#drabble 3

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The North Pier, Lancashire, 1895

“It is impossible to understate the importance of this promenade, my Lord,” Sebastian explained, matching Ciel’s walking pace to the centimeter as they walked down the cement, having exited the carriage a block away from the beachside pier’s entrance. Sebastian always remained in the same stride as Ciel, a fact that the Earl knew would only delight the demon if he commented on it.

Ciel had no desire to feed the ego of his condescending demon for a butler. Sebastian already gloated endlessly about his upholding of a certain ‘Butler Aesthetic’ that he’d created for himself the first night of his employment.

“You should tell her that her family always hosts the most inspired events, such as this—and you should be sure to show gratitude for her time. Dozens of men not unlike you would do anything for this opportunity,” Sebastian added, emphasizing his words purposefully when he caught on to Ciel’s lack of focus. His butler was correct: a promenade with Lady Y/n at one of TransAtlantica’s seasonal galas for its shareholders, business executives, family ties, and anyone from the business world who mattered. Every year, the shipping company rents out the entirety of the three piers, leaving its multitude of small shops and taverns open for the casual party.

TransAtlantica always picked a weekend that sat towards the end of the spring, the weather a weekend or two away from scorching the Earth. The decision always ensured the best weather—clearer skies, a light breeze, docile sun and seawaves.

Until this year, Ciel would send his regrets, in the same fashion as he would for the company’s fundraisers at the Langham Hotel each season. This event was too crucial to skip, especially after securing himself a promenade. A lot of Britain’s polite society—not just those typical of London’s social hemisphere—would be present. There were no dance cards restricting Ciel’s time with the heiress, and that meant he needed to be especially strategic with the time he managed to have in front of the Y/l/n family.

“I know,” Ciel grumbled. “The color of her gown brings out the…shine in her eyes, or something like that,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes to further his point. Another quick look around them assured him that there were no guests leaving their carriages blocks away from the entrance.

“And that cavalier attitude was what ultimately led her to all except rebuke you, sir,” Sebastian scolded, eyebrows drawing together in a brief show of frustration. “Make her feel as if she is the most important person to you—the deciding factor in which you succeed or you fail. She is just that, after all.” He said purposefully, mahogany eyes interrogating Ciel’s expression. The Earl kept his gaze resolutely forward, watching guests meet the Y/l/n family at the pier’s entrance archway, alongside a handful of the company’s executive board members. “We will be within their natural sightline in about fifteen paces, sir.”

Y/n was dressed sensibly in a light gown, the bodice appearing to resemble a man’s sophisticated white vest, which cut into a feminine design with ruffled short sleeves and lace lining the square neckline. A lot of her clothing tended to include a hint of masculinity—an effort to be taken more seriously in these executive circles, Ciel guessed. Her long blue skirts matched the clear sky, the shade matching the accents in her mother and father’s attire for the afternoon.

The Richmond Earldom always appeared as a matching set, stressing the importance of Ciel’s own apparel during these events. Lord Richmond, Y/n’s father, was searching for an intelligent man who could manage his legacy just as perfectly as his company’s prosperity. All of these simpering suitors could never seem to comprehend that they were vying for more than just a young woman’s hand. They were romancing a company and ultimately, Y/n wasn’t marrying anyone without her father’s approval.

“Remember, my Lord, I can only tip things in your favor so much when it comes to matters of the heart,” the demon lowered his voice, now that they were within earshot of the family, among the last few straggling guests stepping onto the pier.

Ciel fought the strong urge to roll his eyes at his butler’s joke. Tipping things. How cheeky.

Lady Y/l/n, Y/n’s mother, noticed Ciel first. Quickly excusing herself from the conversation she was entertaining, she aimed her publicity smile at him— Y/n always seemed to default to the same empty look without failure.

“Lord Phantomhive! How lovely it is to see you here,” she greeted, accepting Ciel’s hand in a firm handshake. Lady Y/l/n’s short lace gloves matched her daughter’s. “We’re all so thankful that you could make it all this way.”

“The pleasure is completely mine. You’ve picked an auspicious day for this gala once again,” Ciel answered, pleased with Lady Y/l/n’s social intellect. By greeting him so brightly, she had also caught the attention of her husband and daughter, allowing them to respectfully finish their current engagements.

