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Love Doesn't Cost a Thing

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“Do I look rich to you?” 

Hoseok shrugs, takes in his appearance. “You’re wearing jeans from Armani, so yes.”

“But they’re still jeans,” Namjoon argues, “Seriously, if you were poor and you saw me walking down the street, would you look at me and think, ‘This guy’s loaded’?” His hand fidgets with the jeans, definitely Armani and definitely new.

Hoseok doesn’t answer; he changes the subject like he does with everything. “You know what, I have a poor friend. He just dresses… plain. Like, sweatshirts, ripped jeans and old basketball shoes kind of plain.”

An idea slips into Namjoon’s mind then: “Can you call this friend?”

Hoseok grabs his phone, the silver one—“Sure, he owes me anyway.”

 


 

The elusive concept of an average life has been on his mind for a while. Of course, there’s so many occupational definitions, so many special cases or thin sub-divisions within the middle class, but Namjoon made up his mind long ago: some point soon, he wants to experience a lower standard of living.

Since he was born, Namjoon has only known opulence and comfort. His family’s rich, his friends are rich—it’s just life. Everyone in his life has been riding on the back of MonsterTech, his father's tech firm. And Namjoon knows there’s so much more out there. He’s just never been ready for it.

It’s not because Namjoon feels he has an obligation to the poor, or because he wants to elevate his reputation as someone who’s not an apathetic asshole. Namjoon thinks it would be fun. Interesting. And when the week is over, he’ll go back to life how it should be: luxury treatment, intelligent company, eventually marrying an heiress and starting a gold-blooded family.

Park Jimin, as Hoseok introduces him, isn’t what Namjoon expected. He’d expected someone dirty, with no manners or bad fingernails. But the boy in front of him is like Hoseok himself: smiling and cracking jokes and telling stories with wild hand motions.

“So what do you need my help with?” Jimin looks at Hoseok expectantly.

“Not me,” his friend laughs, “This guy here. Namjoon’s been quite rebellious lately, haven’t you?”

He brushes away the accusation, “I wouldn’t call it that. More like…open to exploration.” That doesn’t sound good, Namjoon thinks, so he clarifies, “I just want to live normally,  for one week. Call it an experiment.”

“‘Normally,’” Hoseok scoffs, “And look at this!” he points dramatically at Namjoon’s jeans, “Armani! Do you own Armani jeans, Jimin?”

Jimin smirks, “Nope, I don’t own Armani anything. And by ‘normally,’ do you mean like lower-middle-class? Because I’m an expert in that.”

Hoseok answers for him, turning into Namjoon’s mother figure, as he sometimes does, “He’ll need a hotel, some clothes, and a debit card.”

The shorter boy gives Namjoon a once-over, then decides, “We’ll start with the clothes.”

 


 

It’s not a shopping district like Namjoon has ever been to before. They take a chauffeur to get there—Namjoon doesn’t want to start his new lifestyle until he has to—and every other car in the lot is a beat-up minivan with stickers clinging to the bumper.

“Do you do this often?” Namjoon asks when they walk into the mall. There’s hardly anybody around, and it’s so commercial, with huge banners reading SALE and advertising podiums every five meters.

“Yep!” Jimin nods, “Except usually, I don’t buy anything. I just walk here, then walk around.”

Hoseok lets out a loud cackle, only to realize that Jimin is serious. “Then what’s the point?”

“I dunno,” Jimin shrugs, “It’s fun.” He leads them into a store, like every other one they’ve passed, all neon signs and large posters. “Alright!” Jimin claps his hands together, as though officiating something. “The basics of a budget wardrobe: T-shirt, jeans, like one pair of shorts, and a few sweatshirts. A flannel or two, maybe. Also, Converse shoes. Or knockoffs.”

Namjoon waits for him to continue, but it never comes. “What, that’s it?” he laughs, “No accessories?”

“If you want a hat or a belt, sure, but I’ve never really needed anything else.”

“No rings?”

“Are you married?”

“No, but—”

Jimin smiles. “Then no rings. We just want the clothing essentials here.” Namjoon feels like he should be taking notes at the simplicity of it all. “You can still look cool without, like, a four-piece suit and solid gold boxers.”

They leave the store with five plain shirts, one black hoodie, and three pairs of skinny jeans. And just as Namjoon is getting sick of the mall, they round the corner and everything smells wonderful. “There’s food here? I thought that was only at fancy malls.”

