Silk Beneath The Apron

The visit to the orphanage was not Jungkook’s idea.

It was a PR schedule.

A line in his assistant’s tablet between a board meeting and a luxury brand endorsement.

“Thirty minutes,” he had said, adjusting the cuff of his perfectly tailored charcoal suit. “In and out.”

He stepped out of the black car with practiced indifference. Security fanned out subtly. Cameras from the local press waited at the gate. The banner read Welcome Bangtan Group in faded paint that had clearly seen many monsoons.

Jungkook did not look at the banner.

He looked at his watch.

Inside, the air smelled like detergent, boiled rice, and something sweet he couldn’t place. Children ran past him in mismatched slippers, laughter echoing against old walls painted with handprints and cartoon suns.

A little boy crashed into him.

Hard.

Something cold and sticky splashed across Jungkook’s chest.

Silence.

The boy froze.

Jungkook looked down slowly.

Purple grape juice bled through the front of his thousand-dollar suit like a crime scene.

His jaw clenched.

The coordinator gasped. “I am so, so sorry, sir-”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose. “It’s fine.”

It was not fine.

The stickiness seeped through to his shirt. The smell clung. The fabric was ruined.

His driver rushed forward. “Sir, I’ll get a change of clothes. There’s a mart down the street.”

Jungkook nodded stiffly. “Go.”

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

And then, for the first time in years, Jungkook was left alone.

No staff. No managers. No brothers. No cameras.

Just him. Sticky. Irritated. Standing in the middle of an orphanage hallway while children peeked at him like he was an exhibit.

He took off his blazer.

Then his tie.

Then he rolled his sleeves up, annoyed, uncomfortable, out of place.

That’s when he heard her voice.

“Hey!”

He turned.

She was walking toward him with quick steps, hair tied in a messy ponytail, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind her ear. There was flour on her cheek. Her expression was focused, slightly annoyed, completely unaware.

She stopped in front of him and looked him up and down.

Not impressed.

“Volunteer?” she asked.

Jungkook blinked. “I-”

“Good. You’re late.”

He stared.

She grabbed his wrist.

Actually grabbed him.

And pulled.

“Come on. Kitchen. We’re short-handed.”

Jungkook didn’t move at first.

Nobody touched him like that.

Nobody dragged him anywhere.

He opened his mouth to correct her.

But then he noticed something.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t polite.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

She didn’t know who he was.

And before he could process why that felt... strangely freeing-

He was inside the kitchen.

The place was chaos. Huge pots boiling. Kids running in and out. Vegetables piled on counters. Steam everywhere.

She shoved an apron into his hands.

“Wear this.”

“I don’t-”

“Wear. This.”

He wore it.

She pointed to a sack of potatoes. “Wash these.”

Jungkook looked at the potatoes.

Then at her.

“Excuse me?”

She was already moving away. “Don’t just stand there, Potato Boy!”

Potato Boy.

Jungkook stared at the sack like it had personally insulted him.

He, the youngest billionaire of Bangtan Group, was being ordered to wash potatoes by a girl with flour on her face who didn’t know his name.

He should have walked out.

He should have corrected her.

He should have said something.

Instead-

He picked up a potato.

And walked to the sink.

The water was cold. The potato was muddy. His hands, used to pens and phones and steering wheels of luxury cars, were now scrubbing dirt.

A little girl came and stood beside him.

“You’re new,” she said.

Jungkook nodded slowly. “I think so.”

She giggled. “Noona is scary, right?”

He glanced toward the girl who was now lifting a giant pot with surprising strength.

“...Yes.”

The child nodded seriously. “But she gives extra dessert if she likes you.”

Jungkook looked back at the potato in his hand.

For some reason, he wanted that dessert.

A voice suddenly rang behind him.

“Hey! Potato Boy!”

He turned.

She walked up, frowned at the half-washed pile, and put her hands on her hips.

“At this speed, lunch will become dinner.”

“I’ve never washed potatoes before,” he said before he could stop himself.

She blinked. “What?”

“I mean-like this.”

She stared at him like he had just confessed to not knowing how to breathe.

“You’re telling me you’ve lived your whole life and never washed a potato?”

“...Yes.”

She sighed dramatically, stepped beside him, and took one from his hand.

“Look. Like this. Rub properly. Dirt doesn’t leave with prayers.”

He watched her hands.

Quick. Efficient. Confident.

She handed it back to him. “Do it.”

He did.

She nodded once. “Good. Continue.”

And walked away.

Jungkook found himself smiling.

Actually smiling.

At a potato.

Minutes later, she returned again.

This time she handed him a knife and carrots.

“Cut.”

He froze. “I don’t know how.”

She closed her eyes for a second like she was asking the universe for patience.

“Hold it like this. Fingers back. Don’t chop your hand off. We can’t afford hospital bills for volunteers.”

Volunteers.

Right.

He copied her carefully.

The first slice was crooked.

She stared.

He stared back.

She sighed. “You’re hopeless.”

But there was no malice in it.

Just tired amusement.

And for reasons Jungkook didn’t understand yet-

He wanted her to keep talking to him like this.

Not “Sir.”

Not “Mr. Jeon.”

Just...

Potato Boy.

From outside, kids’ laughter echoed into the kitchen.

Steam fogged the windows.

And Jungkook, in a cheap mart T-shirt, wearing an apron, hands wet and clumsy, realized something strange.

This was the first place in a long time where he didn’t feel like he had to be anyone.

He was just a boy.

Washing potatoes.

Trying to cut carrots straight.

While a girl with flour on her cheek bossed him around like he belonged here.

And when she passed him again, she said without looking at him-

“Good job, Apron Boy.”

Jungkook didn’t know why his chest felt warm.

But he knew one thing for certain.

He did not want his driver to come back too soon.