Chapter Text
Namjoon starts furiously scribbling. He’s writing so hard that you can hear the metal of his ballpoint pen scratching into his desk. You look up from your reading, and you half expect to see chunks of wood flying as he goes. You hear plastic break. “Stupid pen,” he mumbles, throwing it away. He grabs another.
The two of you have shared a sunny, spacious office for five or six years, and you know by now that when Namjoon starts furiously scribbling, he has given up on a manuscript. You respect him for reading until the very end, truly giving each work that comes across his desk a chance to live.
But today, he’s had enough. He hates marking up the page. An interesting quirk for an editor. Instead, he’s taking every critique that he’s been holding back until now and listing each one out on its own sticky note. Each bullet point is lethal.
“What was wrong with this one?” you ask.
“The girl dreamed the whole thing,” he complains, slamming a sticky note down on one of the last pages. “I swear, it’s like author shorthand for, ‘I didn’t know how to end this.’” He sighs. “But if I’m being honest, the whole thing was boring anyway. It ended, and I just didn’t care.”
“Yikes,” you reply.
Namjoon sets the manuscript atop the pile in the red bin. He notices the green bin. It’s dusty.
“Nothing interesting has passed by either of our desks in months,” he laments.
You agree. Things usually move slower in the winter, but this was getting ridiculous.
“Maybe we should rethink our PR,” Namjoon says. “Our brand is too niche or something.”
“We’re a small, independent publishing company. All we have is niche,” you reply. “You’re just frustrated.”
“You’re right,” Namjoon says softly. “I think I’ll go for a walk, clear my head, get some lunch. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks,” you say, looking back down at the manuscript in front of you. “And please take your coat!” you add. “It’s really coming down outside!”
You look back down at your own snoozefest in front of you. You realize that you’ve been reading the same paragraph over and over again.
When you feel like you’re getting nowhere, you start to get itchy. Unlike Namjoon, you have a habit of starting the next manuscript in the cue. And as you mentally remind yourself that this is, in fact, a bad habit, you’re already reaching for the next envelope.
The cover of this manuscript catches your eye. Usually, they’re all the same shade of beige, pristinely margined, set, and bound. This one is yellow and decorated with a line sketch of two men, their backs pressed against each other. There’s no title.
Intrigued, you turn to the first page and begin to read.
Most of all, Jimin clearly remembered the winter. It had been bitter and unforgiving. Like him. He wondered if he had changed much over the years. When he caught a glimpse of his coiffed, pink, stage-ready hair in the window, he felt ridiculous.
A figure walked by, heading toward the restaurant door. Like always, Jimin did his best to tamp the anger down. It hadn’t occurred to him that maybe that was part of the problem.
The figure slid wordlessly into Jimin’s booth. He looked worse than the last time. His sleeves were punctuated by several holes, windows along the track marks, symbols of what they had lost. His hair was so matted and long that it hid his eyes, yet enhanced that ever-present, infuriating smirk, the only recognizable thing on this foreign, gaunt frame. Did he even have a place to live?
“Tae,” Jimin said.
“Been a while, rock star,” Taehyung replied. “Buy me something to eat, would you?”
The thud of the water bottle hitting your desk snaps you back to reality.
“Sorry I took so long. There was a line,” Namjoon replies. He sets down your favorite sandwich from the deli across the street, and a bag of your favorite chips. No matter how many times you say you don’t need anything, Namjoon shows up with exactly what you wish you had. As you watch him brush snow off of the coat that he almost forgot to take with him, you feel security in knowing that you take care of each other.
“What are you talking about? You just left,” you reply, suddenly ravenous.
“I’ve been gone for an hour,” Namjoon replies. He looks down at your desk, the way you’re stuffing your sandwich into your face, and it dawns on him.
“Tell me,” he says, reaching for his sandwich and sitting on your desk.
“It’s about two childhood friends,” you begin. “They have dreams of making it big as musicians. There’s some kind of painful rift. One ends up famous, and the other one disappears.”
Namjoon looks at you skeptically.
“It’s interesting,” you say, handing him the manuscript.
Namjoon holds the manuscript up, looking at the sketches on the cover. He looks at you again and raises his eyebrows. He’s intrigued.
“Right?” you ask.
