of course," he muttered, chasing after her.
-
They reached a flat plateau surrounded by pale rock formations and overlooking a frozen lake that glimmered in the morning light. The sky stretched endlessly-clear blue with thin clouds dragged like silk.
Ivory killed her engine first and jumped off, pulling off her helmet with flushed cheeks and wind-mussed hair.
"Not bad, huh?"
Jake parked beside her, chest rising with the rush of it all. "You weren't kidding."
She knelt by a flat rock and opened her saddle bag. Out came a folded blanket, a packed sandwich, and a sleek black tumbler.
"Ta-da. Cold weather survival kit."
He raised a brow. "Did you bring food just in case I cried from hunger?"
"I brought it because I'm not letting a ride end without a snack and some damn good coffee." She handed him half of the sandwich and poured steaming coffee into the cup top.
He took a sip. Rich, dark, and slightly sweet. "This is really good, different from the one we had yesterday morning."
She smiled. "I personally grew that coffee bean near the vineyards."
Jake looked at her thoughtfully. "Maybe that's why it's got hit of sweetness in it, Does this have a name? You could call it... Wake Ivory."
She blinked, then laughed. "That's either genius or terrible."
"Exactly."
As she pulled out her phone, she nudged his arm. "C'mon. You're part of this memory now."
They took a photo-her grinning wide, wind tossing her hair, and him with that half-smile he didn't know he had until the shutter clicked. She glanced at it once, then puts it on gallery for him to look at. She was distracted then with birds on top of her helmet that's resting on her bike.
"Jake! Jake! Snap a photo of me quick!" She says, as she posed near the helmet, all smiles, hand in okay sign. He took the picture in his phone.
Later, when she wasn't looking, Jake glanced at her phone resting beside the tumbler, snapped a quick photo of the screen with their picture, and tucked his own phone back into his jacket.
He didn't know why. Maybe it was the way she looked at the horizon like she owned it, or the way she sipped her coffee like it tasted like dreams.
But he knew one thing:
That moment? He wanted to keep it.
Even if she never knew.
********************************************
(FASTFORWARD SOME YEARS LATER INTO THE FUTURE)
Years later, in a military office deep in Seoul, Sergeant Jeon Jungkook would pause mid-salute when he spotted a familiar name on the high-ranking officer's desk.
A sleek, matte-black box of coffee beans.
JaKed Up.
He would stare at it in stunned silence, lips parting in disbelief, until the officer laughed.
"Ah, this? My wife's obsessed with it. Hard to get-comes from some Icelandic vineyard heiress turned coffee genius. Expensive as hell."
Jungkook would smile faintly.
And remember the cold, the leather, the laughter on the mountainside.