Italy – September
It was late afternoon when the private car rolled to a stop in front of the estate. A warm golden hue bathed the hills of Tuscany, the air laced with the scent of ripening grapes and rosemary. Jake tugged at his sweater nervously, then glanced sideways at Ivory.
"You sure this is a good idea for a birthday?" he muttered.
"You're meeting my parents, Jake. It's a rite of passage," Ivory teased, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Besides, we flew across continents and cleared your schedule. I think that already scores points."
Jake exhaled. "Points I hope I don't blow in the first ten minutes."
The front door opened just as they reached the porch. Out stepped a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, piercing blue eyes, and shoulders that screamed former rugby player. He looked like he could carry a vineyard on each arm. Jake froze.
The man looked him up and down. Silent. Intense. Jake's hand twitched. Should he bow? Shake his hand? Run?
And then, the man suddenly laughed—a deep, hearty sound that echoed into the hills—and wrapped Jake into a bear hug that nearly lifted him off the ground.
"Welcome!" he boomed, releasing Jake only when his knees buckled.
Ivory burst out laughing. "Papa, stop intimidating my boyfriend! You don't know the state of his nerves the entire flight here. This man cleared a week off his touring schedule just for this!"
Jake stumbled a little as he adjusted his coat. "It's... nice to meet you, sir."
Before the man could reply, a soft voice called out from inside.
"Ivory? Is that you?"
A woman emerged next, graceful and petite, with delicate features that mirrored her daughter's—but she greeted Jake in Korean with a gentle Busan accent that caught Jake completely off guard.
Ivory blinked. "Wait. You're from Busan, too?!"
Her mother gave her a look, one perfectly tailored for lifelong disappointment, and lightly smacked her arm.
"Yah! Of course I am. Busan born and raised."
"You never told me!" Ivory protested, laughing as she rubbed her shoulder.
"You chose to run off to Iceland instead of asking me," her mother retorted, shaking her head. "That's why you don't know anything."
Jake grinned, watching the exchange like it was his favorite family drama. Ivory caught his eye and mouthed, See? I get it from her.
By the end of the evening, the tension had melted completely. Jake had helped her dad set the table, managed not to drop the wine glasses, and even complimented her mother's caprese salad in near-perfect Italian. They shared stories over red wine, laughter bouncing across the long, rustic table.
At some point, her father leaned back, smiling. "We like him," he said simply. "Too clean-cut to be in trouble. But clearly wild enough to follow our daughter across the globe."
Jake flushed but beamed. Ivory reached under the table to squeeze his hand.
Just as appetizers was done, there was a knock at the door.
"You didn't..." Ivory said suspiciously.
"I did," her mom replied smugly.
Her younger brother walked in, tall and lean, with windswept hair and a mischievous smile. In his hand was a copy of JungKook's GOLDEN album—shirtless cover in full glory.
He walked straight up to Jake and held it out, a black marker in his other hand.
"Please sign this. I'm your biggest fan."
Ivory choked on her wine. Her father thumped her back, laughing so hard he nearly spilled the bottle.
Jake stared, stunned, before cracking up. "I thought I was here for approval, not autographs."
"You are," her brother said casually. "But I'm multitasking."
The long wooden table was set under hanging vines on the stone terrace, with the dusky Italian sky glowing soft pink in the background. The scent of roasted garlic, herbs, and caramelized tomatoes wafted from the kitchen. Ivory's mother moved between the stove and the counter with practiced ease, murmuring directions in half-Korean, half-Italian as she stirred something delicious.
Jake sat at the far end, still taking it all in—the vineyard stretching in the distance, the sound of cicadas, and the warmth of domesticity that felt like a dream.
Ivory slid into the seat beside him with a satisfied grin. "Told you you'd survive."
He leaned closer. "Barely. Your dad nearly cracked my ribs."
At that, the man in question appeared, proudly carrying a decanter of deep amber liquid. "Special batch. Aged twelve years. Distilled by yours truly." He winked as he poured a finger of scotch into Jake's glass. "One sip and you'll speak Italian like a local."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "Or pass out."