Despite your urges to be careful, Namjoon clumsily sets the manuscript on his lap, one hand flipping through the first few pages as he reads, the other feeding him his sandwich. He never takes his eyes off the page. You gaze at him fondly. The best days on the job are these quiet, intimate moments with your oldest and dearest friend. In all your years studying and working together, you’ve never tired of reading with him. You love looking up to see his handsome face contorted in concentration. You’re always dying to hear what he’ll say. You hang on every word. He always says something unexpected but true.
Before long, he reaches absent-mindedly for the rest of his food, but his fingers only feel crumbs on the crinkly wax paper. He looks down at his fingers. Then, his eyes brighten, and he grows a smile of his own. “Good sign!” he said, nodding.
You’re both happy that something has finally come along that has made you lose time, completely immersed you in another world. That was why you two started this whole thing. That’s what this work was about. Finding unique voices and amplifying them.
Namjoon picks up the manuscript again, admiring the sketches. “Who’s the author?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” you admit, angling the bag of chips toward a still-hungry and appreciative Namjoon. “There’s no contact information. All I have is this.”
You show him the envelope. There’s a return address.
“What are you thinking?” Namjoon asks, eating a chip.
“Well, I just started it. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“I’m reading it the minute you’re done.”
“Obviously.”
There’s an uneasy but thrilling feeling growing in your chest. You know a hit when you see one. But this is bigger than that. There is something heartachingly poignant about this author’s writing. Every word haunts you.
“Am I crazy, or could this be something really, really amazing?” you ask.
Namjoon’s smiling so hard that his adorable dimples are the deepest you’ve ever seen them. “The minute you’re done,” he repeats, handing the manuscript back to you.
**
The manuscript travels with you everywhere you go. It knows the difference between the walnut desk at work and your bedside table. It knows your subway stops. It knows your coffee order. It even has remnants of one on page 47.
If it hadn’t been for other clients and their projects, you would have executed on a plan by now. You almost did. You like moving fast and moving on. But there’s a nagging feeling that this project will be a marathon, not a race. You want to take your time with this one. You want to make sure that you get it right.
The story and its characters have been an overwhelming obsession. You’re grateful for the break that Namjoon is giving you, but you’re even more grateful the morning that Namjoon bursts into the office, snow in his hair, manuscript in hand.
You smile in satisfaction, giddy with the feeling that you were right. “What did you think about the bridge?”
“I can’t talk about it,” Namjoon admits, setting the manuscript down on your desk. “I’m still in a mood. Excruciatingly real. And sad. This person, whoever they are, writes exquisitely.”
You nod. You choke down the impulse to tell Namjoon that this writer has actually made you feel something. It’s been a while since you’ve felt something.
“The ending needs work,” he says.
“Yeah, but the ending always does,” you reply.
“So, now what?” Namjoon sits on your desk, taking one of the coffee cups that you’ve brought.
“I sent an acceptance letter,” you mention. “Outlined the basic terms of the contract. Shared my business card and all my contact info. No calls or emails. I asked Sejin, and he said that no one’s mentioned it at the front desk.”
You look back at the envelope. It’s been in the same spot on your desk for a couple of weeks now. Namjoon sits beside it, watching you.
Curious, you open your laptop and find the address on a map. It’s a residential area, some apartment complex about six subway stops away.
A thought forms.
“No,” Namjoon says, reading your mind.
“How else are we going to find out who this person is?” you demand.
“So you’re just going to show up at a complete stranger’s apartment?” Namjoon asks.
“Maybe they just need some help. Maybe it’s a first-time author. Maybe they don’t know how publishing works.”
“Maybe the lack of a response is their response.”
“Joon, this story needs to be out there.”
“Maybe they don’t want to tell it.”
“Then why send the manuscript at all?”
Namjoon is definitely on your side. He’s just more cautious than you are. But he’s growing tired of playing devil’s advocate. He sees the possibilities just like you do. And you’re both hungry for a win.
“I don’t like the idea of you going to an unknown, unlisted address.” He pulls out his phone and dials a number. You mutter something about him being a wimp, but he ignores you.
“Hi, I was wondering if you had a phone number on file for this address?” He reads the address from your laptop screen. He pauses for a moment, says thank you anyway, and ends the call.
“If you’re so concerned, then just come with me,” you say.
“Fine,” Namjoon says, standing up, “but not today. I’ve got tons of work, and I’ve put it off far too long because of that beautiful distraction.”
