Chapter Text
You can’t help but think to yourself that you should invest in some cowboy boots. You could make them work, you’re sure of it.
Even if you know you would never pull the trigger on purchasing any, too far out of the comfort zone of your normal style, the thought is the only thing keeping you sane—that, and the sound of Cowboy Carter blasting through the speakers of the bar, a welcome reprieve from the drawling country anthems you’ve been suffering through for the past hour or so.
You pride yourself on seeing the merit in all genres of music, you do. You’ve always been the type of person to puff up your chest with pride when you tell people, ‘I listen to everything,’ uncaring of how pretentious it may sound. You mean it. It’s an asset in your line of work, and as far as you’re concerned, a little bit of pretentiousness is a small price to pay for the, quite frankly, baller route your fledgling career is heading in.
But a western bar? Not the kind of place you’d spend a Friday night willingly. Your typical Friday involves you hunched over your laptop, drowning in deadlines, or—on a rare night where you clock out before midnight—re-watching Gilmore Girls and mentally compiling your latest thesis on why Rory is, objectively, the worst.
That was the plan tonight, before you were intercepted on your way out of the office.
It’s not that you don’t like your coworkers. They’re fine. Smart, capable, occasionally even funny. It’s just… Gilmore Girls nights are sacred to you. You were finally getting to the Jess of it all.
But, after months of skillfully avoiding the weekly Friday nights out with the other rookie reporters at the magazine, you’d run out of excuses not to join them. If four years studying communications taught you anything, it was that connections are everything in the journalism business. Especially music journalism.
So here you are, at your fourth stop of your night of bar hopping with your extroverted and extremely drunk coworkers, nursing warm beer and observing from the least populated corner you managed to scout upon entry.
You’ve been a good sport. You really have. You cheered. You clapped. You downed cheap tequila shots and even suffered through holding an intern’s hair back in a borderline-biohazardous bathroom. But you draw the line at square dancing. College may have beaten most of the awkward out of you, but you still have your limits. Your social battery can only take so much.
Your phone battery, too, you think bitterly as you stare down at the taunting sliver of red in the corner of your screen.
Okay, so you’ll finish your shitty beer—because you’re not quite successful enough yet to afford wasting alcohol that you’re paying for—and then use your phone’s remaining juice to catch an Uber home. No biggie.
You’re mid-motion, locking your screen, just starting to mentally rehearse your exit strategy when you realize, with no small amount of irritation, that your chosen corner is about to be invaded.
Your eyes land on a pair of black Jordans (in a western bar? your mind supplies, as if you have any room to judge in your Docs) and travel up, past torn black jeans and a black shirt. The monochrome theme continues all the way up to a head of (regrettably, very nice) black hair and a pair of the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen. Anish Kapoor would wail at the sight of these eyes, you think.
As if sensing your apprehension, your corner-thief raises his free hand (the other clutching a plastic cup of his own) palm out, as if to say ‘I come in peace’, and stops dead in his tracks.
“I can find another spot,” your corner-thief says, the low rumbling of his voice barely audible above Texas Hold ‘Em. “I’m just waiting for one of my friends to get bored or injured so I can leave.”
“Injured,” you echo, blinking. That… was not the word you were expecting.
You mean to shrug, maybe give a nod to let him pass. But something about his word choice throws you. Plus, your phone is dead, your beer is flat, and this guy is—if nothing else—much easier on the eyes than the beer pong bros you’ve been observing for the last forty-five minutes.
Corner-thief grins a (stupidly charming) gummy smile, leaning just the slightest bit closer to be heard better, but still keeping a respectful distance. As if he’s still wary that you’ll lunge at him if he encroaches on your space any further. Good man.
“There’s a mechanical bull upstairs,” he clarifies, using his index finger on the hand holding his cup to point at the ceiling above you both.
Of course there is. With your luck, you’ll also have to peel someone off the floor later after going head-to-head with the bull.
“Not your thing?” you guess, glancing pointedly at his Jordans, and he shakes his head, huffing through his nose in mirth.
“No, I wouldn’t say so."
He pauses, shifting from foot to foot for a moment before speaking again. "So, will you share your wall? I can look around again but this place is more packed than I would’ve pegged it for.”
You nod and he smiles again thankfully, taking the spot on the wall next to you.
That should be it. Two strangers who don’t want to be here standing in companionable silence while they wait for their people—your coworkers, his friends—to put them out of their misery and let them go home.
But…
You consider your options, and as your phone takes its dying breath in your pocket, you sigh, turning to him.
“Y/N,” you say, extending a hand.
He takes it in his free one, eyebrow raising in amusement as he shakes. “Yoongi.”
“What’s that look for?”
Yoongi laughs again, more full this time, and your heart does a stupid, funny thing in your chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever been greeted by a pretty girl in a bar with a handshake,” he says.