"Same thing," Ivory's brother muttered, not looking up from his laptop as he answered a business call with one earbud in and fingers flying across the keyboard.
Their mother frowned, marched over, and promptly swatted the back of his head.
"Put it away, Marco! We are celebrating!"
"Ow—Mamma! I'm closing a deal!"
"You're closing your laptop in five seconds or I'm throwing it in the sauce."
Jake chuckled as Marco groaned and obeyed, sliding his laptop under the table while mouthing something in Italian that got him another flick of the dishtowel.
Ivory leaned into Jake and whispered with a smirk, "Now you know where my attitude comes from. Dad's the comedic chaos. Mom's the sarcastic fire."
Jake's eyes twinkled as he looked around. "It's like meeting four versions of you."
"That's terrifying."
He laughed, heart finally settling into the rhythm of the moment.
The long wooden table groaned under the weight of roasted herbed chicken, truffle risotto, bowls of fresh caprese salad, and baskets of focaccia still warm from the oven. Laughter and the clink of glasses filled the air as everyone settled into their seats, napkins flying, Marco stealing a breadstick before the official start.
Before the first toast could even be raised, Jake was already quietly plucking the sprigs of rosemary and the stray black olives off Ivory's plate—knowing she didn't like them. Without a word, he also leaned over, picking a few ice cubes out of her glass of wine, just the way she liked it—plain chilled as she believed that melted ice would saturate the flavor.
Ivory rolled her eyes playfully but her smile was pure, helpless adoration.
From across the table, Ivory's mother nudged her husband gently, nodding toward them.
"To be loved," she murmured under her breath in Italian, just loud enough for him to hear, "is to be seen."
Her husband, glass raised halfway to his mouth, paused. His gaze softened.
He smiled the smile of a man who knew—who had lived through those small, mighty acts—and then said, voice rough with old memories, "È vero. That's how it started with us too."
The moment hung there, golden and tender, before Marco broke it by groaning dramatically about starving to death.
Everyone laughed—and the feast began.
After the feast, Ivory emerged from the kitchen carrying a cake—soft, layered sponge with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, delicately piped and dusted with powdered sugar.
"Family recipe," she announced proudly. "My first time making it alone. For someone worth it."
Jake's eyes softened. "Ivory..."
"I baked that literally with my sweat and tears, amore." Ivory says, winking at her mom, while she replied with a smirk.
Her dad lit the candles with a flourish and everyone gathered around.
"Make a wish, Golden Boy," Marco called out.
Jake closed his eyes. For a second, everything fell quiet—except for the breeze, the warmth in his chest, and the soft squeeze of Ivory's hand in his. Then he opened his eyes and smiled.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, voice just a little thick with emotion. "For making this... the best birthday I've ever had."
He blew out the candles. The family cheered.
And for the first time in a long time, JungKook—Jake—felt like he wasn't just a man with a stage name and a past. He was a man with a future.
Later that night, the stars were out in full bloom, scattered like silver dust across the dark Tuscan sky. The terrace lights were dimmed, the plates cleared, and laughter still echoed faintly from the kitchen where Ivory, her mother, and Marco were engaged in an enthusiastic debate about whether strawberry cake should have more cream or more sponge.
Jake was on the porch steps, sipping slowly from a second pour of scotch, when he heard the heavy creak of the chair beside him.
Ivory's dad dropped down with a grunt, holding his own glass, and offered Jake a sly look. "You held your liquor well. I expected you to pass out after two sips."
Jake smirked. "Still working on the Italian, though."
"That'll take more than scotch."
They both chuckled, and as Jake stood to stretch the older man's gaze caught briefly on Jake's forearm where the sleeve of his shirt had ridden up, exposing a scatter of delicate tattoos.
Jake noticed.
He paused — body instinctively tense — half-expecting judgment, or maybe a polite glance away.
Instead, Ivory's father stepped closer, squinting at the designs. He tilted his head thoughtfully, then pointed at the small, intricate lettering near Jake's wrist.
"This one. What's it say?"