**
Beautiful distraction. Namjoon’s words echo in your head as you read it again and again, skimming to your favorite parts, re-reading passages you didn’t fully appreciate the first time. You look down, and you find that you’re suddenly in your bed, in your favorite pair of pajamas, fingers still curled around the pages. You’ve already forgotten the subway ride home, the bath that you took, or the dinner that you had. You need to make space in your brain for the way this writer describes the sticky feeling of the midnight air on Jimin’s skin as he and Taehyung run through the city streets.
A pack of canned gin and tonics greets you happily when you open the fridge. You take one to sip while you read. By the time you’re just tipsy enough to make questionable decisions, you’re reciting the address in your head. There are four subway stops between you and work. That means there are ten subway stops between you and this writer.
And then, you’re standing on the subway, between the eighth and ninth stop. You don’t care how late it is.
You think about the passage that finally made you put on your coat.
The last of the soju went down too easily.
Jimin placed his eye against the lip of the empty bottle. A telescope. He aimed it at Taehyung. “I see you,” he taunted.
“You like what you see, baby?” Taehyung asked.
Jimin giggled freely. He didn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed. “Is this what it was like to be young?”
Taehyung watched him fondly. Jimin was oozing this fresh coat of paint from every pore, but Taehyung knew that the foundation was still there. Conversations were still sparring matches. Getting a laugh out of him still felt like winning a trophy. How could they have lost touch like this? Weren’t they going to take on the world together?
“Do you want to feel young again, Jiminie?” Taehyung ventured.
“Of course! Who doesn’t?” Jimin retorted.
Taehyung arched an eyebrow. He rolled onto his side, digging something out from under his mattress. He rolled back over with a fiendish smile and his hands out to him.
Jimin looked down. A bundle of non-descript household items. A rusty spoon. A scratched up lighter. A folded piece of foil. Something else.
Taehyung’s fingers unknotted the purple, silk tie that Jimin had gifted him earlier. He launched into some sort of explanation, but all that Jimin could hear were the sharp sounds of metal and engines. He looked up and remembered where they were. They had learned how to ride their bikes at that bridge. Maybe that’s why Taehyung picked this one to sleep under.
He looked back at Taehyung. A lump rose in his throat as Taehyung’s eyes lost focus, his eyelashes fluttering in the yellow glow from the oncoming headlights. His body slowly sank back into the moldy twin mattress that they were attempting to share. Taehyung’s lips softened into a delirious smile.
Jimin laid down next to him, his nose grazing Taehyung’s cheek. “How does it feel, Taehyungie?” he whispered into his ear.
“It feels... like before,” Taehyung said, his voice low and legato.
Jimin was having trouble seeing. He realized that he was crying.
Best friends were supposed to be soulmates. Not heartbreaks.
You get off at subway stop number ten and wander down the streets. The traffic lights are reflecting in puddles on the sidewalk. You wonder about the inspiration for the bridge scene. Is it one of the ones nearby?
Standing on the stoop, you check the address one more time. You wonder if you’ll tell them how powerful their writing is. You wonder if they’re just as captivating in person. You wonder if they’re even home.
You knock weakly. There’s some rustling, and the door opens.
He looks at you a moment. Clearly, you aren’t what he was expecting. But his lips move easily from a pout to a welcoming smile. You hold your breath for some reason.
“Can I help you?” he asks, his sweet voice floating in the air.
“Good evening,” you say, immediately hating the overly-formal way it sounds coming out of your mouth, “sorry to bother you so late.”
He looks at you quizzically and checks his watch. “It’s only 8:00,” he says.
Embarrassing. Somewhere in all of your career building and business planning, you became an old maid. Even more embarrassing is the chaser. You kind of always were an old maid.
“I’m from Fig Tree Publishing,” you push on, “and we recently received a submission from this address?”
You unzip your winter coat down to your navel and pull out the manuscript.
His wide, doe eyes sparkle immediately at the sight of the cover. But then, he looks as if he remembers something, and his face falls slightly.
You aren’t sure if it’s the gin and tonic you drank, or if it’s the way that he tilts his head and purrs, “Come in and get comfortable”, but your cheeks flush red.
He walks ahead of you, leading you into the main room. You notice paint stains on his baggy black t-shirt and charcoal on his jeans. He turns his head toward you, just slightly over his shoulder, his long, dark hair hiding his eyes. “Can I take your coat?” he asks.