Y/N Y/L/N

You watched Ciel enchant your mother with an entirely faux smile, not unlike the one you kept stretched across your glossed lips. He always managed to look painfully smug, no matter how he tried to soften his expression.

“Lord Phantomhive,” your father greeted, taking the Earl’s hand. He gave it two shakes, never one to waste words. “I understand you will be promenading with my daughter today?”

You flushed, now the object of Lord Phantomhive’s stare. You could also feel the craning necks of others around you, arming themselves with gossip about you.

‘Lady Y/n is promenading for the first time this season, with Lord Phantomhive!’

‘Do you think they will get married?’

You could already see the headlines. There were already peering camera lenses around each corner, the only warning being their blinding flash.

“If she wills it, we shall. A good day, my Lady,” it was your turn to offer your hand to the Earl, but not in a shake. Instead, he took special care in accepting your gloved hand and equally raising your knuckles to his lips and bowing his head to avoid moving your arm too high. His lips hardly grazed your glove.

“To you too.” You dipped into the shallowest version of a curtsy you could manage without being impolite. You hadn’t quite made up your mind about the Lord of Phantomhive, finding him to be contradictory. Sincere enough one moment, crude the other. He reminded you of a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together to make the complete picture.

Thankfully, he didn’t waste time in releasing your hand.

Lord Phantomhive righted himself, clearly attempting to dissect your tight expression. You suspected that you could see through one another as plainly quite easily, no more transparent than glass. You felt a small lump form in the back of your throat, as you were unsure how to proceed.

Unfortunately, your mother could also read you like an open book. “You’ve greeted most everyone already, Y/n. You and Daphne should join Lord Phantomhive and his butler,” she prompted in a gesture that was both helpful— and embarrassing. Particularly in front of your father.

“Right,” you answered. At the sound of her name, your maid appeared. Daphne was always close enough to be a call away—except for when she wasn’t, you thought about your first run-in with the Lord Phantomhive. Was he truly charmed by you from that encounter? You had been, admittedly, short with him because of how nerve-racking the situation was. “We will walk the pier,” you said, forcing your shoulders to drop. High shoulders suggested tenseness, which then, in turn, implicated anxiety.

You couldn’t help but feel the Lord Phantomhive could sense weakness. That was how breakout corporations like Funtom were made, weren’t they? With leadership at the helm.

“Be safe, please,” your mother gave your hand a meaningful squeeze and joined the rest of the guests with your father. Your stomach sank as if they had left you flailing in the middle of the cool sea beneath the boardwalk.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“Did you hear about the ferris wheel they are constructing here? Apparently, it is set to open this July,” Ciel said, breaking the silence with one of the many anecdotes Sebastian armed him with. While the Earl preferred silence whenever possible, apparently long silences unnerved the social butterfly in Lady Y/n. Sebastian had instructed him to keep a steady conversation flowing between them at all times—he’d hypothesized she would feel they were compatible intellectually, if he could manage.

“Oh, I certainly have,” the heiress answered brightly. “Isn’t it fascinating? My father and I visited Chicago’s Columbian Exposition about two years ago. The fuel source are steam boilers with underground main pipes that then funnel the steam into pistons that then power thousand-horsepower engines. It’s an enormous axel,” Y/n explained with an intriguing willingness and clarity.

She knew the intricacies of engineering? How curious of a young noblewoman.

“Did you manage a ride on it?” Ciel asked, not offering his arm to her. That would foil his plan, and he figured Lady Y/n wouldn’t appreciate it at this stage. She valued her independence—or the appearance of being self-sufficient, at least. Ciel had yet to make his final verdict of her disposition. After all, the rumors were that her father trained her with the same intensity he would have a first-born son.

“Heavens, yes.” Lady Y/n said, making a clear effort to look ahead as they walked and maintain casual eye contact with him. Their servants lurked behind them, Sebastian entertaining Daphne with some mindless chatter while picking her brain for more information about her mistress. “There was no chance I would miss that sort of opportunity, being up so high like that.”

