𝕞𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

The sound of a rolling pin against the chopping board is gentler than that of a knife, the knocking less distinct, slightly less uniform. Even if it weren't for the steady beat, watching his mother's hands move back and forth, sometimes so fast that it's almost a blur, it lulls Jungkook into a sense of ease. A contentment of being. Occasionally, there's a pause as she reaches out for another handful of flour, sprinkling it across the bamboo. It's reminiscent of snow, Jungkook thinks, with the way it scatters and blankets the surface so gently.

He wonders whether or not they'll have snowfall for Christmas this year. It's never very likely, but perhaps he's been more hopeful than usual as of late.

"Jeon Jungkook," the gentle chide comes, one hand now removed from the rolling pin and waving in front of his line of sight. Jungkook glances up from where his chin's been resting against his palm, smiling as he meets his mother's gaze. "Didn't I say that if you wanted mandu for dinner, that you'd have to help your old mother in the kitchen? The filling won't taste as good if you don't keep stirring it."

His exhale comes on the edge of a laugh, and Jungkook straightens up immediately, taking the metal bowl and chopsticks in hand. Already, the air is permeated with a gentle spiciness, thinly chopped green onions and ginger punctuating the pink of the pork. Jungkook bites at his lower lip, forgoing proper form and holding both of his chopsticks against his palm, stirring vigorously with the clumsy clang of wood against metal.

As expected, his mother laughs. Sighs and shakes her head. "Really, this son of mine..."

For a while, there's little beyond the slightly mismatched beats of pin to board, sticks to bowl, interrupted at intervals by his mother's soft humming. Jungkook considers putting on the music sometimes, but finds that his mother's voice is what he loves most, especially when he doesn't draw her attention to it. A gentle quality that he'd never be able to capture in recording.

"Mom, I wanted to ask you," he murmurs, his arms slowly coming to a pause.

"Mmm?"

The words trip on his tongue. Jungkook's gaze lingers on the small little discs of dough his mother rolls out, each slightly imperfect, the edges curling like the petals of a flower. The longer he hesitates, the more his mother's gaze starts to flicker upwards, a touch of concern as she gazes upon her son.

"Jungkook-ah," she says, lifting a brow. "What is it?"

The silence in the air is deafening. Jungkook feels the pulse in his ears, the flush rising to his cheeks.

He's never considered confiding this — anything else, but not this — to his mother before. Love has always been a sacred pact within their family; every year, they visit his father's grave without fail. Every year, they take family photos. Every year, his mother stands watch for hours as she perfects the seaweed soup to be placed in front of his stepfather on his birthday, smiles as she watches him drink it from the side.

Whenever he crossed that line, Jungkook knew, there would be no stepping back. It formed the foundation upon which everything else sat. He wasn't about to stake a claim in a place where things felt impossible. Unrequited love was a kind better washed away over time, until a better love could be found.

He wouldn't bother his mother with such things. But that was then, and this is now.

There's a small knot in his chest, one that aches at random intervals, whenever the thought crosses. There are so many scenes that he's played out in his mind, so many smiles he's conjured, the happy press of creased lips against his cheek and small hands, never quite warm enough, surrounding his own. A small palm raised up and pressed to Yoongi's cheek. A quick padding of socks against the floor, guiding him inside. These are the pictures Jungkook draws in his mind when everything goes well, and his mother is the person he believes her to be.

"How would you feel if I started dating someone?"

She blinks in surprise; it's an expression Jungkook recognizes from the mirror, the way her lips part and her brows raise. The rolling pin is gently set flush against the board, turning just a touch before it's stopped by the log of dough. It's her hands that Jungkook watches, not quite meeting his mother's gaze until suddenly, those small hands are pressed up against his cheeks. They slip a little, flour trapped between palm and cheekbone.

"Aigoo, Jungkook-ah," she murmurs.

Oh, and her smile.

"Nothing would make me happier than having you find someone you love. And someone who loves you just as much as I do," she grins, wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes, a couple of soft pats that kick flour into the air.

His face is probably streaked with it now, and Jungkook laughs at the thought — at the warmth in the room, which he swears is brighter than it was a second before. He licks at his lower lip, slowly picking up the chopsticks again, sweeping them between the sticky rounds of ground pork. It isn't long before the air is filled once more with sounds of the pin rolling back and forth, the pause before the sweep of a disc to the side.

"I guess this is why our Jungkookie's been out a lot lately," she chuckles, shaking her head as her gaze lingers about her hands, fingers pulling at the dough with every roll. "You'll have to bring her here sometime and introduce her to your mother."

The knot tightens.

Because there is one image that Jungkook's mind keeps on coming back to, one that he can't erase from his mind. In that image, there are no blows. No bruises. No quick slap of a palm to his cheek, no hands shaking as they grip his shoulders. Hate is not an emotion that Jungkook's mother has in her heart, and sometimes Jungkook wonders if it'd be easier, if disdain for some part of his person might make it simpler to carve out that distance from her after graduation. No, she's never angry.

It's shame that Jungkook fears.

He ducks his head, smile forced on his lips. From her peripheral vision, she probably won't notice.