Chapter Text
He’s never really explained why he broke up with you. Or maybe he has, but you were just too heartbroken to truly comprehend the excuses spewing from his mouth.
Either way, you know you’ve tucked away any unresolved feelings into a tiny box. Locked, bolted, and chucked out the window before sneaky hands (your own) come prying the lid of emotions open.
And in the four years that you’ve been apart — you in New York as a hot-in-demand architect and him in Seoul doing God knows what — you’d like to pat yourself on the back for not thinking about it. About him. Well, at least not that much.
It was only now, in the early stages of November, as you cruise through the arrivals hall at Incheon International Airport, personal phone nabbed to your ear, that you find yourself thinking back to him and openly admitting it. Dammit.
It irks you, because really, you shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. It’s been way too long, and Jimin sure as hell doesn’t give a damn about you — he wouldn’t have broken your heart otherwise.
You want to hate him. You’ve convinced yourself that you do, in fact, hate the man named Park Jimin. Though you must confess that ‘hate’ is an ugly word to be associated with. But Park Jimin may just be the perfect man on your list of People You Might Hate™ to fit that description.
“Yes! I’m back for November and December,” you tell your mother over the phone, pausing by a duty-free shop to glance at the selection of chocolates. “I’m scoping the land for an office branch: Jung Inc.” You walk onwards, the shop doesn’t carry those tequila spiked chocolates that you like so much. “You’ve heard of him? Yeah, I’m really excited.”
Handing your passport to the border officer, your mother continues to rant about how you haven’t been back home in the last four years, suspiciously lining up with the event of what shall not be named, and how you absolutely must come over for dinner tonight because she’s already invited all of your old university friends. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.
“Sure, mom. I’ll be there.” The official returns your passport, gesturing for you to head towards the customs hall. You bow before dragging your luggage along. “But if I pass out from a food coma, I’m suing you,” you say bluntly, though not unkindly. Your mother merely cackles, a loud and familiar sound that warms your heart.
“Okay, gotta go — see ya tonight!” you send your kisses before hanging up, earning a disparaging look from this middle-aged woman. Really, you should be the one judging her; her suitcase is pried open as the customs patrol calculates her tax fee for hauling over the stacks and stacks of…silicone butt pads? Oh, God.
In the cab heading towards your hotel (chosen and paid for by Mr. Jung himself), the sight of your childhood city sends waves of nostalgia and comfort. The streets and buildings are adorned with festive decorations: Christmas lights, inflatable snowmen, picture-perfect sleigh sculptures; it’s breathtaking. You only now realize how much you’ve missed Seoul, how much you’ve missed home.
“Is this the right place?” the cab driver asks, more out of routine than necessity, because how on Earth can he get the location of the most expensive hotel in the area wrong.
“Yes, thank you,” you smile politely, placing the bills on the blue tray in the center console of the car. “Keep the change.” You’re feeling a little generous tonight; the Christmas spirit must be seeping into your bloodstream this early in the month.
It takes you a total of two hours to settle into your room. The majority part of your time was spent ogling at the sophisticated design of the building, the impressive concrete structure, and the heavenly feel of your king-sized bed. You note that you’ll try thrice as hard on this project for Mr. Jung — he certainly deserves the best from you.
As you make your way to your mother’s house, a bubbling excitement sinks deep within the pit of your stomach. It’s unnerving and exhilarating to be back here. The city is bustling and hustling with life even through the festive ambiance. You’ve always been amazed by the work ethic of the people here, it’s inspiring really.
“Y/n!” you’re ambushed by a pair of hurdling men, engulfing you in a three-way hug before you had even managed to step foot into your childhood home.
“We missed you!” sings Taehyung, ruffling your hair with his knuckles.
“You don’t call us enough!” the other, Jungkook, scolds you. He pinches your nose causing you to squirm in their grasp.
“Because of the time zones!” you exasperate, finally prying yourself free from their firm grip by threatening to give them each a wet willy. Fools. All of them.
“Don’t use time zones as an excuse,” Taehyung laughs, linking his elbow with yours as he leads you down the corridor, “everyone knows that you don’t sleep — it’s like you’re allergic to it or something, you’re a vampire.”
“That’s not true,” you pout, easily falling back into your playful antics as you pull Jungkook down by his ear and jump onto his back. Jungkook, stumbling to find his balance, manages to support your weight by gripping under your thighs. “I sleep all the time,” you add, content with the simple dynamic you’ve always had with your friends.