“Uh, that’s OK, I wasn’t really planning on being here that long,” you say, wondering why you’re following him.
Tattoos spiral down his right arm. You wonder what each one of them means.
The longer you look at him, the faster you forget why you’re there. Why are you so out of it? It was just one gin and tonic. Right?
You need to close your eyes to get back on track. “I’m really just trying to find out who---”
“I should explain,” he offers. “It’s one of those put-on-a-pot-of-coffee types of explanations.”
Even at your tipsiest, you don’t trust strangers this easily. You’ve already calculated that there’s enough space between you that you could probably beat him to the door if he tries anything suspicious. But you’re also fighting the urge to believe the earnest look on his face that screams safety and warmth.
He reads you and nods knowingly. The far corner of the room holds a drawing table. He walks over to grab something, shuffling papers in his way.
Did you have a gin and tonic at dinner? Because that would make it two. That’s probably why you’re slowly dragging your tongue across your lips. You’re just dehydrated. It’s not that he’s lifting the hem of his shirt to his face, wiping charcoal dust from his brow. It’s not that his body may as well have been chiseled from stone. You hear sirens going off as he returns toward you. He’s a thing of beauty. He looks so good that you feel wrong for seeing him. You’re not dehydrated. You’re thirsty.
You snap yourself out of it just as he opens his eyes and hands you a piece of paper that holds several line sketches similar to the ones on the manuscript cover.
The sincere recognition in your eyes tells him that it’s enough proof for you.
You unzip your coat and slip it off, handing it to him. When the cool air hits you, you remember that you’re wearing literally nothing but your pajamas. You hope he doesn’t notice or care. He says nothing as he crosses the room and hangs your coat in the hall closet.
Just in case, you fold your arms over your chest as you explore the room. You walk over to the drawing table and set down the manuscript and sketch.
“You’re very talented,” you reply, eyes poring over his work.
“Thanks,” he says. You hear the gurgle of coffee beans being brewed and the clink of spoons in mugs.
A frame on the wall catches your eye. It houses a collage of messy handwriting on scraps of paper.
Just had a burger for dinner. It was trash. I’m putting that in my review.
Do you remember the time we cut class to watch a movie? There’s a chef here who looks like the truant officer who picked us up. That’s the only interesting thing about this place.
No more international gigs. I’ve only been here for a day, and I want to come home already. The sun sets weird here. The light’s thin and feels fake. I’m in a parallel universe.
He’s walking toward you now. “We’re out of cream, but we’ve got sugar,” he says, flashing his palm to show you the packets.
You’re still chuckling at the frame. “What are these?”
“Napkins and notes from different hotels and restaurants,” he says. “The piece is called Hatred in Haste.”
“Artist, writer, you do it all,” you say, taking a mug and stirring your coffee.
“Ah, no, the writer is named Min Yoongi,” he says. “I’m the artist. Jeon Jungkook.” He smiles happily and extends his hand for a handshake.
Amused, you accept. “Then you’re not the one I’m looking for,” you say.
“Hmm.”
You might have had another gin and tonic at some point. Three gin and tonics would be the only explanation for the rush of uncomfortable heat spreading through your core. Of course, it might also be the way Jungkook’s hand lingers in yours. Or the way his eyes are sloping down your body. Or how he smirks at you before he lets your hand go.
You cradle the mug and hold it close to you, feeling self-conscious. “Is he here or not?” you ask.
The playful vibe dissipates at the mention of Yoongi, and you’re kind of grateful that Jungkook has eased up on the charm a bit. It was getting a little hard to concentrate and breathe.
“He’s out,” Jungkook says, walking over to the drawing table and sitting down. He gestures to the rattan chair to his left. “We got into a fight. About that manuscript.”
He sketches while the two of you talk. It actually is really comfortable. Like you’ve known each other all along.
“I printed and bound it while he was on a work trip. It was a surprise birthday gift. He’s been working on this book for years now, and it’s good.”
“ Really good,” you say, nodding fervently. “That’s why I’m here. We want to publish it.”
“And that’s why we fought. When I gave it to him, he didn’t say anything. He just pretended like it didn’t exist. I kept it for a little while. Read it over and over again. Eventually, I sent it to you, just to see what the chances were. He found your acceptance letter this morning, and I had to come clean. Then we argued, and he left to get some air.”