“Well, yeah,” Jimin explains, “I mean it’s not good food, but that’s kinda the point. Like, nobody comes to the mall for a four-star meal, you know?” Even if it’s not high-quality food, the smell is still delicious, and Namjoon resolves to come back here later during hell-week. Since he’s living like the common man, he’ll have to eat like one.

Namjoon has never prided himself in being particularly athletic, and that’s a shame because walking around a mall with shopping bags is a workout like no other. Jimin, however, is hardly winded, leading Namjoon to believe that the middle class has superhuman stamina. “Are you tired?” he whispers to Hoseok, “Because when we get back to your place, I’m falling asleep.”

Hoseok flashes a snarky grin. “Nope, you’re not crashing at my house tonight. You’ve got a big day tomorrow, remember?” There’s a glint in Hoseok’s eye that Namjoon doesn’t like, “Tomorrow’s your first day as the Everyman.”

 

***

 

DAY ONE

 

Namjoon wakes up not because of his alarm, but because of a soreness in his lower back where a spring prodded it the whole night. The hotel mattress is no luxury, and Namjoon worries he’ll be a hunchback by Friday.

The cheap travel-sized shampoo makes his hair stick up, and the thick-threaded towel makes his skin red. If Namjoon were to give the morning a rating out of ten, he’d say a solid 2.5.

On a typical morning, Namjoon eats breakfast, helps his father at the family tech firm (nothing too spectacular, just making copies and getting on the receptionist’s good side), and reads whenever there’s a slow spell. It’s a routine that has never failed Namjoon in the past, but there’s no bookshelf in the hotel room. He’ll have to improvise.

Thankfully, the wealth of knowledge that is Park Jimin has provided him with an in-depth daily schedule. It involves going to class, going to work, and going out with friends. It’s a lot of going and Namjoon’s not used to that. He can only do one of those; he’s not in school, and Hoseok has banned physical contact with him, but Namjoon’s been demoted for the week at MonsterTech. To a mailroom job.

He manages to trudge to the office—without a chauffeur, something Namjoon takes pride in—and it’s like the first day of grade school, if education constitutes as sorting mail: introducing himself to everyone, making mindless conversation, joining the assembly line of miserable clerks in deciphering messy Hangul.

Needless to say, lunch break is paradise.

The largest sign of a person’s status might be their go-to lunch location. Namjoon personally likes whatever the family chef makes, or French restaurants whenever he goes out.

The only cost-efficient place he knows for lunch is the mall Jimin took him to. It’s two blocks away, and that’s almost too much. There are more people this time, and only half of them carry bags. Namjoon makes a straight shot for the food court and hops in line for the only familiar place: McDonald’s. And even though the food of the other places looks much better, for some reason this McDonald’s has the longest line. Maybe the service is good.

It’s good, Namjoon decides as he nears the front of the line, because there are three young men behind the counter and all are extremely handsome. Hence, business. The man standing near the kitchen with a headset and firm voice—Namjoon can’t help but stare. Out of habit, he profiles all three: there’s the awkward one, the annoyed one, and the gorgeous one.

“What can I get you?”

Namjoon hadn’t realized he’s at the front of the line. It’s the awkward one, a timid teenager. Namjoon picks the first thing on the menu. “Uh, a number one, please.”

He monopolizes the wait by further admiring the gorgeous one, currently ordering people around with his head poked past the kitchen door. No matter where he goes, people-watching has always been a hobby of Namjoon’s. In high-end galas, on business-class airplanes, in budget food courts. He’s just interested.

“Sir, your food.”

It doesn’t look good, cocooned in paper and served with an empty cup, but Namjoon never expected good. “Thank you.” He moves for his credit card, only panicking for a second before Namjoon realizes it’s in his penthouse.

Swiping a debit card has never made Namjoon feel so empty.

 


 

Namjoon takes out his phone and Googles, lazily, ‘things to do in Seoul.’ He soon realizes there are plenty of things to do in Seoul.

‘Free things to do in Seoul.’

Namsan park is a place Namjoon only visited as a child, with his mother on boring days. And even though he’s an adult, today is spectacularly dull.

He passes over the bridge a few times before Namjoon dials Hoseok’s number.

“Wow, I thought you’d call way earlier!”

“Hello, Hoseok. Listen, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Hoseok gasps, and Namjoon can imagine his expression: exaggerated, fake shock written all over it. “Why not? It’s your idea, remember?”

Namjoon shrugs, even if Hoseok can’t see him. “It’s hard. And there’s practically no point. I’m going to move on and marry an heiress after this anyway, right?” He can still taste the grease on his tongue from lunch. Disgusting.

