#student bts

Chapter 3 - ‘Obstinate’

Waking up extra early on the only day that you have a late class is a torturous task. You force your eyes open, to the sound of waves crashes against the shore, a wind-chime ringing loudly from beneath your fluffy pillow, and get ready for work at the café.

After a lukewarm shower to wake yourself up, you pin your hair back in two braids, throwing on your brown work shirt beneath a soft sweater, protecting you from the chilly weather outside your apartment. Peeking a head into your housemate’s bedroom, you leave her with a kiss on her forehead, to which she whines and swats at you, weakly, before falling back into unconsciousness.

“Cutie,” you mumble, before closing her door and leaving, coffee in a large insulated tumbler and you rush down the street to the bus stop. You’d left some in the coffee machine for the rest of them to paw at once they dragged themselves out of bed, like usual.

“Morning, YN,” your manager sing-songs as you walk in, the bitter, crisp smell of coffee a welcoming and familiar scent that strangely calms your nerves. You don’t know why, but since your encounter with Hoseok, and by consequence, Taehyung and Jungkook, you’ve felt strangely out of sorts.

You know that you’re being silly, but when you’re walking home alone, you can’t help but glance over your shoulder, feeling eyes on you everywhere you go. Shrugging off your paranoia, you give her as bright a smile as you can afford considering the early hour, to which she returns, politely.

“Morning, Areum-ssi,” you reply, unravelling your scarf as you pass her by. “What time did you get in?”

“Not even an hour,” she replies, cheerily.

You quickly deposit your coat, gloves and scarves in the lockers in the back office, kicking into your work shoes that you kept there for safe keeping, and lock it up, before joining your manager on the shop floor, taking the dish rag from her. You say, fairly, “I’ll carry on with the set-up, you can go and organise the till and documents for the day.”

She gives you a thankful smile before doing just that. You sweep and mop the floors, set-up the coffee machines, make sure all the mugs and cups have been washed and stacked, and refill the plastic and paper cup pile so you don’t run out, working up quite the sweat while you do so. You’re just about to replenish the sugar packets when your manager comes out.

“I’ll open the doors for the morning shift,” she says, dangling the keys, playfully. “You get off at 12.”

You nod, thankful. “I appreciate you letting me swap at such short notice.”

“I understand, I get that it’s hard sometimes. I appreciate you coming in at all,” she says, pointedly.

“Is Byung-mi still not coming in on time?” You ask, with a knowing smile. The eighteen-year old had an issue with punctuality, much to your irritation.

“I might have to have another word with her about it,” she says, with a tightening of her lips. She isn’t comfortable with confronting staff. Considering her soft and gentle affect makes it hard to be assertive with employees and clients alike, you understand her plight.

As you’re wiping down the coffee pipes, you feel a presence behind you, and when you turn back to the till area, you find a sleepy-eyed student, rubbing at their eyes and yawning widely.

You greet them, with a sunny grin. “Morning! Anything I can help you with?”

Your shift goes by quickly, and half an hour before you’re supposed to clock out, you find yourself battling a long queue of people.

You’re tossing some straw wrappers in the trash, not looking at the customer, when you ask, “I’m sorry for your wait, what can I help you with?”

A soft voice, rough with a lack of sleep, and tinged with a drawl you find vaguely familiar, says, “Large black coffee, no sugar. One green tea, two pumpkin spiced lattes and a caffe mocha. One hot chocolate with extra cream.”

Another voice, higher in pitch and an infinitely livelier, tacks on, “Don’t forget the medium chai tea. He'll be murder to deal with if you forget it again."

You grab two cups and ask, “The names?”

You look at him through your lashes and are surprised by just how strikingly beautiful he is. Contrary to the slow way he talks, his appearance reminds you of that of a well-groomed cat. His eyes are sharp and are a rich brown colour, swirling like the black coffee sitting in the strainer behind you, and his lips are tinged with a blush rose pink, as he nibbles on his lower lip, absently.

The man by his side is taller, and prior to seeing him, you would have never used the word stunning to describe a man, but somehow, he embodies every inch of the typical idol look you’d lusted over in magazines with Young-mi. He’s the kind of handsome that doesn’t make sense belonging to a human being. You feel, with his plump lips, child-like wide eyes and a gently curved smile, he could ask anyone for anything and they’d give it to him without a second thought. His hair is dark, with a little forehead exposed and he’s eyeing you back, eyelids fluttering, seemingly intrigued.

“Just Yoongi is fine,” he says, brusquely, pulling you out of your reverie.

You jerk, in surprise, and scratch the name onto the cups and pass the order on to the boy manning the coffee machine. Finally, you find your voice, and stammer, “N-No problem, coming right up.”

The shorter of the two has pale skin, and his cheeks and ears pink due to the chill outside. His white blond hair is hidden under a black cap, left backwards on his head. He’s wearing a long-line coat, touching his knees. On his long but thin legs, he’s wearing dark jeans with holes at the knees, and on his feet, you can see comfy looking leather sneakers, with a thick white trim on the bottom and white laces.