“You don’t ‘sleep’,” Jungkook chuckles, craning his neck to see you sticking your tongue out at him, “you take naps.”
“Is that not considered as sleeping?”
“Nope!” the two men say in unison, eliciting a string of giggles from the three of you as you traverse closer to the living room.
The giggles travel along the walls of your home, echoing and bellowing until you hear someone shout, “what are you three laughing about?” In an instant, you leap off of Jungkook’s back and sprint to where you had heard your mother.
Standing by the dining table, you spot her setting out the plates and cutlery with Kim Seokjin, who was your mentor in university, and his husband Kim Namjoon, who you’re going to meet for the very first time tonight (unfortunately, you were unable to attend their wedding due to a major project that had actually sky-rocketed your career).
“We’ve got a celebrity in our midst,” your mother announces, giving you a kiss on the cheek.
“Not a celebrity,” you groan, “and please stop talking about me to your group of bored mothers, my fingers are all bruised from the barrage of ‘have you met my son’ messages I’ve replied to.”
Your mother snorts, fluffing her hair to hide the proud smile that ensues her face. “If my daughter is young, talented, beautiful, and successful; absolutely no one can stop me from showing you off to these so-called ‘bored mothers’.”
To say that the list of said adjectives your mother had used was correct wouldn’t be so farfetched. You’d become a living architectural sensation after your first project at some novelty company — an Italian-inspired bookstore that had garnered an insane amount of attention for its gravity-defying design — climbing high in the ranks of sought-after architects, a dream you had only dared to imagine.
Yet being the talk of the town was not something you enjoyed very much. As much as you were a social butterfly, your personality had always veered more towards the shy side. Reserved in a sense that many found respectable, or others mistook as snobbish.
“You’ve gotten so much prettier,” Seokjin laughs, wrapping you in a warm hug, “I see that time has been nice to you.”
You roll your eyes at his teasing comment. “You guys talk as if I’ve been gone for a decade,” you sigh in faux defeat.
“Well, it’s certainly felt like it,” your mother chimes in as Seokjin gives your shoulder a loving squeeze, “so won’t you be a dear and get the kimchi from the fridge? It should be in the middle compartment,” she informs breezily, twirling around your body to pull Seokjin away. “Now go, I need Seokjin here to help me plan the seating arrangements.”
“Seating arrangements?” your brow arches, tilting your head to the side. “Why are you making it sound so formal? Isn’t this supposed to be lowkey?”
“Yes, yes, it’s Loki. I like Thor more,” she churns nonsense, swatting you away with the gesture of her hands. In the background, you hear Taehyung and Jungkook giggling.
Skipping into the kitchen, you feel the overwhelming sense of giddiness flood through your system. It’s a merry reunion, being able to see your friends, despite the group being quite small, after so long. The thought almost makes you regret not flying over to visit more often. Almost. Because you had your reasons.
Rounding the corner of your hall, you freeze, the faraway smile across your face slips off immediately. You stand there like sculpted ice, staring vacantly at the man rummaging through your fridge.
In all your jet-lagged glory, you had completely forgotten to factor in the fact that Jimin is also considered as an ‘old university friend.’ You want to curse your mother for inviting him, because she knows what went down between you two and she knows how much it had impacted you. Yet you would never curse at your mother. She must have forgotten as well, seeing that it had also slipped your mind so easily.
An unwarranted wave of yearning washes through you. At the same time, you feel like you’ve been hit by a truckload of bricks, a grand piano that was tossed out from the top floor and dropped conveniently on your head.
He looks equally as alluring as the day you had met. Thick, dark locks dance along the frame of his face. He’s grown his hair out, you could probably tie it into a little ponytail if you wanted. You don’t want to.
His lips, slightly puffed and parted, are glossy red — like strawberries on a summer evening. The lines of his body are sleek, figure slim yet strong. His skinny dark washed jeans and neutral sweater does things to you; things you can’t and won’t name.
Jimin looks up from the refrigerator, his eyes blow wide for a split second the moment you lock gazes, only for him to placate his expression into something more friendly rather than surprised.
It both puzzles and irritates you because why does he look surprised to see you when he was literally in your home? And the more pressing issue is why was here even here in the first place?
Clearly, you’re still holding a very tight grudge against him, even after four years of no contact — it’s reasonable! Don’t question it.
“Y/n…hey,” Jimin greets, the same bright smile he had sported since being a chubby boy in high school.
“Hi,” you greet back, and it sounds very stiff.