“I couldn’t imagine it, myself,” Ciel answered. They spoke aimlessly, cycling through topics they had in common: they were each accomplished linguists, readers, instrumentalists. Y/n even claimed to be a worthy fencing opponent, of all things.

“You are half my height,” not even the Earl could fight the amused twist of his lips at the thought of Lady Y/n parrying his advance. The top of her head just barely reached his chin by a handful of centimeters. And that was in addition to her stately heels.

“But Lord Phantomhive, all warfare is based on deception,” Y/n answered, blinking at him guiltlessly.

“Are you quoting The Art of War?” Ciel asked, raising an eyebrow. That would insinuate Y/n was competent in Classical Chinese, since Sun Tzu’s piece hadn’t been widely translated into English yet. A language that Ciel had still been in the process of mastering with Sebastian. The demon claimed to have been ‘around’ when the military strategist created the ancient military treatise. Presently, he felt it had important lessons for Ciel to understand.

Apparently, Y/n’s father—or her tutor—were incredibly insightful to pick such an ancient text to add to her studies. That was quite an advanced piece of literature. Honestly.

”Yes,” Lady Y/n said, as if this was obvious. “Who better to reference?”

Of course she read it. And learned it well enough to have quotes on hand. She could probably recite it in its original language, Ciel guessed. That wasn’t an unattractive quality in a woman—in fact, he felt a dim respect for it.

“I also quite appreciate Machiavelli’s inspired piece, The Prince,” Ciel answered, finding himself confident that Lady Y/n might understand his reference.

Y/N Y/L/N

His remark made you smile.

Of course, you’d heard the rumors about Ciel Phantomhive, The Queen’s Guard Dog, King of the Underworld, Police of the Underworld. While most of the public could only speculate the sorts of private investigative work that Her Majesty requested of the Phantomhive family, plenty of rumors swirled in the absence of the truth.

You heard whispers of no one daring to cross the Earl, for fear of severe repercussions. Life-threatening ones. You heard of the uncertainties surrounding the fatal inferno that burned down the manor so long ago, killing his family. His miraculous reappearance two years later. Apparently, now the Earl Phantomhive was reportedly a hardened man, callous and willing to crush any opponent in his path.

“You find you relate with the Italian diplomat?” You asked, curious about Lord Phantomhive’s response. Did he read this body of work as a step-by-step to creating a tyrannical regime, or did he perceive it as a frank reading of politics and the nature of diplomacy? It had been so long since you had a proper discussion about such matters with someone besides your father, your tutors, or Daphne, and you were decently assured they were weary of your constant need for knowledge.

The Earl seemed to enjoy this type of logical sparring, embracing it, even. It left you…curious to have more. If not, interested.

Lord Phantomhive took a brief moment to reply, leaving you to appreciate the scenery around you. The sky was impressively clear, no hint of any clouds near the horizon. Seagulls wailed to one another, fluttering about the long piers and across the empty coastline. As warm as it was, the weather wasn’t quite hot enough for there to be beach galas.

The air smelled of salt, gusts of air determined to pull strands of your hair astray. They were certainly doing a number on the Earl’s raven hair, tousling it playfully. This whole promenade, you had walked away from the direction of the gala, and now, as you reached the end of the pier, the two of you turned around, starting back.

“I think there’s more nuance—” Ciel started, “are you alright?”

Before you could process your fall, you were face-first on the sandy boards. Your knee erupted in pain, your bare skin touching your dress. You must have ripped your stockings? How could you have tripped? You had only allowed your mind to wander for a second, and there had been nothing obstructing your path, either!

Not to mention, your balance was typically impeccable. You were no ballerina, but years of fencing helped you regulate your posture and weight distribution.

It was as if the wooden board had simply decided to loosen, give somewhat under your weight, and catch your heel between the planks in order to trip you! How peculiar.

“I’m…fine. I only scraped my leg, I think,” you said, more mortified than pained. Your face reddened as you accepted Lord Phantomhive’s helpful hand, dusting off the sandy front of your dress with the other. You forced yourself to give him a weak smile, looking back down at the flooring. The wooden panel seemed to be perfectly in place.

“I’m not sure what could have caused that,” you added awkwardly, releasing the nobleman’s hand.