You practically yank your hand back, your face heating as you bring your drink to your lips in an attempt to recover. Of course.
A western bar certainly isn’t your scene, but admittedly, neither are bars or clubs in general. You got all of that out of your system in college where everyone was awkward as fuck or too drunk to care that you were, and ever since you got your degree you have lived and breathed your work. Your social skills were never quite up to par, but you didn’t realize you were this fucking embarrassing.
“I came out with coworkers right after we got off, so I think I’m still kind of in work mode,” you lie, and as if sensing that you feel slightly made fun of, Yoongi shakes his head.
“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, swear,” he says, tilting his head at you. Dark eyes considering you. “Honestly, I’m thankful you’re putting up with me at all. I don’t think I’d be so kind if the roles were reversed. I know firsthand how hard it is to find a spot to breathe in places like this.”
You let out a small laugh, relaxing just a little. “I almost did. But my heart breaks for a fellow introvert without a hiding place.”
“At least I’m out with friends,” he says sympathetically. “I’ve done the coworker thing before. It’s a drag.”
“It’s weird,” you correct. “I mean, I sit in meetings with these people. I avoid answering their emails all day. Why is it considered rude to not want to see them piss drunk?”
Yoongi hums in agreement, nodding his head. “What do you do, anyway?”
“I work for Look Here magazine,” you say, standing a little straighter when his eyes light up with recognition. He angles toward you, shoulder brushing the wall, and you mirror him. “I’m a staff writer for the music section.”
“No shit? I’ve probably read your stuff, then,” Yoongi says, grinning.
He’s cute. Hot. Charming. You can’t help but notice, no matter how hard you’re trying not to. Particularly, the way that he seems to carry himself might end up driving you crazy if you’re exposed to it for too long. Maybe you’ve been living under a rock, but you’ve never met a fellow wallflower who manages to exude such confidence—the kind that doesn’t overpower, just lingers in the air like cologne.
He wears it insanely well.
“Look Here covers a lot of big artists,” Yoongi continues, snapping you out of your thoughts. “I’m a little surprised you’re hugging the wall, honestly. This place is nothing compared to music industry parties.”
“Ah, I only started a few months ago,” you admit sheepishly, looking down into your cup. “Not a lot of bylines yet. I haven’t made it into a room with an artist that big.”
“But you want to,” he guesses, and you nod, looking up to meet his eyes. He looks impressed, impressed by you, and that… does something to you. Huh. “Shit, that’s… That’s really cool.”
“Thanks,” you say. You can feel your cheeks heating up again, and you’re suddenly very eager to turn the attention away from yourself. “What about you? What do you do?”
“Ah,” Yoongi says, fixing his eyes to his cup just as you had a moment ago. “I’m a music producer, actually.”
You perk up at that. So that’s why he reads Look Here, why he seemed so interested when you told him what you do.
“Anything I’ve heard?” you ask, leaning in like he’s about to tell you a secret. Networking never stops.
He watches as you lean, his mouth turning up at the corners in a smirk. “Probably."
You wait for more, but it doesn’t come. Shithead. So much for that.
"You’ve gotta give me more than that,” you say, and god, you can hear the pout in your own voice. Are you that drunk? Flirting for a lead in a story?
“I don’t,” Yoongi says simply, his smirk in full force now. Mean and annoying and hot. He hasn’t leaned away from you yet. “I want to know more about you, actually. Journalism is hard work. I’m surprised you have time to go out like this.”
“Like I said, I was forced.”
“Still. Spending time with your friends or family or partner or whatever must take priority when it comes to your free time.”
Why is he asking? You squint at him, trying to parse his angle. But your drink loosens your lips before your brain can object. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, anyway.
“My family is back home. My best friend is this insanely talented playwright. She’s constantly traveling. I see her when she can get some time to fly out. Otherwise, it’s just me. And dating…” You take a quick sip of your drink, ignoring the pang in your chest. Sometimes it sneaks up on you, how lonely you are. You shrug. “People don’t get the job. It always ends in hurt feelings.”
There’s a long pause, and you’re worried you’ve shared too much. You’re enjoying talking to Yoongi. You know it doesn’t matter, that you’ll likely never see him again, but it would really, really suck if his permanent mental image of you ends up being ‘lonely weird drunk girl,’ even if that’s what you are. You force yourself to look up at him. The look in his eyes makes your heart flip stupidly again.
“I get that,” he says, and his voice is soft, barely audible over the music filling the space. You’re reading his lips more than anything, honestly, and you don’t let yourself look at them for too long. He may be pretty—unbearably so, you’re realizing—but he’s a stranger. A mean, annoying, hot, pretty stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Every guy says he gets it.