The other is dressed formally, in a white button up shirt, tucked into some black fitted slacks and smart shoes, with a long-line camel coat over his shoulders and a briefcase in his hand. He looks every bit of the model you’re sure he is, and you notice that the women and men around you keep tossing him what they believe to be covert glances, instead of eating their breakfasts.

You would probably be doing the same thing, if you weren’t at work.

“How much is that going to be?” The paler one – Yoongi – prompts, quirking a straight brow slightly.

You realise you’ve just been staring at them vacantly, and you feel your ears burn in shame over being caught. Something about the blond strikes you as familiar, but you can’t put your finger on it.

With shaky hands, you tap out the order onto the till and say, “S-Sorry, uh, that’ll be 24 thousand won, please.”

He taps his card without sparing you another glance and shifts to the side, hoisting the backpack on his shoulder higher as he waits for his drinks. Unable to help yourself, you toss them covert glances every few seconds, taking in the blonde’s languid aura. You don’t know why he’s so familiar, but he is, and it’s going to bug you.

The taller one is just standing, with his hand in his pocket, scanning the confectioneries in the front glass case by the till, his eyes observing the treats with interest. You wouldn’t have thought someone so handsome and slender would ever touch goodies, but he seems to be a hairsbreadth away from buying the whole tray.

In the distance, you hear the dinging of the bell by the door, signalling the entry of another wave of customers, but you don’t pay it any mind, trying to focus on your task at hand.

A painfully familiar voice rings out, making your spine go ram-rod straight in surprise, “Jin-hyung, Yoongi-hyung! Did you get it?”

“Yes, Tae, I got your message and bought your stupid tea,” you overhear Yoongi say, his tone one-note, but you can hear the fondness as plain as day in his voice. “You could’ve just waited outside.”

“You did almost forget,” Jin tacks on, unhelpfully.

Taehyung throws his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders and pouts, deeply. “It's too cold outside, hyung!”

You continue to serve, ignoring them like the black plague, refusing to so much as glance in their direction, but that didn’t seem to save you.

“…YN?”

You feel your eyes close as you let out a frustrated puff of air, trying to maintain an air of professionalism. “Yes?”

“I didn’t know you worked here?” He says, leaning against the counter, blinking up at you with pretty dark brown eyes. He’s left the headband at home, you presume, because his shaggy hair is out free. He’s wearing a button up coat, grey in colour, and a cream scarf wrapped around his neck, with a portfolio case in his hand, a unique hand-drawn design scrawled across both sides, reminding you of the sky painted in Munch’s ‘The Scream’.

The lady that’s next in the queue doesn’t even seem to care about being held up, too enthralled by his handsomeness, staring unabashedly at the man, who doesn’t spare her a glance.

Yoongi’s seems intrigued as he asks, “Oh, this is the girl you and Hoseok were talking about?”

They discussed you?

Taehyung nods, excitedly, gesturing to you with a bright boxy smile. Yoongi eyes you, top-to-toe, before he makes a soft noise. A ‘hm’. What’s that supposed to mean?

You give the lady a quick, tight smile, before you say to Taehyung, giving him a pointed look, “I’ve got customers, so, I’m sorry, but can I carry on serving?”

“But then I won’t get to see your pretty face, will I?” He asks, playfully batting his eyelashes your way.

You popped a spot on your forehead this morning, so the red inflamed mark is clear to anyone who looks at you – too much stress, not enough sleep – and while that doesn’t make you less pretty, you’ve certainly had days where you felt more confident.

“I appreciate that, but I really, really have to keep working,” you say, giving him a hard look before turning your attention back to the woman in the queue. “How can I help you?”

She goes about ordering, but the tall handsome boy pouts at you, huffing purposefully, looking a picture of pathetic. He points a finger in your direction and says, “Jin-hyung, YNie doesn’t want to be nice to me.”

“I know, I know, kiddo,” Jin says, playfully, handing him one set of the cup holders. “Let’s get our drinks and leave YN to get her work done, alright?”

You think, there must be a God-

“She’s always going to be here, so we can always come back, can’t we?”

On second thought, there can’t be, because really, you’ve done nothing to warrant this kind of trouble in your life. Honest. You try and be a good person, but clearly, clearly, you’ve upset a powerful, celestial being in your past life.

“You’re right, hyung,” Taehyung says, grin returning as if it never left. “See ya later, YN! Have a good day!”

Jin tosses you a two-finger salute as he exits the shop and Yoongi leaves you with a parting look filled with an emotion that you can’t distinguish, and you feel unsteady on your feet as soon as they leave.

“How do you know those three sex-bombs?” Your colleague, Minhyuk, asks once you’ve grabbed your things and are getting ready to go to your one-pm creative writing class. He bumps his hip with yours and gives you a knowing look, to which your roll your eyes, so hard that you almost pass out.

“I don’t,” you tell him, but you can see he doesn’t believe you. “Honestly! I don’t!”

He scoffs. “Fine, be that way! But if I had hotties of that calibre interested in me, I certainly wouldn’t be able to keep it secret.”

“There is no secret!” You yell, but he’s already turned his back to you and has disappeared into the back, leaving you with your thoughts and a tingling feeling down your spine.

