The rain was a curtain of silver, a constant, soothing percussion against the vast glass panels of the villa. On any other morning, the sound would have lulled Jeon Jungkook into a deeper state of blissful slumber, especially with the weight of you, his wife, draped across his chest.

But this morning, the first morning on their own private island, the space beside him was cruelly empty and cold.

His eyes fluttered open, the luxurious linen tangling around his legs as he stretched a powerful arm across the mattress. Nothing. Just the faint, lingering scent of your shampoo on the pillow-coconut and vanilla, a scent that drove him absolutely crazy.

A low sound of dissatisfaction rumbled in his chest. He was disoriented for a moment, the sheer scale of the floor-to-ceiling windows reminding him of where he was : his island. Their island, for the next two weeks.

A pristine slice of paradise in the middle of the turquoise ocean, a place where they could be utterly, completely alone. No staff, no security, no interruptions. Just him, and you.

He swung his legs out of bed, the muscles in his back and thighs flexing with the fluid grace of a dancer and the power of an athlete. He was a canvas of art, ink swirling across his skin-a intricate sleeve on one arm, a bold piece on his chest, and a trail of designs that disappeared beneath his waistband.