This needs to stay what it is, you think. Momentary companionship between introverts who would rather die than square dance.
You don’t get much time to agonize over it. Whatever is going on between you and Yoongi is quickly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket, and his responding grimace when he pulls it out to check it.
“Namjoon fell off of the mechanical bull,” he says, like he’s completely unsurprised by that news. He downs the rest of his drink and pockets his phone again, pushing off of the wall. “I’ve gotta deal with that.”
You nod, pulling what you hope is a sympathetic face. “Good luck.”
His bottom lip catches between his teeth, and you hold your breath. He looks like he wants to say something, torn between rushing upstairs to save his friend and staying, just for a moment.
You think you know what he wants to say, think foolishly that maybe he wants to ask for your number, and you honestly don’t know if you’d give it to him if he did. You’re so used to saying no.
He runs his fingers through his hair, opens his mouth to speak, and then he looks down like his phone is buzzing again. When he looks back up, it seems like he’s thought better of it.
“Thanks for sharing your wall,” he settles on, smiling congenially. You smile back, and then he’s heading towards the stairs.
Good, you think. You know better. If he really gets it, he does too.
★ ★ ★
You get dragged to one more bar before you make it home. You’re not sure how you agreed to it, but you choose to blame it on the warmth in your chest left behind by that conversation, those dark eyes, that stupid, infuriatingly charming gummy smile. In a matter of minutes, a complete stranger had knocked you just far enough off balance to keep saying yes when you meant no.
And maybe that wasn’t the worst thing—your coworkers seem to like you more tonight. There’s a lightness between you all now, easier conversations, inside jokes beginning to form. It’s nice. Worth it, maybe.
But by the time your Uber spits you out in front of your building, you’re deeply regretting all the different kinds of alcohol swirling around and threatening a coup in your stomach. You shuffle into the elevator dizzy-drunk, fighting to stay upright, the hums and clangs of the old machinery doing nothing to help the way the world spins.
You lean against the back wall, head lolling slightly, as the floor numbers creep by like they’re in no rush at all. Your reflection stares back at you in the smudged metal paneling. Hair a mess. Lipstick long gone. A zit 100% forming on your chin.
Great.
The elevator dings. You stumble out, already digging through your bag with one hand, the other dragging along the wall for balance. You’re sure you put your keys in here. Or maybe in your coat pocket?
“Come on,” you mutter, your fingers brushing everything except what you need—lip balm, receipts, your emergency tampon—before they finally find purchase around your keys.
You’re fumbling and failing at getting your key into the lock of your front door, tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration, when a voice calling your name a few feet to your right almost makes you jump out of your skin.
You yell, clutching your chest, and when you turn to face the owner of the voice that almost made you lose the contents of your stomach on your doormat, you’re greeted by none other than corner-thief-mean-annoying-hot-pretty Yoongi himself, leaning against the door to the apartment two doors down from yours.
“What the fuck,” you blurt out dumbly, and he laughs. At you! How dare he stand there, lean there, all hot and annoying and in your apartment building for some fucking reason and laugh at you?
“I was going to ask if you needed help,” he says, and oh, fuck. You were safe from just how deep his voice was under the thrum of the music at the bar, but in the quiet of your apartment building this late, you can hear it just fine. Feel it, even. Feel it in places you do not want to humor right now. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say you do.”
It’s obvious that Yoongi is faring much better than you are, although his night clearly didn’t end after the mechanical bull incident. He gently takes the key from your hand, brushing your fingers with his, and with a single turn—click. The door unlocks like it always does, like it’s easy.
“Gonna make it in okay?” he asks, looking down at you. You force your brain to make words.
“I’ll be okay,” you assure him, your tongue heavy in your mouth. “Are you stalking me?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I think we’re neighbors.”
“Oh.” Oh. Okay. That’s fine. Just because he’s your neighbor doesn’t mean you have to do something stupid, like see him ever again.
“Give me your number,” he says softly. Oh.
You blink at him, and he grins. Gummy smile. You feel like you’re going to vomit all over his Jordans.
“In case you ever can’t use your keys again,” he clarifies, his tone low and teasing. “I told you, those music industry parties are killer.”
And really, you’re powerless to resist. You give him your number, using all of your remaining brain power to remember the order of the digits. Seemingly satisfied, Yoongi pockets his phone and steps back, heading back to his front door.
“Goodnight, neighbor,” he says, unlocking his door with ease. “Sleep on your side.”
You swallow thickly and nod, slipping inside your own apartment as quickly as you can manage.
Once you’re in, you sink onto the floor, your back pressed against the door behind you. Your cat Pepper, perched on your coffee pot, stares at you in your drunk, flustered state, unimpressed. Offended, even, judging by the way she licks her paw.
You’re so fucked.