After you sign out, you leave, waving at your colleagues and some of the familiar customers that you recognise, and make the journey to your university – not a far walk from your workplace.

You have to rush into your class, taking the stairs quickly to find your usual spot, eyes glued to your phone screen the entire way.

“Is everyone seated? Good, good. Quiet down,” your professor says, adjusting her glasses on her nose. “Everyone, look at the rubric. The assessment of the year, a presentation after eight weeks of preparation with a partner, equally weighted. Transcript and visual aid is also essential. Partners have already been assigned, so after class, look at the list outside the lecture theatre.”

You tune out most of the lecture, instead making a light plan for the presentation, already having a few authors and novels in mind.

When you focus, you realise that the book that the professor is discussing has already been consumed by you prior to attending university, so it’s not difficult for you to refocus and make your notes. You praise the Google Gods for padding the gaps in your knowledge, and you spend the lecture bouncing between your assignments, making sparse notes and scanning Twitter whenever you find yourself zoning out.

Before long, you realise everyone is packing up to leave for their next class, and you scramble to do the same. Having long-drained your coffee and having replaced it with the rich expensive cocoa that you use at your job and having finished that too during the lecture, your bladder screams at you to empty it.

Avoiding the huddle outside of the lecture theatre, you sprint to the bathroom and do your business quickly. Once you finish, you wash your hands and return to the lecture theatre, to see who you’ve been paired with. You’re grateful that you’ve got such a relaxed personality, and for the most part, you get along with everyone – although you wouldn’t consider many of them your friends, and merely acquaintances.

Scanning the names quickly, you speedily find your own, and your knees almost buckle at the name that’s typed out beside your own.

Kim Taehyung.

You hadn’t noticed the brown-haired model in your class this afternoon, in fact, you hadn’t ever noticed him in your class at all, so to see his name next to yours – it’s inconceivable.

“Howdy, partner,” a voice murmurs from your side, and you jerk away to realise that the very man who plagues your thoughts is directly beside you. He gives you an exaggerated once over before he remarks, voice as soft and mellifluous as ever, like thick treacle running over a flat surface, “Oh, you finally noticed me, huh?”

Without his coat on, you only see the long lines of his body; long fingers, long legs, long arms that cross over his broad chest.

“You aren’t even in this class,” you tell him, certain.

He rolls his eyes, and even that action is pretty. You curse him in your head. “I sure am. You don’t pay attention to anybody behind you, do you? Too busy on social media, I guess.”

“That’s an invasion of privacy,” you gasp out.

He laughs, head thrown back in amusement, and it sounds like flowers blooming. That doesn’t even make sense, and yet, it - he - strikes you silent. “It’s not if I happened upon the information by accident. I sit directly behind you, and you’re short. It’s not my fault.” He holds his hands up, to assuage his culpability, and says, “Not that you can prove anyway.”

“Whatever,” you snap, spinning on your heels. “I don’t have time for this.”

“That’s okay. We have two whole months to get to know each other,” he says, pushing off the wall and falling in-step with you. “What class do you have next?”

Glancing at him, suspiciously, you query, “Why do you care?”

“I want to get to know you,” he admits, with a shrug. “Is that a crime?”

“I’ve never spoken to you in the whole time I’ve been at this university,” you tell him. “And now, after the incident with your idiot brother, all I’m seeing is your face. What a coincidence.”

His eyes get sharp when you mention Hoseok, but he doesn’t say anything. The smile doesn’t even leave his face, to the point where it becomes alarming.

“It’s not often that I find someone I think is interesting, so I can’t help but be drawn to you,” he replies, simply. You pause outside of your next anthropology class – history of female sexuality – and crane your neck to stare up at him, brow puckering. He’s too close to you, you can smell his expensive cologne and it makes your head spin. In a bold move, he ducks down a little, so you can count the lashes framing his expressive brown eyes. “Is that so bad?”

You feel yourself swallow, feeling pathetic and small for how quick your ire extinguishes into a shy flutter of butterflies in your tummy. Although he and his brothers set you on edge, something about their aura separates them from the rest of your peers, making them intrinsically special – and dangerous, a voice whispers in your mind. You would be a liar if you said that he wasn’t painfully handsome. And, handsome men had a direct line to your genitals, apparently.

“J-Just… Leave me alone,” you tell him, twisting out from under him and shouldering into your classroom.

He pokes his head in, watching you climb the stairs to the available seat, and he yells, “So, I’ll pick you up tonight, then, cutie?”

You freeze all over, feeling eyes glue to the back of your head. Stiffly, you toss a vitriolic glare his way, but the only response you get is a soft giggle and the lingering scent of Dior Homme on your clothes.

- end -

For the first time, you regret with your whole being never taking Taehyung up on his offers to come study at his apartment. You’d always been too hesitant, too wary, to be in his home, away from the safety of the prying eyes in the library and study hall. He’d always offered, and he seemed genuine enough, but still – you felt weary. If you had, maybe you’d have more information to use.