“Namjoon, it’s been one day,” he can hear Hoseok roll his eyes through the phone, “If you’re this miserable, then come back home.” That sounds like a challenge, and the one person Namjoon won’t turn down a challenge from is Hoseok. Now he has to stay the week. Hoseok continues, “I’ll send you updates on all the hot heiresses hovering outside your place while you’re gone. I’ll even hold down the fort for you. What did you do to deserve me?”

It’s going to be a long week.

 

DAY TWO

 

He’s going to the mall again. No matter how awful the meal was, the behind-the-counter view was amazing.

It’s a slow Tuesday, much less hectic than the day before. Namjoon has never noticed how fluid the city is, how much of a heartbeat it has. He’s lived in Seoul his entire life, but that’s all he’s done—spent years in a penthouse. Today people are bustling around, sharing the streets together. It’s a change.

The mall comes into view just as Namjoon rounds the block, accompanied by the low chime of coins in a plastic cup. It’s an older woman, slumped against a storefront, holding a sign explaining how she’s in desperate need of money. Namjoon's good at profiling panhandlers as well. This one's not faking it. He walks past; it’s not his problem.

McDonald’s is less crowded today than it was before, and there’s still the same three guys behind the counter: the shy one, the one who looks pissed off, and the should-be model.

“I’ll have a number two, please.” Namjoon thinks he might as well work his way through the menu. And then an idea comes: “Actually, do you have anything more… substantial?” It’s a vague word, and he doesn’t expect an employee at McDonald’s to understand, so he clarifies, “Like pasta? Or some type of barbecue?”

The cashier’s eyes widen too much, and the poor boy stammers, “It’s my second day, I’m sorry, I don’t know—”

“Excuse me, is there a problem here?”

It’s that guy, the gorgeous one Namjoon stared at yesterday, and now he has a better view. Broad shoulders, strong facial features, brown hair swept over a thick brow. Namjoon’s tempted to eat greasy burgers every day if it makes him look like that.

“Oh. No, no problem.” Namjoon gives him a smile and automatically moves to fidget with his suit pocket, except he’s not wearing a suit. “I was just wondering if you have any off-menu items?”

The man laughs, loud and sarcastic. “I mean, we can take the onions off your burger. Things like that.”

He’s not funny. “No, I was talking about actual food.”

“A burger is food. They’re good, too. We also serve chicken, which I highly recommend.”

Even though his face is stunning, this man’s attitude comes as a shock to Namjoon. He talks like this isn’t some chain disgrace to real food. “That’s okay, I’ll take my business elsewhere, then.”

“Suit yourself,” There’s a smirk at the man’s lips. Namjoon doesn’t like it. “Don’t make a habit of coming here if you’re going to reject our menu.”

Namjoon nearly laughs at that. ‘Establishment’ implies there was relevance to begin with. But then Namjoon becomes sure he was just casually banned from a McDonald’s. And the one who banned him made it sound so good.

 

DAY THREE

 

The third day is the worst yet. Namjoon sits there, holed up in the small hotel room, limited to a diet of cheap variety shows and soap that smells like chemicals.

In the mailroom, Namjoon is a zombie. He wonders if this is the fabled white-collar feeling, where work is a tragic obligation. Namjoon has never worked because he needed money before.

He calls Hoseok when boredom runs high, which is relatively early.

“How’s the high life?” Namjoon doesn’t really want to know.

Oh, it’s great,” Of course. “Your cousin’s over right now. We’re playing Just Dance. Jiminie’s here, too. Shame you don’t have a console.”

Ah, his cousin. Kim Taehyung, also fabulously wealthy, and Namjoon’s only competition for the inheritance of MonsterTech. Namjoon won’t let him have it for anything. “Well, I’m glad you guys can have fun without me.”

For the rest of the night, Namjoon watches brainless television and thinks about the pit in his stomach where a greasy burger could be.

 

DAY FOUR

 

Provisions start to run dry on the fourth day. Namjoon feels like a castaway, carefully rationing out supplies. It’s demeaning.

There’s a convenience store on the same block, stocked with generic house-brand items. He’s gathering water bottles when Namjoon sees him, in his broad-shouldered glory.

He looks different without the McDonald’s cap, but infinitely better.

“Oh, it’s you.” The words slip past Namjoon’s mouth without him even realizing.

Mr. Gorgeous glances up, gives him a long stare. “Me? Who’re you?”