“I don’t understand. We absolutely love it. We think it has amazing potential. Why was he so mad?”
“He doesn’t want to publish it at all.”
Damn. You were going to have to sell the author on his own book? You hadn’t realized that finding the guy was just the first of what was apparently becoming many hurdles for this project.
“I think he should, though,” Jungkook goes on. He nods at the frame that you were admiring earlier. “He’s a wonderful writer. He could be a truly great novelist. He’s being wasted at this food blog.”
You pause to think about what Jungkook has told you. As things become clear, you send a mental apology to Namjoon.
You stand. “Thanks for the coffee,” you say. “I should go.”
“Wait, that’s it?” Jungkook asks. “Shouldn’t we talk strategy here?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You know how good it is!”
“Absolutely.”
“Then why are you leaving? You were going to publish it! We just have to figure out the best way to talk to him---”
“Listen,” you say, as much as it saddens you, “I haven’t read something this moving in months, maybe even years. I can tell that he has a tender but strong heart. It’s in the pulp of every page. I feel it beating when I read his work. So it’s his heart we’re talking about here. He has to be the one to decide to share it.”
Jungkook smiles at you. Maybe he even looks impressed.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he decides. “We should stay in touch. I have your number, but you don’t have mine.”
He holds out his hand expectantly. You hand over your phone. You’re not quite sure why. There’s nowhere to go from this.
You take your phone back. A text pops up. It’s a smiley face emoji from Jungkook. It’s nothing compared to the mischievous grin that he has on his face now.
He leads you over to the hall closet and helps you back into your coat. “You’re fine getting home?”
“Yeah, no worries.”
“You sure? It’s almost 8:30. You shouldn’t be alone at this hour of night.”
“Very funny.”
“Is this the latest you’ve been up all week? When’s your usual bedtime?”
“Wow.”
“I assume you eat the early bird specials for dinner at around 4:00, so, like, 7:00?”
“When’s yours? 5 AM, after some invite-only arthouse rave?”
“Actually, it’ll probably be here in a bit,” Jungkook admits. “Just gonna shower.”
You reach the door and turn to say a real goodbye, and your jaw almost drops open when you catch him peeling his shirt off of his body and throwing it onto the floor.
Some awkward goodbye falls out of your mouth, and you hear him say, “Text me when you get home.” He seems to mean it.
The walk to the station is a blur. You have to prop yourself up against one of the poles on the subway. The cold steel feels good against your hand, and if you weren’t such a germaphobe, you’d rest your cheek against it.
Your mind is reeling. Yes, because of the hot, flirty artist with the gorgeous face, the six pack, and the jokes. But also because everything that you had envisioned was evaporating. You feel lighter without the manuscript, but it’s less like a weight has been lifted and more like you’re missing a limb. You really connected with this work. It had an amazing voice. You wanted that voice to be shared with the world.
You get home and throw open the fridge. There’s only one gin and tonic missing from the pack. You grab another.
**
Nothing rouses you like a chocolate croissant from your favorite cafe. It’s totally out of your way, and you only go there on weekends to read. But you’re hungover, and sleep-deprived, and still a little sad about last night.
Namjoon sighs heavily when you enter the office.
“I knew it,” he says, catching the cafe’s logo as you put a croissant and a coffee down on his desk. “I was watching a movie last night, and I had the sudden urge to call you to check in.”
You collapse into your chair. “That was probably the apology that I sent you telepathically.”
“Apology?”
You take a deep, deep breath. “I went over there,” you admit, ready to get this over with.
“What?” Namjoon asks, his loud voice piercing your ear drums. “I said I would go with you! You really couldn’t wait less than 24 hours?”
You scrunch your eyes and bury your head in your hands.
“Sorry,” he says, quieter. “Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine, clearly,” you say sternly, your own voice hacking at you like a buzzsaw.
“So… then... you met them.”
“Kinda.”
“And I take that it didn’t go well.”
“No.”
“Well, what do they want?” Namjoon asks. “Are we too small? Can we think about some sort of bigger plan to partner with---”
Some guy just marches into your office, swinging the door wide open. His deep, intense eyes settle on you. They narrow.
“Are you the braless woman who showed up at my apartment last night?” he demands.
Your cheeks flush immediately, and you think of Jungkook’s eyes running over your body.
Namjoon has a funny look on his face, like he can’t decide if he wants to punch this guy or laugh hysterically.