“I understand all of that, but I need to talk to him,” you reply. Leaning your elbows against the marble desk, you say, “If you could just ask him to come down, I’d be really appreciative.”

“Like I said, Miss, I won’t be able to disturb the residents this late at night,” he says. “If you knew his apartment number, you could use the phone to call up and he could grant you access to the building.”

“I don’t know it,” you answer, frustration building at the front of your head. Rubbing at the sore spot, you say, “I’m not interested in coming back here. He has some information about something that happened to my friend, and I need to speak with him.”

The man sets his jaw and replies, “Then, I would suggest trying to contact him directly at another time.”

Letting out a huff of frustration, you rest your head against the cool marble and whine, “My friend is in the hospital and I can’t do anything but cry outside of some jerk’s apartment. Today truly is the most pathetic I’ve felt in a while.”

“YN?”

You perk up at the call of your name, turning around to see Taehyung’s cautious expression fill your line of sight. He looks awfully comfy, the way he’s dressed, and he cards his hand through his damp brown hair, grin widening. “I knew it was you. I’d recognise the line of your back from anywhere.”

“That’s not remotely perverted at all,” you tell him, humourlessly.

“Is something wrong? Your face is all puffy,” he says, approaching you. Tilting your head with the crook of his finger, he lets out a light hiss, expression darkening. He gets serious unreasonably quickly. You don’t know why it makes you feel flutterly inside, so you pull yourself away from his touch. “You’re almost crying. Why?”

You push your glasses into your hair and scrub at your eyes, banishing your tears with the sleeve of your sweater. “The weather outside is windy, that’s why I cried.”

The break in your voice on the last words makes him grimace, and he says, softer, gentler, a note of tenderness that makes your stomach flip, “Talk to me.”

“Why do you care?”

He shrugs. “I care because you’re a friend of mine. And I worry about my friends, even the stubborn ones.”

“We aren’t friends,” you inform him, tightly. “Your brother wants to beat my ass.”

“Ah, hyung wouldn’t do that,” he teases, lips pulling up into a carefree smile, glad that your tears have subsided. He’d prefer you to be smiling, of course, but progress is progress, he supposes. “He’s just not used to getting his way, is all.”

“He’s spoiled,” you huff, dirty shoes squeaking as you kick at the marble floor.

He nods, in agreement, or to placate you – you don’t know – and asks, mischievously, “Did you come all this way to tell him that again?”

You shake your head. “I need to talk to Namjoon.”

His brow puckers, in confusion, before he asks, “Namjoon? Why?”

“He helped my friend,” you explain, desperately. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions about what happened.”

Taehyung plays with the metal dangling from his ear, and suggests, “Why don’t you ask her?”

“She’s still unconscious. Young-mi said she’ll call me when she wakes up,” you gesture to your phone, but when the device doesn’t respond, you let out a gentle curse. “Fuck, it died.”

“Come on up. Joonie should be home, and you can charge your phone all you like,” he offers, helpfully. When he notices your hesitancy, he lets out a dark chuckle. “We really don’t bite, YN. Not unless you ask first.” Then, he lightly tugs your wrist, pulling you towards the elevator. He throws a wave at the baffled concierge and says, enthusiastically, “Thanks, Kyungsoo-ssi. Get some rest, okay?”

You feel the concierge’s disapproving stare, but you refuse to spare him a glance back, although you want nothing more than to childishly stick your tongue out in his direction.

The ride up to their floor – the top floor, your brain supplies unhelpfully – is silent, save for Taehyung humming along to some trot song that must be running through his brain. He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire way up. When the doors open, he tugs you down the hall, and taps in the code to their apartment, pulling open the doors and nudging you inside. Instantly, you’re met with the scent of rosewood and vanilla.

Sniffing experimentally, you make a face, and Taehyung giggles. “It’s Jungkook. He likes sweet smelling things, so he’s been buying oil diffusers to put around the house.”

“It’s good,” you admit, kicking off your shoes, awkwardly. “It smells really good, actually.”

He beams before gesturing with his head to the corridor to the left. “Come. Joonie should be in his room.”

“I’ll wait here,” you reply, planting your feet. The lounge area felt more neutral than walking deeper into their personal spaces, potentially nearing their bedrooms. You already feel so wildly out of your comfort zone, and you know that it shows on your face.

“Suit yourself,” he answers, still just as bubbly. “Take a seat in the living room and we’ll be out in a second, okay?”

You nod, shuffling into the living area, taking note of the cream, deep green and brown colour scheme, the crystalline centrepiece dangling from the high ceiling, the picturesque sight that greets you from the lofty windows. It looks like something out of a furniture magazine, not somewhere that a bunch of university students live.

“I hear someone’s looking for me?” An unfamiliar voice rings out, deep and gentle, a light airiness twisting around every consonant. His voice doesn’t match his appearance, wearing an oversized shirt dangling from his broad and tall frame, with some matching baggy pants. Fluffy honey-blond hair atop his head sticks all over, as if he’d just been woken up. “YN, right? Taehyung has told us a lot about you.”

Unwinding your arms from around your middle (when had you done that, you wonder), you reach out to shake his hand and his brows climb his forehead in surprise. “T-Thank you, for helping my f-friend.”