It’s the perfect opportunity to plead mistaken identity, but Namjoon’s always been notorious for making things worse than they need to be. “You work at McDonald’s, right? I, uh, might’ve caused a scene the other day. Sorry about that, I’m used to more… fine dining.”

The brief flicker of recognition is quickly replaced by something darker. “Oh, yeah, I remember you. You’re the one who insulted my business. Sorry if fast food isn’t high-class enough for you, but we serve some damn good chicken and it’s not all processed—”

“Woah, hey, I said I was sorry.” And this is the tricky part, because Namjoon would normally offer, ‘I’ll send you a check,’ or, ‘We can talk over dinner, it’s on me.’ He’ll work with what he has. “I’ll buy you a coffee or something to make it up to you.”

The man doesn’t hesitate. “There’s a Paris Baguette down the street.”

They treat it like a business meeting (because this is all just a formality) which is much more comfortable grounds for Namjoon.

His name is Kim Seokjin, and he’s the shift manager of McDonald’s. The way Seokjin talks, it sounds like the most important job in the world.

The coffee at Paris Baguette isn’t fantastic, but the company is. Even though he’s hot-headed and mildly vain, as Namjoon discovers, Seokjin is confident and interesting and someone Namjoon could talk to for a long while.

“Okay, now you know all about me,” Seokjin says, even if Namjoon doesn’t know the first thing about him, “but what do you do? Besides criticize chain food stops.”

Namjoon doesn’t want to tell the truth, to say, ‘I’m actually the heir to a multi-million corporation, but I’m pretending to be bourgeois for the week.’ He settles on, “Mailroom clerk.”

Seokjin’s face is skeptical. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.” Sipping his coffee is a way of changing the subject. “So what do people do around here? For fun.”

“Things like this,” Seokjin says, “Going on coffee dates with problematic strangers—”

“—Hey, I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart.” Namjoon doesn’t comment on the ‘date’ part.

The other man laughs. “I don’t know if you pity me for some reason or what, but I just wanted the free coffee.”

Seokjin’s not bad. Namjoon tries to imagine what he’d be like as an affluent socialite. It doesn’t fit; Seokjin is too real. Namjoon has met countless people his own age who live like gods. Seokjin lives like a man. And to some extent, that’s Namjoon’s goal.

“We got off on the wrong foot,” Seokjin pushes some hair out of his eyes, “I don’t want you to think I’m some petty employee. We just—we work hard.”

Seokjin has to leave shortly after, and he pushes his receipt toward Namjoon with a wicked look. “Thanks for the coffee,” says Seokjin, “I needed it.”

 

DAY FIVE

 

“Can I take your order?” It’s the pissed-off cashier, but today he seems more on-edge, like Namjoon’s not supposed to be here. And he’s probably not, but after talking with Seokjin, Namjoon figured it was worth a shot.

“Sure, I’ll have a large order of chicken nuggets and a large drink.” If Seokjin likes the chicken, it can’t be that bad.

He pays, reluctantly forking over money and counting the change carefully. Namjoon’s cash money has been dwindling. It’s an odd and empty feeling.

Today there’s a sort of relief on Seokjin’s face. “You again?” Seokjin leans slightly on the counter. “Obviously, you’re not coming here for the food.”

The line behind Namjoon isn’t long, but long enough for him not to strike up a conversation. He leaves it at, “Yeah, but the service is pretty good,” and that’s all. The service.

“I’ll tell you what,” Seokjin says, “Flattery will get you places. You said you’re here for, what, a few more days?” Then he’s pulling a pen out of his company-issued shirt and scrawling a number on a napkin. “Call me if you need help. By that I mean, I think you need help.”

There’s this look in his eyes, this kind of ‘People like you don’t last long here’ look, and Namjoon just nods. And Seokjin walks back to being a manager, and the awkward one brings out his order on a plastic tray. “Hey,” he calls over the food court noise. Seokjin knows exactly who he’s talking to. “What’s with the change of heart?”

Seokjin laughs. “It’s because you’re hopeless.”

If Seokjin’s taught him one thing so far, it’s that intelligence and standard of living have no correlation.

He scouts out a table in the food court with a line of sight to Seokjin, realizing too late that the chicken tastes terrible.

Namjoon eats it all.

 


 

It’s been a long day. And Namjoon is tired and feels broke and Kim Seokjin is on his mind.

“Geez, this is like a bad drama,” Hoseok says, “You seriously got someone’s number? In a fast food place? You’re a changed man, Namjoon. What happened to eating gourmet and handing out business cards as tokens of affection?”