You were thankful that no one else was present to witness such an unbecoming moment of yours. It was a contender for one of your worst moments with a suitor.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The panic in Lady Y/n’s face should have been enough to make Ciel regret his and Sebastian’s plan. However, he’d found it to be rather promising. If he could nail the proper response her ideal gentleman would give, Lady Y/n would feel vulnerable around him. That was key to making love inevitable. She might look to him for support going forward.

Of course she didn’t know what had caused her trip. Sebastian was fast enough to loosen the plank just enough for it to shift under her confident step and throw her off balance, only to re-tighten and return to Daphne’s side in milliseconds. Faster than a blink. That left Ciel to provide Lady Y/n with a helping hand, some validation…and apparently a young woman appreciated a man who could bandage her wounds.

“Oh dear,” Ciel said, his eyebrows drawing together in a construction of curiosity and concern. He ignored his own nagging thought that he sounded like his butler, swallowing down the embarrassment. He could feel Sebastian surveying his performance, having coached Ciel on this part of the interaction. “I wouldn’t wish for it to continue bleeding, you did scrape it,” he said carefully.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I have a handkerchief.” He gestured to one of the pier’s benches with his chin.

“It truly doesn’t hurt,” Y/n attempted to deflect, still staring at the plank curiously. Of course, she was smart enough to know that there had been something amiss, but of course, smart enough to never consider the supernatural.

Judging from the way her fist squeezed at her side, the superficial wound stung more than she wanted to admit. There was likely sand around the injury or near it, only an added irritant.

Ciel merely met her eyes, asking her if she truly intended to push ahead in mild discomfort. Y/n surrendered begrudgingly mumbling a mildly unladylike, “Oh, alright.” Not always so untroubled as she seemed, was that it?

“You’re not in any other pain?” Ciel asked, kneeling to get a closer look at Y/n’s scrape. Daphne, unconicidentally, didn’t have any medical supplies with her. Sebastian had conveniently hid them from the maid to afford Ciel the right to tend to his intended.

“No,” she confirmed, cringing at the light pressure Ciel applied to stop the bleeding and clean the debris. “Honestly, the plank had a mind of its own, it feels like,” she mused, her tilted head racing for some logical explanation. There was none.

“And you are positive you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” Ciel asked her, appreciating the ghost of a laugh that escaped her lips. That was the right thing to say, he could tell.

This battle of love was only growing easier. The Earl was growing confident, fashioning his dialogue to that of a novel protagonist’s. Bland and kind, slightly humorous.

“Positive. Unless I hit my psychotic break last week in agreeing to have you join me for a promenade,” Lady Y/n said, standing once Ciel tied the handkerchief around her leg tightly, stopping any more bleeding. “In which case, we might need some more urgent care.”

“Would it take another such reckoning for you to agree to meet me again?” Ciel asked, adding a new flair of seriousness to his voice as he righted himself in front of Lady Y/n. He took a quick moment to dust the fronts of his trousers free of sand before refocusing on Y/n, urging her for the answer he craved. The key to becoming an official suitor of hers.

One outing was a trial. Two was one step closer to serious consideration.

“No, it would not,” the begrudging grin at the heiress’ lips told Ciel that he’d offered her a masterclass in lying and deception. “Perhaps, the 1895 Grand National next weekend. My family loves to attend.”

Y/n Y/l/n was already inviting Ciel to the 57th renewal of the Grand National horse racing event? Perhaps, this endeavor was going to be easier than Ciel originally thought….

Sam was sitting at the dining table with Sarah, Cass, AJ, and Bucky, as they did most nights when Sam was home now. He wanted this. He wanted every single moment he could have with his family. He wanted it now more than ever, now that he was older.

When he was younger, he fled from this. He felt as if he needed to spread his wings to be free. He wanted to see the world.

Even when he had the opportunity to move back home, he stubbornly chose not to. Because that was what a success story was supposed to look like, wasn't it? Getting out of your hometown and making a name for yourself?

Sam did make a name for himself. Sam wouldn't change that for the world. He was proud of what he had done as the Falcon, what he was doing as Captain America.