He takes in your trembling hands, your watery eyes, your wobbly bottom lip, and lets out a soft sigh, avoiding your eyes. “I’m glad she’s okay. I didn’t mean to leave without making sure she had someone with her, but I had a previous engagement and I had to leave.”

“N-No. You g-got her to the h-hospital,” you assure him, holding his hand tighter. “T-Thank you.”

He glances down at your joined hands, a grimace on his face, before uncoupling your hands and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, awkwardly. “I didn’t do anything, really.”

“What happened? I can’t ask her. And honestly... None of it makes sense to me, so please... Can you tell me what you remember?”

His eyes get a strangely guarded light to them, before he nods. “Take a seat?”

You both do, and you turn to watch him. He doesn’t seem happy with you being here, but he is accepting of your presence, if only to assuage your sadness. He is sympathetic, of course, but he doesn’t reach out to physically console you, and he was uncomfortable with you touching him earlier.

In short, he didn’t like you being in his presence.

In any other context, you wouldn’t really care and would likely remove yourself from his periphery without being asked, but right now, you don’t have that privilege. You needed the answers he held in his brain.

He begins, “I was walking home from work, passing by some bars, a couple convenience stores. Then, I walked past an alley, near an arcade and bowling alley. And something, I don’t know, I just caught the sight of her dress on the floor. She was all crumpled up in the corner and covered in blood. I just- I couldn’t just leave her by herself, so I grabbed her up and took a cab to the hospital. End of story.”

“The doctor mentioned something about a dog?”

“I didn’t see a dog,” he spits the word out, before pausing, reigning in the surprising flash anger in his expression. “But the injuries were… extensive. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did get bit by a dog.”

With a hand to your mouth, you ask, contemplatively, “You said she was in an alley?”

He nods.

“Mei Li is severely claustrophobic, she wouldn’t have been in an alley, regardless of time, but especially not at night,” you mumble, more to yourself. “That just doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t what to tell you, but… that’s what happened,” he tells you, but he’s staring out of the window. You don’t want to say he’s avoiding your eyes, but he certainly won’t look at you when you try and catch his gaze. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“No… No, you did more than enough. Thank you,” you say, frown deepening the more you thought about his words. “So much.”

Taehyung bounds into the room, excitedly, and announces, “Cutie, I found a charger for you. Give me your phone.”

He takes your phone, surveying its cracked screen for a second in displeasure, before he shoves the device into the wall. He sits on the floor at your feet, blinking up at you with big eyes, before he asks, “Did you get everything you needed from Joonie?”

You lick your lips, grimacing before you nod. “He- He told me what he knew, so for that, I’m appreciative.”

The tall man nods, pushing his hair from his eyes and he moves to stand up. “It’s getting late and I have a morning lecture, so I guess I’ll see you around?”

You nod, distractedly, and he disappears down the hall, back to where he came from, sleepily dragging his feet as he goes. You miss the heated look that he and Taehyung share over your head, too lost in your own thoughts.

Finally, you become aware of your surroundings and the awkward atmosphere that you can practically feel suffocating you, you say, “Taehyung, I’ll just get a cab and charge my phone at home. There’s not enough time.”

“You don’t have a class until midday,” he says, pouting. Putting on a childish voice, he pleads, blinking up at you prettily, “Stay for a little while?”

Staring down at him, you enquire, curtly, “And do… what, exactly?”

“Just talk,” he replies, that boxy smile still in place. “I want to get to know you some more.”

“Taehyung…”

He echoes, with a playful wink, “YN…”

“Wait, how do you know my class schedule?” You frown as you query the bright-eyed artist.

He shrugs, unabashedly. “You can get any information if you pay enough for it.”

Your brows raise in surprise. “You paid someone to find out my schedule?”

“I didn’t pay with money, if that makes you feel better,” he says, lips pouting. “If you must know, I went on a date with a secretary.”

With a smirk, you ask, “So, you prostituted yourself to find out which classes I’m in?”

He slaps your knee lightly, the warmth from his palm soaking through your sweats. “Cutie, if I were to engage in sex work, I promise you the price would be much higher than just a simple date. Besides, we respect sex workers in this household.”

Unable to help yourself, you let out a soft giggle of your own, and he seems so proud of himself for being the one to make you do it that he does a little dance on the spot. “Your laugh is so pretty, Cutie.”

“Ugh, I look a mess,” you tell him, pushing your hair out of your face.

He nods. “You do look like you’ve had a rough night. Tell me about it?”

You let out a soft sigh, and decide that, while you’re waiting, you might as well tell him. It’s only when you start to talk that you realise just how much you’ve been needing to say. He’s a good listener, an amazing one, acknowledging your pain with a strangely serious expression on his face, thick brows pushed together when you recall seeing your friend, grey-skinned and unconscious in the hospital room. You talk until there’s nothing else to say, until you’ve exhausted every word, every stress, every complaint that has been weighing on your chest for the last few weeks. You contemplate letting him know about your worries about your parents, their health, your work, your tuition – there’s something compelling about the way he sits, how carefully blank his face is.