Jimin scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish smile spreading over his lips. “How have you been?” he starts off, the awkward tension practically tangible.
“Fine.” You don’t ask him back because you couldn’t give less of a crap.
“Ah, that’s great to hear,” he nods, still smiling, “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
Shut the fuck up, is what you want to blurt. This man, with his sexy fucking eyes and gentle fucking features, was the last person you’d ever want to see. “Okay,” is what you settle for, rounding the counter to stiffly stand by the fridge.
Jimin blinks at you. Head cocking sideways as he asks with his eyes what you were doing. “I need to get the kimchi,” you say, pointing to the glass tupperware filled with reddish-orange fermented cabbage. His lips fall into a small ‘oh’ as he steps to the side, granting you full access to the fridge. You don’t say thanks, because you don’t trust yourself to talk in front of him. Either you’ll say something very spiteful, or you’ll say something you’ll regret entirely. Both are options you aren’t willing to risk.
Pulling the tupperware out, you evade any semblance of eye contact as you shut the fridge and turn on your heel. It’s when you finally reach the dining table, fingers whitening from how tight you hold the container, that you realize you’ve been keeping in a breath.
You slam the tupperware onto the table, startling the rest of the occupants who had seated themselves during your short time away.
Frowning, venom leaks from your tone as you hiss, “what is he doing here?”
Taehyung gulps. “Who?” You shoot him a glare, one that tells him not to play dumb right now, he won’t stand a chance against this version of you.
“Because he’s your friend, sweetie,” your mother offers, and she at least has the decency to look a bit rueful.
“‘Was’,” you correct through gritted teeth, “he was my friend. You know how I feel about him, just seeing his face has me—”
Your mother abruptly clears her throat, halting your speech. “Jimin, take a seat,” she says with a motherly smile. You refuse to look back, expression remaining cold as you slide into the empty seat. Your jaw clenches as you realize that the only other open spot lies in front of you.
Jimin hesitates for a beat. He glances over to your mother who simply sends him a reassuring nod. He shifts onto the chair before taking a big gulp of his wine.
The silence feels deafening, stretching on for seconds to minutes as the table sits through uneasy tension — no one dares to break the barrier that’s concerted between you and your ex.
It’s you who finally decides to speak up, the other guests sighing in relief, until they hear what you have to say. “Thanks for setting this up in such short notice,” you grin sickly, a hint of sarcasm laced in your tone, “I feel very…comfortable, right now.”
Seokjin rolls his eyes, hand patting over Jimin’s shoulder in which you pointedly ignore. Yes, your backhanded statement is directed towards him.
Your eyes flicker to Jimin, who’s already looking at you like the rest of the table. “That’s good,” he replies, keeping his tone even, “I was afraid you’d feel awkward with me being here.”
You can feel incipient anger building as you shove a spoonful of rice into your mouth. Muttering an indignant “I am,” under your breath, your eyes fall down to your food. If anyone hears you, they don’t address it.
Jimin, Jimin, Jimin. The dinner carries on with a deluge of compliments thrown his way. Congratulations on your promotion. What promotion? You don’t know. You’ve gotten so much more handsome. You’d choked on your drink at that, receiving a coy smile from him. Oh, you’re such a gentleman, Jimin-ah.
Barf.
You want to barf all over the table and force-feed it to the man.
No version of All I Want For Christmas is You can save you from this nightmare.
You decide then and there again that you hate him. You loathe the man named Park Jimin.
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
The first time you accidentally run into Jimin after your ‘welcome home’ dinner is at the restaurant you’re meeting with Mr. Jung.
To your surprise, Mr. Jung had chosen a much more toned-down place than what you would’ve anticipated.
“I’m not some spoiled bachelor, Mrs. Y/n,” he tells you, laughing at the question you didn’t mean to ask out loud, “besides, dining at restaurants like this is way more satisfying than those fancy places that have serving portions as big as a coin!”
You laugh at his humor, a quality that’s difficult to make up. “Ah, I’m sorry for assuming,” apologizing, you shake your head, “and it’s actually just Miss, not ‘Mrs.’”
“Oh?” he cocks a brow, eyes glinting with something. “Someone as accomplished and beautiful as you, I was sure you were already taken,” he says unabashedly, causing your cheeks to heat from the underlying compliment. “Then in that case,” he continues, “please call me Hoseok.”
“Hoseok,” you repeat with an outstretched arm, he grips your hand easily, following your lead as you shake hands, “pleasure doing business with you.”