He did regret the space he had made with his family, though. That he hadn't been there for Titi's death, for his father's death, and even though it wasn't his fault that he wasn't there, he hated that he wasn't there for Sarah's husband's death either. He barely made time to talk on the phone to any of them before and it hurt knowing that he hadn't.

He regretted not being there for Cass and AJ's births, for their childhoods. AJ and Cass were so young still, but there was so much that he had missed in their lives.

Sam regretted how many years he wasn't there for Sarah. Sarah, who had to keep their family business afloat. Sarah, who had to deal with funeral arrangements on her own since Sam was on the run at that point. Sarah, who took the time to call Sam about trying to sell the boat even before the Blip.

But now, Sam was there. With his family. And he would take any moment he could with them. He was going to be as present in Sarah, Cass, and AJ's lives as he physically could with his schedule as Captain America. He was making the time to be with his family.

And that, oddly enough, included Bucky now.

He wasn't quite sure when his family started to include the White Wolf himself, but there was a baffling part of his heart carved out for this ridiculous man who accused Sam of not being able to share. Who liked to list off shady hypotheticals that definitely happened. Who thought Marvin Gaye was just fine.

Who thought Marvin Gaye was just fine?

Sam swore his tastes for men worsened by the year. What was he doing with this dinosaur in a buff man's body? Not that they had that sort of relationship. Not that they were exactly friends either.

Sam wasn't sure what to call what this was.

The intense stares. The way Sam couldn't help but laugh at Bucky's jokes, no matter how bad or corny. The way Bucky gave him little half massages after a stressful day as Cap. How they tangled up together on couches, on beds, just two friends who seemed to have zero understanding of personal space.

Did Sam mention that they slept in the same bed? Not in the biblical sense, no, just. Literally. Slept in the same bed together. Curled up into one another as they found some of the best sleep either had had in years together.

They hadn't kissed. Hadn't done anything. But all of this felt so much more intimate. As if Bucky Barnes was sewing himself into the fabric of Sam's life inextricably. Sam couldn't even imagine coming back from a mission and not finding Bucky playing a videogame with the boys or discussing a novel with Sarah.

Bucky Barnes was somehow part of Sam now. In a way no one besides Riley had become. And it was scary. But it was also... good. It was a net good.

And as Sam completely gave up on keeping up with any conversation at the dinner table, he found his pinky curling around Bucky's. Sam tried to stop himself from smiling as he felt Bucky's finger curl around his. Felt Bucky's hand shift and begin to interlace all their fingers together.

Sam was... holding Bucky's hand.

Under the table.

Like they were two teens trying to be clandestine.

Something about it was both so utterly ridiculous and so absolutely charming that he didn't know what to do with himself. He felt overwhelmed when Bucky adorably began swinging their hands.

How was Sam so overcome by handholding?

"Are you two holding hands under the table?" asked Sarah and, god, the way she was smirking at Sam, as if she just knew Sam was falling for this very strange dork.

Bucky refused to wake up before noon if it wasn't to help Sarah on the boat or drop the boys off at school. Bucky once said one of his favorite memories as a teen was "walking twenty blocks to watch this fella sit on a pole - this really tall pole. I watched him for hours". Sam once followed Bucky to what looked to be a shady meeting location, only to find out that Bucky was getting radio shows on records from a guy he talked to in a discord. Sam once found Bucky eating a peanut butter stuffed onion as a snack.

Bucky was weird.

But Sam couldn't let go of Bucky's hand. He couldn't stop himself from smiling because he and Bucky were holding hands. Under the table. Like a couple of clandestine teenagers.

"So what if we are?" mumbled Sam, and it came out much more soft than Sam meant for it to.

That didn't matter, though. Not when Sam glanced over at Bucky and saw just how much of a blubbery mess he was because of Sam's words.

What a dork. How had Sam fallen for such an adorable dork?

*****

“Excuse me?” You raised an eyebrow, lifting your gaze away from the blurry passages about surgical procedures on muscle tissue.

“Look, I’m always in this room.”

“I don’t know what your problem is but, as far as I can see, there are five other chairs in the room.” You frowned right back.

“I don’t like studying with other people in the room.”