You really feel as if he’s not just listening, but he’s hearing you.

He pushes his lips up in a curious pout and enquires, “Mei Li? The sociology major that Hobi-hyung was dating?”

You nod, feeling tears fall once more. He brushes them away with the corner of his finger, seemingly unconsciously, staring at the offensive bubble of liquid before wiping it away on his pants. He rests the side of his face on the chair, staring up at you, and he whispers, hand resting on your knee, a comforting weight, “Cutie, I really don’t like seeing you cry.”

“’m sorry,” you mumble, sniffling pathetically. “I just really want her to be okay.”

“She will be,” he guarantees, and his positivity, his assuredness makes you falter for a moment. You feel yourself getting lost in the chocolate orbs of his eyes, shining dully under the dim lights overhead. He looks so certain and solid and real that you feel your sob catch in your throat, almost as if you were under a spell. “She’ll be nothing but okay. So, stop worrying yourself sick over it. You’ll make me worry.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you nod along with him, and he beams, knocking you over with just how pretty he looks, despite the early hour. You uncurl your legs (when had you gotten that comfortable in his house that you felt okay putting your feet on his couch?) and stretch your arms over your head. “What time is it?”

“Nearly three,” he replies, letting out a surprisingly wide yawn, nostrils flaring before his face returns to his regular handsomeness. “You seemed to need to get quite a bit off your chest.”

“Are you kidding me?” You nearly vault over his body to get to the phone, and sure enough, you have a few missed calls from Young-mi, and a picture of Mei, fragile-looking with her eyes cracked open ever so slightly, and you feel your legs give out before you can save yourself.

“YN, be careful,” Taehyung chastises when you collide with the floor. “Your knees might get bruised.”

He moves to shove the legs of your sweats up your calf to check the area, but you wiggle away. He frowns down at your refusal, eyes narrowing slightly. You stammer out a pathetic explanation, “My legs- I haven’t shaved them in a while.”

He stares at you, blankly, before letting out longest wail of a laugh that you’ve ever heard. His eyes are practically leaking with how funny he finds your honesty, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand.

“YN, p-please, never change,” he pleads, grin disarming. “I don’t care about leg hair. Everyone grows it. You should see Jimin sometimes. You could probably braid his leg hair.”

Letting out a bubble of a laugh, you feel yourself relax. He smiles once more, incredibly proud that he was the one to put that smile on your face. “So, you all live here? Together?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” He asks, observing the tender area of your knees, pressing around the area lightly, before giving them a satisfied nod and rolling your pants down. “We’re practically family.”

You repeat, puzzled, “Practically?”

“You thought we were actually related? We don’t even have the same last names.” He giggles. “I guess, to some extent, you could probably say we are closer than blood. But no, I have a younger brother and sister back home.”

He’s sitting too close to you for you to be able to relax properly, and he seems to notice how you shrink in on yourself, glaring down at your feet.

“Are you nervous, Cutie?” And the way he says it is like he knows your answer before you give it, frustrating you further.

“Not nervous, just… I don’t know, this whole day has been a wreck,” you reply, but he can hear the flutter in your voice. He lets out a soft snort of air through his nose, but the front door opening and closing behind someone stops whatever undoubtedly charming words were gearing to come out of his mouth.

“Hyung!” He says, perking up adorably, like a puppy. You can almost see the way his ears would stand to attention. “You’re home early.”

You look over to see Yoongi walk into the house, and he eyes you, expression unreadable. “I only had two sets.”

“Hyung deejays at all the best clubs in Seoul,” Taehyung explains, excitedly, when he takes note of your puzzled expression. “He sometimes bounces from four or five places a night. He’s so cool, don’t you think, Cutie?”

Ignoring Taehyung’s question, Yoongi takes a step into the living room, eyes still fixed on your frozen form, and asks, “What is she doing here? At this time?”

“She needed to talk to Joonie,” the artist explains, excitedly. “But, that was hours ago. We’ve been talking since then. She’s so interesting, hyung.”

“Hardly,” you mumble, eyes still stuck on the pale student’s body as he drops his heavy backpack carefully on the floor. You say, awkwardly, “I should get going.”

“Yeah, you should,” Yoongi advises, with a quirk in his brow. You feel your cheeks heat up at his curt words. “It’s late, and Taehyung has class. I don’t wanna hear any complaints tomorrow morning, brat.”

“You won’t, I promise,” he laughs. He moves to stand up and taps your shoulder, playfully. “Come, YN. I’ll take you home.”

“No, I will,” Yoongi intervenes, shaking his car keys disinterestedly. “Hurry up.”

He kicks into some slides near the door and walks on ahead, not even waiting for you to catch up.

“See ya, Taehyung,” you say, snatching your phone out of the charger port and nearly fall over trying to kick into your shoes.

The radiant artist waves, animatedly. “Bye!”

You don’t see how his expression shutters as soon as the door closes behind him, how dark his eyes turn and how his lips slowly morph into a grimace.

