The car hummed along the empty stretch of asphalt, the kind of road that rarely saw traffic even during daylight hours. Jungkook slouched in the passenger seat, his head tilted against the window, dark lashes resting against flushed cheeks. At nineteen, he still carried a softness to his frame, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Beneath his loose shirt, small breasts pressed against the fabric, and between his thighs, hidden beneath denim, rested the sensitive clit that marked him as different.

The driver, a broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties, kept one hand steady on the wheel. His eyes flicked sideways, lingering on the way Jungkook's thighs parted slightly in sleep. The silence outside pressed in, broken only by the low growl of the engine. After a moment, the driver’s free hand drifted across the console and settled on Jungkook's thigh. The touch was light at first, testing. When Jungkook didn’t stir, the hand slid higher, fingers brushing the seam of his jeans.