Jimin could identify that laugh in an auditorium full of screeching children. He recognizes it the second it leaves your pretty lips — snapping his head from where he’s seated with Yoongi, his coworker, only to find you seated with another man; bright smile, eyes crinkling in the corners, body leaning forward to indicate your full attention.
The ugly green goblin rears its head, and Jimin has the sense to feel guilty for even feeling this way. What a coincidence that you’ve ended up in the same restaurant this evening.
He knows who you’re with: Mr. Jung Hoseok, CEO of Jung Inc.
He also knows that Hoseok is your current client, the only real reason why you’re back in Seoul at all. Still, does the dude have to sit so close? Does he really have to smile at you like that, like you’re the only girl in this restaurant? Hey! Hey…why are you laughing again? What did he say? It can’t be that funny, right? Is he funnier than me? Did you ever think I was funny?
The endless scroll of questions and queries runs through his mind. Jimin hadn’t realized he’d been staring at you until Yoongi snaps his fingers in front of his face. He asks Jimin if he’s okay, to which he responds with a simple “yeah, sorry,” ending the conversation right there.
Even with his eyes back on his company, his ears are tuned in on you. When you laugh, when you speak, hum, sip on your drink — it’s a bit daunting if he’s honest, yet Jimin can’t help it. It’s you. His ex. Whom he broke up with. Who he also hasn’t spoken to for over four years, and the first time he did after seeing you again was nothing short of a nightmare.
Jimin had tried to play it cool. Smiling civilly at the praises showering down on him – which he'd thought odd at first, because everyone was acting like they hadn't seen him in four years, even though they'd literally just celebrated his recent promotion two days ago. But later, Jimin had realized what they were doing. They were trying to fill you in on how he's been without you talking to him directly.
Your face had been set in a pensive scowl for the entire night, that didn’t go unnoticed by him. He’d catch the accidental glances you’d stolen, attempting to befriend you with amiable smiles.
You’d look away faster than he could count to one.
“Hey man, what’s up with you?” Yoongi asks, growing slowly frustrated that Jimin’s mind was clearly elsewhere.
“Huh?” Jimin blinks, snapped out of his introspection. His face heats up in embarrassment as he reaches for his drink. His movements became jerky and uncoordinated, leading him to knock over Yoongi’s wine glass in the process. The glass topples over the edge of the white-clothed table, red liquid staining all over its fabric.
“Fuck,” Jimin hisses, frantically cleaning the mess. A waitress rushes over with a damp cloth, waving a hand over Jimin’s inept shot at being helpful.
The restaurant goes silent, and across the room, your eyes widen at the scene — more so at the perpetrator than the situation itself.
“Must be having a bad day,” Hoseok comments, gaze also trained to the panicked man. After a moment, he turns back to you. “So, as I was saying, we- uh, Y/n?” he’s stopped himself to address the startled look upon your face. “Is something wrong?” Hoseok follows your line of sight to see that you’re still engaged in the scene of the wine spill. “Do you know them?” he asks instead.
His question causes you to blink out of your stupor, pinching your leg under the table to snap back some sense. “No,” you smile, finally facing his way, “let’s get back to talking about the construction details.”
The dinner ends and Hoseok walks you to the taxi stand, a light conversation that diverts from anything related to work. In the time you’ve gotten to know Mr. Jung, you’ve decided that you do like him. He’s very approachable and has an easy-going personality, allowing the surprising discovery of Jimin being in the same restaurant to slip your mind.
Exchanging goodbyes, you plan the next meet-up in around three days, where you’ll pull out mood boards and existing buildings to spark up inspiration. It’s only when you’re standing alone, arms tightly wrapped around your torso to ward off the cold, that you feel a soft tap on your shoulder.
“Hey,” Jimin waves timidly, and your previous good mood dissipates instantly. He notices this, pursing his lips. “Was that Jung Hoseok?”
“Yeah.” You don’t look at him. “And you?” You find yourself asking without actually wanting to. “Date night?”
Jimin knits his brows, “date?”
“The person you were with,” you extend vaguely, “at your table.”
“Um…I’m not sure who yo- wait…do you mean Yoongi hyung?” he gasps. “Hyung is my colleague.”
You frown. This conversation needs to end. He needs to leave. Stalking away from the man, you stop to wait by the other end of the taxi stand. To your discontent, Jimin follows easily.
“So, how was the meeting?” he asks, shifting his weight on his feet.