Sejin shuffles through the door. “Sorry, he just--- I asked for his name but he didn’t--- And then he just barged---” He gestures wildly.
“It’s OK, thank you Sejin, I can take it from here,” you say in the most professional tone that you can muster.
On his way out, Sejin frowns at the guy and gently closes the door for your privacy. But there’s no point. Your building is all lofted ceilings, exposed brick, and glass walls. Your entire team is staring into your office, straining to hear the rest of this conversation.
Ever the godsend, Namjoon stands up. “Alright everyone, we all know what a disgruntled writer looks like,” he calls out, giving the guy a once-over before walking out to the main floor.
You weren’t sure what he would look like. His writing made you think of a cabin nestled among tall pines, a well-worn cardigan, a scotch neat, and a wistful wisp of smoke seeping into the air from the bowl of an unattended tobacco pipe. What stands before you is a studio apartment in the city, cigarette butts, coffee stains, and a scowl. There’s definitely been a mistake.
“I’m double-parked,” he says. “This gonna take long?”
“You tell me,” you scoff.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You just barged through the doors of my office, disrupted my team’s work, and disrespected me in front of my company, so, no, I don’t know if you’re actually all here,” you say pointedly, reaching into your desk for your painkillers.
“Sucks when someone plants their grubby little feet on your territory, doesn’t it?” he asks.
“Whatever,” you say angrily, finally finding the bottle of painkillers that you were looking for.
He watches you struggle with the cap. After a few seconds, he groans and walks over. He reaches out his hand to you, but he looks away.
You recoil from him and finally get the bottle open.
He softens. “I’m sorry.”
“I really don’t need this today,” you say, washing two pills down with your coffee.
“Tell me about it,” he says, flopping down in the chair across your desk.
You stare each other down.
“So. You’re Yoongi,” you establish.
He runs a hand through his silver hair and leans back in the chair. “And you’re the---”
“Don’t,” you say to stop him, sensing another wiseass remark.
He raises his palms and lowers his head slightly to show that he meant no offense, then unzips his puffy coat.
“Why are you even here?” you ask honestly. “Jungkook already explained everything.”
“He forced my hand,” Yoongi replies.
“Sure, taking your manuscript was wrong,” you begin.
“No,” he interrupts. “He forced my hand again. Or he might have forced my other hand. Either way, I’m here, with both my hands.”
The way he says it. The rhythm of it. It sounds like something he’d write. Maybe on one of his hotel napkins. You want to chuckle, but you’re still mad and hungover, and you think if you laugh, your head will explode.
Yoongi explains. “Jungkook said that if I don’t come see you in person, he isn’t going to stop, and things are going to get worse.”
“Oh, really?” you ask.
“Listen. When that little shit broke into my computer to get my book, he made a copy of all of my other stuff. He’s said that he’s going to keep sending my work to publishing companies until I give this a real go.”
“So, again, why are you here? If he stole from you, then go to the police or something.”
Yoongi grimaces.
“Or just make something up, I don’t know,” you say dismissively. You rise to your feet. “You can leave now.”
“No, I can’t, because you came to our apartment and stupidly gave him your personal cell number, and if you don’t text him from that number, he won’t stop,” Yoongi says.
You should have listened to Namjoon. You should always listen to Namjoon.
“Is that all?” you say, grabbing your phone off your desk. “Easy. Goodbye.”
“Wait,” Yoongi says, jumping to his feet as well. “You have to text him a picture.”
“What?”
“A picture.”
“Of what?”
Yoongi takes a deep breath. He can’t believe he’s about to say this. “Your bra.”
“OK, I don’t have time for this.”
“He said this was non-negotiable,” Yoongi replies simply.
“Yeah, blackmail usually is,” you say.
“He said that he wants proof,” Yoongi shrugs.
You hold up your phone and snap a picture of Yoongi. It’s terrible. The picture catches him mid-sentence, in that smug shrug.
“Hey!” he exclaims.
Jungkook responds to your picture text with a laughing/crying emoji.
“Done. Goodbye,” you say, sitting back down at your desk and ignoring Yoongi standing there. You open your now-cold croissant and coffee and go on about your work. He lingers, even smirks, but then goes.
Another message from Jungkook pops up.
Jungkook: Seriously, though, please don’t give up on Yoongi. He’s a miserable bastard, but someone told me that he has a tender and strong heart.