Yoongi’s waiting impatiently at the elevator, foot blocking the door from closing, and you rush down the corridor to join him. He gets in first, plugging his AirPods in as soon as you open your mouth to thank him, leaving you, once more, bathed in silence.

“Fantastic,” you mumble.

He leads you to the basement of their building, and some of the cars in there, you’ve only ever seen in movies and on the TV. He presses his key and a car beeps in response. A compact black BMW M3 beeps back in response.

“No way is this your car,” you gasp in surprise. You haven’t sat in such an expensive car, well, in ever, and a small part of you is overly excited by the luxury. You can’t help it – you’re a broke college student and the only way for you to get around is the subway, your best friend’s car or walking. You’re going to revel in this extravagance and nobody is going to make you feel guilty, dang it!

“Get in,” he commands, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming his door closed.

“Grouchy,” you tut, but you do as he tells you, feeling thankful for the protection from the chilly air outside.

“Put in your address,” he says, gesturing to the console at the head of the car, switching on the air conditioner, despite your chattering teeth. “Quickly.”

You do so, only making a few mistakes in your nervousness, before settling back in the leather seats and closing your eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he grumbles, flicking on the radio. An unfamiliar mix plays from the speakers embedded in the headrest behind you, not too loud but enough to keep you engaged. The rapping voice is familiar, as metaphors describing the heady sensuality of success fill your ears. The beat is hard-hitting and rough, the words cut at your skin, but the volume stops the music from being overwhelming. You can picture the song being played in clubs, for sure. You know you’d work up a sweat, grinding along to the song, for sure.

To assuage the stilted silence growing in the car, you ask, awkwardly, “Is this- Is this your song?”

He doesn’t answer with words, but he simply nods, eyes fixed on the road ahead. It starts pelting with rain again once you pull out of the parking lot, and you watch as rivulets of rain trickle down the front window. The song moves onto topics more specific – the hatred of the dark, the addiction of victory. The way he craves it like he yearns for air, a thought that never leaves him, even in the dead of the night. The sultry sentiment of arrogance, of how enchanting it is to be adored.

You compliment, blithely, “It’s good. How long have you been doing music?”

“A while,” he replies.

That’s all you’re getting?

“It’s good,” you murmur.

“You said that already,” he answers, turning the wheel. He’s the picture of disengaged, and you feel shame heat up your cheeks over forcing a conversation with someone who clearly isn’t interested. Instead, you quieten down, and let the next song – more upbeat but just as intelligent – fill the silence between you two.

The journey is smooth, equal parts due to the early hour and the lack of cars on the road, and by the time you pull up at your apartment, you find yourself almost drifting to sleep in the corner of the seat.

“I said don’t fall asleep,” he mumbles, reaching over to poke you in the side, forcing you to jerk up out of your restful state and you wipe your chin, just in case you started to drool. You rub at the area he jabbed and let out an unwitting noise, once you realised what he’d done.

“Ticklish?” He suggests, quirking his brow, leaning back into the safety of his side of the car.

Nodding, feebly, you swallow and angle your body in his direction. “Uh, I just- thank you.”

“It’s nothing, honestly,” he replies. “Just get into your place safe. Taehyung won’t stop nagging me if something happens to you.”

“That… is the most you’ve ever spoken to me,” you tell him, blankly.

He snorts. “I don’t have much to say to you, honestly.”

“I- Strangely respect that,” you mumble, sliding out of the car. “Drive home safe.”

He nods curtly at you and pulls away from your apartment complex once you’ve stepped a safe enough distance from his car window. You watch until his red lights disappear from your line of sight, and then retreat inside, practically shivering by the time you get into your living room.

Showering off the stress and quickly dressing for bed, you send Young-mi a message before you drift off almost as soon as your head touches the pillow.

Your phone lights up with a text message in the dark, while you snore, lightly, into the air.

Don’t trust them.

- end - 

“I can’t give that information,” she says, apologetically. “Her doctor would be able to inform you about the specifics of her injuries.”

“Which room?”

“405, bed 6,” she informs you and after a lax bow, you rush off, taking the elevator to the fourth floor.

You had already sent Young-mi a text about the call you got – apparently you were Mei Li’s emergency contact, considering her parents were both back in Japan and she had nobody but her housemates to rely on – but she was still at work, and would be until after midnight. You didn’t know how you were going to cope by yourself.

Biting your nails as you shuffle down the hallway, eyes scanning the door numbers until you find the appropriate one and you almost burst into the room. The only thing that keeps you restrained is the fact that there are other people around her, in their own beds, recovering from a medley of injuries and illnesses.

Spotting her bed right at the end of the room closest to the window, you notice the gurney is hidden from sight by a blandly decorated curtain. After exhaling, sharply, you draw it back with trembling hands, to see Mei Li, slumbering. Her skin is clearly pale and tinged with grey, bruised already blossoming across her exposed skin, hidden beneath the scrubs on her shoulders. You spot all sorts of insertions leading to an IV drip and the heart monitor to the left of her, and the sight nearly brings you to your knees.

The doctor doing rounds steps into the room and takes stock of you – your quivering hands, your tear-streaked face, your ruddy cheeks – and asks, quietly, “Are you related to this patient?”