“Good. I like him.” You say with spite, purposeful words with purposeful intent. To hurt him like he’d hurt you. Not that you’re expecting it to, to your knowledge, the man had lost feelings long before you.
“You do…?”
“A lot.”
“Oh.”
You’d assume that he’d leave now, seeing how you so clearly did not want him here. Jimin doesn’t leave. Instead, he hesitates with his words before releasing a drawn-out exhale. The growing irritation makes you swipe your tongue across the top row of your teeth.
“This isn’t how I pictured things to go.”
“No?” you say flatly, glancing his way.
“No,” he shakes his head, “I’d hope that we could catch up, maybe hang out. I dunno,” he sighs, “you seem to be avoiding me.”
You scoff, a humorless laugh escaping your lips. “You forget that you’re the one who broke up with me. I’d much rather have nothing to do with you, Park.”
“I- yeah. I remember.”
He falters though, the past hanging above your heads like a water balloon on the verge of bursting. The bitterness and hurt in your tone rings loudly in his ears.
“I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry. Two words, simple yet fatal, gripping your heart like a vice. “It’s been four years,” you begin, shifting your stance to face him full-on, “I’m not some child, I’ve moved on.”
I’ve moved on. Three words, casual yet finite, send Jimin’s heart to the soles of his feet. He nods slowly. “I would only expect that,” Jimin says, unable to look you in the eye. Was he stupid enough to think that you’d return and everything would go back to how things were before? No, he knew that it was a slim chance, yet Jimin couldn’t help but hold onto that sliver of hope, that just maybe.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” you deadpan, squinting your eyes towards the road to find any nearing taxis. You need to get out of here, never mind the longing that bites your ass, being near him ignites emotions you had thought were buried long ago. Apparently, you were wrong.
“Ah, let me take you home,” Jimin offers shyly, gesturing to the empty line of taxis in front, “I don’t feel comfortable with you in a taxi alone this late at night.”
“I appreciate your concern but I’ll be fine.” You stick out an arm at an approaching taxi, only for it to drive past you without a second thought. The glowing words ‘taken’ flash across, and you sigh.
“It’s busiest at this time, you won’t find a taxi any time soon.”
“I have time.”
“C’mon, Y/n. Don’t be like this,” he drags his hand down his face, “you’re always like this.”
You didn’t like the way he said that, antagonizing you, and you make sure to voice your thoughts. “What does that mean?” you snap, eyes glaring.
“You never listen to me, to what’s good for you.” Jimin shoots back.
“And who are you to decide what’s good for me?”
The tone of your voice has become stark, trussed with a fury that Jimin registers instantly. He’s frustrated himself, tousling his hair until the strands fly in disarray.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he groans.
“Then tell me what you mean, because you do not get to talk to me like this. We’ve established that you left me — not the other way around. You don’t get to act as if you care about me now, Jimin.” You call his name harshly, and he stays silent, knowing you’re right. But you’re wrong about one thing; Jimin cares about you, deeply, and he’s not sure if you’ll ever believe him again.
You nod, taking his silence as a form of submission. “I’m glad you understand how I feel now.”
The months leading to your breakup had been going so well. Your years of architecture studies were coming to an end, being offered an undeniable internship in New York had only solidified the certainty of your future. A future you saw so clearly with Jimin and whatever he wanted to pursue too, because Jimin’s always been passionate about so many things at once.
There was never any mention about ending things, about cutting the string that had bonded your hearts. And even when you found out that Jimin couldn’t leave with you, having to stay in Seoul to take care of his parents, you knew in an instant that you’d stay with him. Wherever he was, you’d be by his side through it all.
You told him so on the day of your celebration, a flood of emotions spilled over as Jimin had cried so heavily — thanking you, thanking the stars, thanking the universe that you were going to be with him. “Endlessly,” is what you had promised. The rest of the night was a blur. Crying, kissing, clothes strewn all over his bedroom floor, and the most world-defying emotional sex imaginable. Now, you can only shudder at the memory.
You thought — no — you knew that he was it for you. Your other half, your star in the sky. Your star. Your mother had practically already considered him as a son-in-law. You loved him more than you could handle; more than he could handle too, apparently.
On the day, Jimin came over with his head held high. Opening the door, you attacked him with a heated kiss after not seeing each other for a whole week (he had been busy with final exams). When he didn’t reciprocate it, standing there lifelessly like a plastic mannequin, you knew something was off.
“We should end things.” He said the second you pulled away, eyes cold and distant, as if he’d locked away his ability to feel.