You’ve got to be shitting. You swallowed the spiteful words on the tip of your tongue and sighed, “Look, dude, I get your frustration but it’s pretty packed outside if you can’t see. Just share the room, it’s not that hard.”

His eyes narrowed, the corners of his lips tipping downwards even more, but he begrudgingly sat down, grumbling the entire time. Even through your earphones, you could hear him mutter over and over, “Out of all the rooms” or “why is she such a pain.”

What was he, five?

You opted to be the bigger person, ignoring his incessant mumbling and focused on your textbook instead. It was getting increasingly difficult to concentrate when he started to drum his fingers on the table, pencil then tapping repeatedly against the polished wood. You yanked out your earphones and glared at him, “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You.”

“Seriously, you’re such an ass. It’s a study room, I reserved it first. The fact that I’m willing to share it with you is already a generous enough gesture so why not show a little appreciation?”

His eyes narrowed. You had a gut feeling that he knew he was in the wrong this time, but was too prideful to admit. He looked like that kind of man. Prideful, that is. “It just really bugs me that you’ve never once stepped foot in this room and yet here you are now.”

“I usually come in during the day,” you shrugged. You were far from a night owl, choosing sleep over anything else. “I had work so now I have to do all my studying at night, so please for the sake of my sanity, leave me be.”

The man looked as if he wanted to say more, but he clamped his lips shut, plugged in his earphones, and drowned out the world.

ii.

Curse your group mates, just curse them all. If it weren’t for one of their mishaps, you could’ve finished that presentation hours ago, but no. One of them just had to fuck up and delete the entire first draft, which prompted all of you to redo all your parts.

Fuck.

And there you were, with the clock ticking tauntingly in the wall, your heart heavy and tired and close to tears, with no seat in the blasted library. The fight for a spot in the quietude of the building was always a battle, urging people to come earlier and earlier to save their seats for the night. You wandered around the floor, quietly padding down the carpeted floors, seeking an empty room or seat, which was basically impossible at that time of night.

However, you spotted the familiar man with the hair too bright for his dark bitterness. He sat in the room, headphones on and eyes focused on the screen in front of him.

No one else was in the room.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you figured that risking getting eaten alive by the man couldn’t be any worse than failing your last final of the semester. You took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the door, peeking your head in. He looked up from his work, eyebrow raised at you as he pulled his headphones off.

“Can I help you?”

There was a bite to his words that had your already weakened heart cowering. You winced and whispered, “Um, would you mind if we shared the room? I came a little late and now there’s no space outside and I really don’t mean to intrude but—”

“Go ahead. Just don’t bother me.” With that, he slipped his headphones on and ignored you the rest of the night.

iii.

There wasn’t a certain moment that you could distinguish from the rest in which an unsaid agreement settled between the two of you. The two of you never spoke to each other but you learned that his name was Yoongi (thanks to one of his friends bursting in and calling him a stick in the butt) and that he was taking a course on music production that was “driving his balls to the pits of hell” (his words to said friend).

With the remaining week dwindling down to the last few days of hell, you found yourself sitting in the same room in a sort of mutual, peaceful arrangement with the boy. The two of you acknowledged each other, but never once uttered a single word to the other.

The ruckus outside drew both your eyes towards the window where a few boys were actually playing a movie out loud. They probably had a death wish. Your glance flickered over to Yoongi, your lips pursed into a thin line and he just rolled his eyes at you, shaking his head.

After a little while, you stretched your arms above your head, your tense muscles slowly unwinding to the ache between your bones. It was probably a good time for a coffee break so you slipped quietly out of the room, entrusting the man to protect your belongings.

As you stood in front of the vending machine, you wondered if it would be awkward to get him a can as well. It wasn’t as if you two were friends but you had been grateful for his courtesy to share the room with you.

The man was still staring at his computer screen when you returned, his eyelids drooping to signal his strong desire to sleep. You drifted towards him silently, placing the can next to his laptop with a soft tap.

He looked up, brown irises lighting up in surprise.

“Thought you could use it,” you shrugged, drifting back into your seat and letting your soul once again escape your body so the shell of you could continue to work on your final paper.

Yoongi, for a little while, didn’t say anything, but then he reached for the can and popped it open, allowing the bittersweet liquid to flow down his throat. It was like an eye-opener, he felt the effect of the caffeine buzzing in his brain.