Jake hesitated for just a moment before answering. "It's in Korean. It says beginning."
The older man hummed, nodding like he understood more than Jake expected.
"Good word," he said. "Especially for a man in love."
Jake felt something unspool in his chest, relief and emotion tangling together. He gave a sheepish smile. "I thought... maybe it'd bother you."
"Bah." Her father waved a hand dismissively. "If a little ink was all it took to scare me, I wouldn't have survived raising her."
He jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen where Ivory's laughter rang out.
Jake laughed, the tension easing.
"You know," her father added slyly, turning back toward the stars, "I always said I'd get one myself, one day. Maybe when the kitchen is finally paid off and your girlfriend stops trying to burn the vineyard down with her espresso experiments."
Jake snorted. "I'll hold you to that."
The older man grinned, clinking his glass against Jake's.
"Deal."
They both laughed, a comfortable silence slipping in for a moment before her father turned his head, gaze a little sharper now.
"I have to ask," he said, tone low and even, "how serious are you about my daughter?"
Jake didn't answer immediately. The weight of the question settled like stone in his chest. He looked down at his drink, swirled it once, then lifted his eyes to meet the man's.
"I wasn't in a good place when I met her," he admitted quietly. "I had escaped to Iceland thinking I could disappear. I was drowning in... myself. But then she came along—with her pasta, her sarcasm, and the way she said things without sugarcoating them. She didn't know who I was. And even if she did... I don't think she would've cared."
He paused, taking a breath.
"She held me together without even trying. And now... yeah, I'm a global superstar or whatever the world wants to call me. But the truth is, if she ever told me to give it all up—I'd do it. In a heartbeat. For her."
The older man was quiet for a beat. Then, slowly, he chuckled. "That's not how I raised my daughter, you know. To have someone drop everything for her."
Jake blinked. "It's not?"
"No," he said, smiling now, "I raised her to stand beside someone who wouldn't have to drop anything, because they'd lift each other up instead."
Jake exhaled. A small, almost nervous laugh escaped him.
"But," her father added, eyes turning to the kitchen window where Ivory was now tossing whipped cream onto Marco's nose while their mother scolded them in Korean, "it's good to know you'd do it. That kind of love... it matters."
Jake followed his gaze, warmth swelling in his chest.
"My wife's family didn't approve of me at first," her dad continued, voice softening. "Thought I was too loud. Too foreign. She turned her back on them for a long time. And I'll never forget what she sacrificed. But we're not doing that to our children. Not for Ivory."
He looked back at Jake. "So, if you love her... that's enough for me."
Jake swallowed hard. A breathy "thank you" left him, thick with emotion.
"Good," her father grinned, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder with enough force to make Jake cough.
Then he stood and called toward the kitchen, "Eh, amore! I think your daughter's trying to kill your son with cream!"
"Ivory!" came her mother's yell. "Che casino! You clean that up!"
Jake chuckled as he stood, warmth now coursing fully through his veins—not from the scotch, but from the way he finally felt like he belonged.
As the kitchen chaos spilled out onto the terrace with giggles and scoldings in three languages, Ivory's dad stretched, let out a satisfied sigh, and turned back to Jake with a final pat on the back.
"One more thing," he said casually, his tone far too light to be innocent. "You're not sleeping with my daughter tonight."
Jake blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Guest room's already made up. Nice view. Decent pillows. You'll live."
"But it's my birthday," Jake half-laughed, half-whined.
Her dad raised a brow. "Exactly. A birthday doesn't erase a father's instincts."
Ivory popped her head out the doorway, her cheek dapped in cream, hair in tangles. "Dad, seriously?"
He pointed a finger at her. "You can share a life, share pasta, share sarcasm—but tonight? Share the hallway."
Jake groaned as Ivory tried to stifle her laugh. "You're enjoying this."
"Oh, immensely."
"Goodnight, Golden Boy," her dad called, already walking inside.
Jake looked at Ivory, then proceeded to wipe off the cream with the ends of his sleeves. "He's kidding... right?"
She just smirked, kissed his cheek, and whispered, "Happy birthday, hallway prince."