You had blinked at him, not comprehending his words.
“Y/n,” he sighed, as if calling your name exhausted him to his core, “I’m breaking up with you.”
The tears had brimmed in your eyes without you even realizing it. “Why?” you stammered, the world crumbling right before you.
“It’s just…gone,” he had whispered, “the spark, the feeling, I don’t…it’s gone.” No trace of guilt. No trace of further explanation.
“But I love you.”
He loved you too, it’s what he told you ever so often. There was no way feelings as strong as those could disappear that quickly, unless they weren’t as strong as you had believed them to be.
“I know,” Jimin finally said, running a hand through his hair, “that’s the problem.”
Your knees buckled, falling onto the hard floor of your apartment. Muffled crying, voice strained, as you pathetically held onto his ankles, begging. “No, please don’t leave me. Please, Jimin, don’t go. I love you. I love you, I love you…”
He shook off your grip, tears bursting into fully-fledged sobs. “I hope you go to New York, Y/n. Things are over between us, you have no reason to stay.” And with his final words, Jimin walked away, leaving you crushed on the floor.
He didn’t turn back. Not even a simple glance. He was gone within seconds and no longer yours to call; your heart had shattered into a million pieces, powdered all over the floor where you begged, even with him out of sight, to come back and meld the bits he had broken. He didn’t come back. So you left. You left for New York without sparing a single glance, just like him.
A taxi rolls up to the side of the road, a line of grey dots where the taken sign usually occupies. “I’ll be going now,” you say, fingers hesitant above the car handle. You dither around, a strange part of you wants him to stop you, to say something more. You question why you like to make yourself suffer.
“Y/n,” you pause, turning to face him, “there aren’t any stars in the sky tonight,” he comments dolefully.
“I know,” you say without looking, a sad smile, before slipping into the taxi.
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
The second time you accidentally run into Jimin is in the candy aisle at the supermarket.
“Y/n?” Jimin says, enchanting eyes always gentle to greet. He’s dressed in a white dress shirt, black slacks, and brown coat. Formal attire — he’s heading to work. It’s a nice look on him, prim and proper, put together. You don’t give yourself very long to appreciate it in fear of God knows what.
What sucks about moving away so suddenly was that you’ve never really gotten the chance to explore the rest of Seoul on your own accord. Most of the places you knew, Jimin knew them too. Most of the places you loved, Jimin loved them too.
It was only a matter of time before you’d end up bumping backs again — you just hadn’t expected it to be at the supermarket of all destinations.
“Oh, hello.” You force a mandatory smile, a glimpse into his basket that’s filled with cans and cans of beer, and you must’ve been making a displeased face because Jimin is quick to acknowledge it.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” you’re not exactly sure what it’s supposed to look like, “I’m buying these for—”
“Cool,” you don’t let him finish, memories of your latest interaction flicker through your mind, face grimacing. Dropping in the peppermints you had come here to buy, you make a move around him as you hastily leave the aisle.
You take a detour around the store, looping through rows and columns of products in hopes that he’ll leave by the time you make your fifth appearance in the chips aisle. The only problem is that your mother ends up calling you, demanding rather than asking you to check a few things off her grocery list: eggs, cinnamon, cereal — a random assortment of produce that causes you to furrow your brows.
And the infuriating mistake comes with you being a good daughter and listening to your mother, because just as you’re exiting the check-out counter, so is he.
“Your hotel room got a kitchen?” Jimin points at the groceries in your bag, stating what was obviously not the case.
“My mom’s,” you say as you both exit the store at the same time.
Jimin’s got his rack of beers held tightly in one hand, he jingles his keys in the other, and just as you’re about to walk towards the taxi stand, he calls for you. “Hey, let me take you there.”
You sigh, you were thisclose to leaving. Thisclose from patting yourself on the back for a job well done.
“I left my glasses there last time, I was going to go get them sooner or later,” he adds, a hand around your elbow already guiding you to his car. “Less cars on the road. Less pollution. Save the planet.”
“The taxis roam around the streets anyway,” you roll your eyes, slinking into the passenger’s seat.
Jimin shrugs after placing the grocery bags in the backseat.
When you arrive at her house, you find out that she’s not even home. “She’s not gonna hear the end of me,” you mutter indignantly, searching for the spare key under the welcome mat, under the potted plant, inside a bush. You’d applaud her for how well she has managed to hide the metal piece, yet you wouldn’t have to be locating it if she was here in the first place.