“She’s m-my housemate, I’m her e-emergency contact,” you explain. He notices how unsteady you are and offers you a seat. Dropping into the chair, you lean your forehead against the edge of the bed, careful to avoid Mei’s legs, and turn to look at her, unable to tear your eyes from the bandaged injuries to her neck and chest. “What happened to her?”

“She seems to have been a victim of a canine attack,” he says, carefully checking over her chart. “There were heavy lesions to her throat and chest area, deep bite marks that almost severed the arteries in her throat, but thankfully, it wasn’t deep enough to cause long-lasting damage to her vocal cords. The breathing machine is there just to help her through the night while she’s unconscious.”

You swallow, feeling the final vestiges of adrenaline leave your system, and you slump in your seat, like a puppet after it’s strings get cut. You ask, rubbing at your eyes behind your glasses, “When is she going to wake up?”

“Once the anaesthesia works itself out of her system, she’ll wake up on her own. It could be a few hours, though,” he tells you. “She was signed in by someone with the name Kim Namjoon. Do you recognise the name?”

Kim Namjoon? One of the Bangtan Boys? Vaguely, you remember the junior having the same name, but you can’t imagine why he’d have helped your friend, or why he would’ve been out so late at night.  Shaking your head free of those errant thoughts, you turn to the doctor and reply, “I-I think so. He- He was the one who brought her in?”

The doctor nods. “According to these notes, yes. He brought her in, waited until her surgery was done, paid the fee and left.”

You feel small and pathetic but knowing that her fees had been covered fills you with a brief sense of relief, as you don’t know how you would’ve helped cover it after the fact.  Pushing some hair behind your ear, you enquire, “Did he leave a contact number?”

“No, once we contacted you, we didn’t need his information besides his name,” he tells you, tucking the chart back in place at the end of the bed. “Shall we contact her parents?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll let them know,” you reply. “I’ll stay with her until she wakes up. Thank you, doctor.”

He nods, the two of you exchange bows and he moves on to the next patient, leaving you to your whirring thoughts.

Shakily, you reach out to grab her hand, knitting your fingers together, but her face doesn’t so much as twitch in response, and while you’re disappointed, you can’t help but be a little comforted by the fact that she’s asleep and away from the pain of the injuries scattered across her body.

The shock has finally started to wear off, and you feel yourself becoming drained, the adrenaline leaving your body, but your nerves are still primed and alert, leaving you exhausted and wobbly.

Mei Li has always been a scaredy-cat, so you can’t imagine her approaching a dog big enough to caught so much damage to her body willingly. It just doesn’t fit her character. There are too many parts of the story that are missing, too many gaps that only Mei, and you suppose Kim Namjoon, can fill, and it’s giving you a tension headache.

A couple of hours pass before Young-mi’s terrified call comes through, and as concisely as you can, you explain the situation and she promises to be there as quick as possible. It doesn’t take long, and you worry that she had ignored some traffic laws to get to the hospital as far as she could.

As soon as your eyes land on her shaken form, you let out a low cry and break down in her arms. Instead of disturbing the other patients, who have long since fallen asleep, the two of you step out into the hallway and cry in each other’s arms.

“It’s already so late,” she mumbles, a few minutes later, once you’ve both been reduced to sniffles and red cheeks. She squeezes your hand once and asks, quietly, “Don’t you want to go home? I’ll wait until she wakes up.”

“You’ve been at the diner all evening,” you tell her, shaking your head. “I’ll stay, you go home.”

“Not to be annoying, but you look terrible, YN,” she tells you, pushing your hair back. “Go home, shower and change.”

“I showered before I came,” you reply, defensively. “I don’t smell bad, do I?”

“No, but you just look…” she breaks off, grimacing. “You look like you need a breather.”

“What I need is a cigarette,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes in frustration. She gives you a venomous glare, to which you hold up your hands and say, “I told you I quit.”

She holds your hand and gives it a tight squeeze. “Go home, YN, and get some sleep. I’ll call you as soon as she wakes up.”

“I don’t want to leave her,” you state, staring at the door in front of you.

She shakes her head. “I don’t have classes on Fridays, so I can stay. Please, you look like you’re about to keel over. You’re worrying me more than Mei is right now. She’s safe, she’s recovering, she’s okay.”

Letting out a long-winded sigh, you eventually concede to her demands. She gives you a gentle smile before shoving some bills into your palm and telling you to take a cab. She tucks some of your stray hair behind your ear and says, seriously, “It’s too late at night for you to be taking the late buses.”

After kissing Mei on her forehead and making Young-mi promise once more to give you a call, you find yourself in a cab, driving down the roads towards your shared apartment in Hongdae. Staring out into the blanket of darkness that has cocooned your city, you feel something twist and turn inside of your chest - intrigue, curiosity, fascination.

The tail-end of an errant thought catches your attention, turning quickly into a badly-formed plan. Determination blooms in your chest, and in resolution, you set your shoulders and lean forward, to tell the cab driver to change directions.

“I have to see somebody about something serious, so if you could drive to this address quickly, I’d appreciate it.”

- end -