Unfortunately for you, coffee never really did have much of an effect. You felt yourself nodding off, mentally chiding yourself whenever you did. Yoongi’s chair scraped on the floor and you looked up to find him packing his things, shoving his laptop into his bag and putting it over his shoulder.

Before he passed you to walk out the door, he seemed to halt his steps. You turned only to find him shifting awkwardly next to you. “Uh,” he started, sticking out his hand. “I’m Yoongi. Just kinda weird that we’ve been sitting here together and not know each other.”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I’m ____. Nice to meet you.”

“And thanks,” he held up the empty can. “For the coffee. It helped for the last push.”

“No problem, I think we could’ve all used that.”

For a second, he seemed to hesitate, hovering in front of you and worrying his bottom lip. “Do you—I mean, would you like to go out for coffee sometime after finals? J-Just so I can make it up to you, uh, I don’t really like being indebted to people.”

In your drowsy state, you thought that it was a little endearing to see the boy with the permanent scowl look almost uncomfortable, nervous. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes looking everywhere but you as he awaited your answer.

“Ah,” he began again. “Of course, you don’t have to. I-I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, I just thought it’d be nice and I wanted to pay you back for the coffee.”

You tilted your head, a smile on the corner of your lips. “Did you want me to say yes or no?”

“W-What?” He sputtered, taken aback by your question.

“You don’t seem sure about asking me out for coffee, just wanted to make sure you’re not just feeling guilty about this and pressured into taking me out for a drink.”

His eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing like a fish before his brows puckered ever so slightly. “Uh, I mean, I think it’d be nice if you said yes.”

You remained quiet, unsure now of what to say.

“I just think you’re, um, sort of cute? And I mean, finals are coming to an end and we probably won’t see each other until after break or ever really, I don’t know. So I thought I’d take the opportunity to—”

“Yes.”

He blinked, lips parting. “Wait, so yes?”

“Yeah, why not? I think we could both use some downtime after finals.”

“Ah, yeah, that’ll be great.”

“Can I have your number then?” You took the initiative this time, picking up your phone from the table. “So we can set up a time and all.”

“Sounds perfect.” With that, you had saved Yoongi’s number into your phone, the reminder burning in the back of your mind that this was happening.

You didn’t notice it before, maybe because your sleep-heavy eyes were too busy stressing over your exams to actually pay attention to the light-haired boy, but Yoongi really was adorable in the softest kind of way. He had such delicate features in spite of the engraved frown on his face, his eyes curving when he smiled, and his teeth and gums showing the cutest of grins.

“I’ll see you around then. Good luck on your paper, work hard.” Yoongi looked as if he regretted his choice of words, probably scolding himself for being so stiff.

But you just nodded, “Thanks! Good luck on your last finals or papers.”

Then he walked out and you heard the sudden burst of cheers behind you. Turning around, you found a group of guys hugging and patting Yoongi on the back. One of them, the one that had popped in here before, was cackling loudly, shoving the shorter boy much harder than he should. “Way to go, hyung! You did it!”

“Fuck off, Hoseok.”

And in that moment, you found yourself smiling again.

iv.

Yoongi cursed his fucking studio class, holding him back until the early hours of the day—aka one fucking am because Namjoon had fucked up one of the tracks for the finals and they had spent the entire night cleaning up the sound and adding more backing vocals. Thank God for that brat Jeongguk and his soulful voice.

He glanced at his phone for the time to spit out even more profanities as he broke out into a run, heading straight for main campus again. When he passed by the window, he found you sitting there, sipping on a cup of coffee and flipping through a book.

Woe was he.

Sheepishly entering the café, he immediately bowed when he approached you. “I’m really, really sorry I’m late. Something happened to my final at the studio and I had to—”

You giggled, “Don’t worry about it. It’s been nice, the peace and quiet. Plus, finals really messed up my sleeping schedule so I’m not even tired.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, slipping into the seat across from you only to freeze up, realization dawning on him as he groaned.

“I was supposed to buy you coffee.”

You found too much amusement in his despair, patting his hand on the table. “Maybe we can arrange another coffee date then?”