Jimin kneels down to pull something out of the underside of the mailbox, taking it as if he’d known it was there all along.
“Wha…” you gape, eyes bulging at the sight of the silver key, “how did you…”
“Wild guess,” he smirks, stepping inside as soon as he had unlocked the door, no hesitation whatsoever.
He weaves his way through your childhood home, deducing that the familiarity of his steps comes from being a once frequent visitor.
While the man disappears to retrieve his glasses, you make your way to the kitchen, promptly packing the items in their respective places. The eggs go in the fridge, the cinnamon in the spice rack, and the cereal in the top cupboard. Then, you’ll be your merry way, away from this man who seems to pop out of the dirt like magic.
And you’re almost done, if only you could reach for the empty cereal container on the top shelf to refill. Even on your tiptoes, you can’t seem to get this stupid plastic container.
Then, a warm palm encloses around your hips. You stiffen as an arm reaches over your head to grab the clear container, the scent of his musky cologne filling your nose. He’s on his tippy toes, you note as you look down.
Jimin sets the container on the counter, his palm around your body tarrying for a beat before removing himself from your space. “Ask me if you need help.”
“I can do it myself. You’re not that tall.” Scowling, you poke at his height, making him pout at you like the child he was.
“Jeesh, just trying to be helpful,” he sulks, peeking an eye at your expression in hopes that you see his obvious jutting lips. You do, but you put it there on purpose. Then suddenly, he smirks, as if a lightbulb had struck his mind. “Plus, seeing you tiptoe with your ass sticking out like that? Had to do something about it before my mind wanders.” Jimin flashes you a greasy smile, and despite the detest that should be bubbling from your throat, you feel rather hot at his comment. You know he knows from the way his grin widens.
“Ew,” you counter weakly, ignoring the heat that licks at your cheeks. “Don’t be gross.”
“Not gross, just honest.” Jimin winks. And maybe it’s his blatant flirting, or maybe it’s the familiarity of your banter, but you just hope that the reason behind your heart’s current thumping is due to irritation…not anything else.
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
The third time you accidentally run into Jimin doesn’t feel like an accident at all.
Probably because it’s not. Okay, it’s definitely not.
You’re at the worksite, sketching design ideas for the potential building, wrapped in a camel coat and burgundy wool scarf (it’s been rapidly getting colder), all the while balancing a hot cup of coffee.
As you turn to investigate the surrounding area, you glance up and freeze. Your work phone begins to vibrate in your pocket, a ringtone you had set specifically for Hoseok — the sound seems loud and shrill on this otherwise quiet morning.
“You should probably get that,” he says, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against your rental car. He’s dressed casually, no work attire like you had seen him in a few nights ago.
Jimin cocks a brow when you make no effort to move — your phone buzzes incessantly in the background. “It’s your work phone,” he adds, pointing to your personal phone, which you had left on the car seat. Finally, you pull it out of your pocket, eyes not leaving the man as he stares at you as if proposing a challenge.
“Morning, Hoseok,” you huff, taking a sip of your coffee. Jimin’s body becomes rigid at your greeting. He squares his shoulders before a hand reaches up to comb through his unruly hair. The strands fall down to frame his face, distracting you for a moment until you hear Hoseok’s voice again.
“Yeah, I’m just at the site. It’s a nice place, great lighting and ventilation.” Jimin watches as you nod, agreeing with whatever the man on the other line tells you. He notices the way your lips lift slightly at the corners, smiling, and it ticks something within him until he feels his jaw clench. “Umm. No, I don’t have anything planned later today, I—”
In a brisk motion, Jimin snatches your phone from your grasp, running around your car as you squawk silent curses. “Mr. Jung! Hello, I’m Y/n’s personal assistant,” he says hurriedly, dipping under your arms that attempt to take back your phone. “I’m sorry to inform you that Ms. Y/n is actually not free later this evening.”
“Jimin,” you hiss, smacking his arm that holds you a distance away, “stop it! Give me my phone.”
He sniggers evilly and grabs you by the wrist, abruptly whirling you around and pulling you towards him.
You tumble forward, letting out a small yelp as your back crashes into his chest. Immediately, Jimin cages you in. With his free arm, he wraps your flailing arms tightly around your sides. “Oh, of course, Mr. Jung,” he says overzealously, chest bouncing with each word, “I’ll be sure to tell her that you’re free this weekend. Have a good day — bye!” He cuts the call and stuffs your phone into his pocket.
You’re boiling, sizzling with fury as he lets go of your body to turn you around. “So, about—”
“What the fuck, Jimin!” you whisper-shout, shoving your hand into his pocket to take back your phone. “What are you doing? Telling Hoseok I’m not free? I am!”
Jimin winces, fighting the urge to shrink back beneath your intense gaze.
“What do you want from me? What are you doing here?” you parade him with questions, eyes hard and unrelenting.
“I dunno,” Jimin shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets, “I just wanna hang out with you.”
“Why?” you quip bluntly, guard automatically being pulled back up. Your suspicions of him never dwindle — you won’t allow it to, not with the history that lies between. You unlock your phone, ready to shoot an SOS text to either Jungkoook or Tae when he snatches it out of your grip for the second time.
“Don’t text them,” he begs, “I promise I’m not here to do anything bad.”
“Then why are you here?” you grit out, annoyance leaking in your voice.
“I already told you. To hang out.”
“I don’t want to hang out with you.”
Jimin frowns. You yank your phone back and pace to your car, missing the crestfallen expression he holds momentarily.
“C’mon, let’s just go get ice cream,” he trails after you, hopping in front to block you from reaching your car.
“Move.”
“Or do you wanna go bowling?” he mirrors your movements to prevent you from slithering around. “Let’s see how well your skills have held up.”
“I said move,” you huff.
“Okay, no to bowling. Maybe a movie? Ah but then we can’t talk.” Jimin cuffs your wrists with his hands. You freeze, taken aback. “Don’t run away from me.”
His words, imbued with an emotion you can’t decipher, cut deep into your skin. You find yourself exhaling, eyes shuddering defeated. “Do you not have a job to go to?”
“It’s Saturday,” Jimin pouts, “do you want to go to the arcade?”
“Ji—”
“No? Okay. Does shopping sound better?” he tries before snapping his fingers, pointing it between the dot of your eyebrows. “That’s it! Shopping! You love shopping, I know you do. Let’s go,” he says all in one breath, sparing you no time before he’s thrusting you into the passenger’s seat and starting the engine of your rental car.
You are, to say the least, appalled. Flabbergasted and utterly stunned by how nonchalant he’s been about the matter when in reality, the gravity of the current situation lays heavy like ankle weights. You’ve been nothing but rude to him since your time of returning, so why is he so insistent on coming back to you. Finding you in the crowd of Seoul. Searching and reaching.
It makes no sense. You want to bonk him on the head. It’s unfair to your heart. It hurts your head. It makes your stomach churn in the most delightful and agonizing way possible.
Fuck this. Fuck him.
He can’t do this to you when he’s already broken your heart. No closure on your end, which is partially your fault for running away so fast.
Still.
That day at the mall you find yourself enjoying his company more than you’d like to admit. More than you’d ever admit.
He’d bought you ice cream, he’d bought you some clothes, he’d bought you a book about architecture and inspiring beauty. You never asked him to, Jimin just did it.
He ended up taking you to the movies, tempting with the sneaky ole’ yawn and stretch tactic to wrap his arm around your shoulder. Of course, you’d push him away, inducing a fat snort out of his nostrils that earned several harsh shushes from neighboring viewers. The movie concluded with your head on his shoulder, a hand on your thigh, rubbing small circles into your skin.
He ended up taking you bowling afterward, despite your serious protest. Turns out, you’re still better than him. Either that or he just lets you win. Come to think of it, he’s always just let you win — the smug smirk that ceases to be rid of his face each time you’d boast about your apparent victory to his face.
You dawdle in the adjacent arcade moments later. Playing some shooting game where he has to constantly revive you. You forget yourself there, laughing freely at the way his brows furrow in concentration when you had died for the third time in a row, leaving Jimin to play by himself.
He leads you to the claw machine, a glass case filled with chick plushies, round and chubby like an egg. Jimin successfully claws one out after his sixth attempt, handing it to you with a proud, unwavering smile. He winks, and you roll your eyes like second nature.
Jimin sucks. Jimin sucks because he’s being so blatantly nice, as if he’d never broken up with you at all. As if you haven’t been an absent energy in each other’s lives for the past four years.
Still.
It feels oddly natural. Your heart throbs in your chest with every wistful touch and lingering glance.
You hadn’t let down your guard, it’s not easy to rebuild the wall of trust after years and years of unanswered pain. A pain that spreads out along the surface of a cold, dark ocean until it’s forgotten. But forgotten never means gone.
That day, unbeknownst to you, Jimin had laid down the first brick.