Namjoon sighs, takes back in the musty hotel room air. “Hoseok. I don’t wanna marry an heiress.”

His friend stays quiet for a while, then, “It’s okay. Heiresses don’t want to marry you, either.”

 

DAY 6

 

It’s an odd feeling, to understand that everything in life has been handed to you. This feeling smacks Namjoon in the face when he stands in the vending area of his hotel, wide-eyed in front of a washing machine. He’s never worn pants two days in a row before, and he’s not about to start now.

He’s never thought about using a washing machine, either. Clothes usually just appear. And there’s this drop in his stomach, the understanding that in this world—in this real Seoul that he’s never known—Namjoon is useless.

Useless and desperate. He can’t last two more days, or even one, and yet he doesn’t want the week to end.

Seokjin picks up the phone on the first try, something Namjoon hadn’t expected or had prepared for. “Hello?

Shit. “Yes, uh, this is Kim Namjoon.” He waits for some response, some ‘Oh, hello, Namjoon,’ but all Seokjin says after a moment is, “Yes?”

“This might be an inconvenience to you, and that’s fine, just let me know, but I might need your help.”

“Ha! I knew you would.”

Thirty minutes and one address later and he’s at Seokjin’s apartment. The main space is slightly larger than his hotel room, and Namjoon hadn’t realized how nice his hotel is until now. Seokjin is standing on the hardwood, and the couch behind him is pushed up against the back of a kitchen counter, and there’s a small television that looks far too old. “Make yourself at home,” Seokjin says, “Sorry about the mess.”

There’s hardly a mess; in fact, the room looks more polished than his hotel room (and definitely more lived-in).

Seokjin wastes no time in getting Namjoon a cup of tea because, “Rich people like tea, right?”

Namjoon’s sure that everyone likes tea, but he doesn’t argue.

It comes to the point where Seokjin is sitting, and Namjoon is standing, and neither of them talk. There’s a bit of tension between them, maybe because of their quarrel at McDonald’s a few days ago or maybe it’s a one-sided tension because Namjoon finds Seokjin insanely attractive (but anyone would).

“So you needed my help with something?”

Right. “Uh, yes. Well, I haven’t been completely honest with you.” Namjoon doesn’t really know how to start.

So Jin starts for him. “Please, I only met you a few days ago. And my wallet’s probably emptier than you’re used to, but rich people aren’t the only ones who can use Google.”

“And what exactly does that mean?” He knows.

“I knew something was up. You practically smell like you have money. Did you know there’s a man named Kim Namjoon who looks identical to you, but is much more high-profile and filthy rich?”

Getting a fake identity had completely slipped his mind, “Yeah, I know. Like I said, I need your help. I just wanted the authentic salt-of-the-earth experience, but I don’t know many people in your, uh, tax bracket.”

There’s that laugh, the squeaky one that’s been looping in Namjoon’s mind all week. “And I don’t know many people in yours. But we’re both here.”

They begin, for the next two hours, this crash course in independent living that Namjoon is positive he’s failing. It soon becomes clear that Seokjin is an absolute genius. He can do everything: the laundry, basic household management, and his cooking abilities are better suited for a sous-chef rather than any fast food worker.

“And then you just press ‘Start’ and it sets the timer automatically. Are you getting all this?”

He’s not catching one word. Namjoon’s been paying attention to Jin rather than what Jin’s doing. He’ll go back to his hotel and break the washing machine if he even steps near it. But he doesn’t want to tell Jin this, so he asks a question: “Have you ever considered modeling? I could set you up with an agency.”

That’s not the question Namjoon intended to ask. But Jin finds it funny. “Is that your weird, aristocratic way of calling me pretty?”

“Maybe,” He tries and fails to remember what moment the tension disappeared between them.

“You know, if you weren’t so rich I’d probably go for you,” it sounds like Seokjin’s been warming those words up for a while, “but since our statuses are so different, I'll help you pretend to be average instead. You're a piece of work, Kim Namjoon. A spoiled man who doesn't know what the definition of 'poor' is. But you've got a heart somewhere. And you're cute.”

Namjoon wants to argue that Jin should go for him anyway, because he’s stunning and because Namjoon is more-than-interested, but he’s learned not to argue with Kim Seokjin. He thinks, in the space between both their minds, that they’re equals.

By midnight Jin’s taught him how to cook, how to care for himself, and how to have a good time without champagne and small talk. And Namjoon knows of a million other things Seokjin could teach him—a million things he wants to learn. Like how to be patient, how to let go of everything but the moment, how to fall for someone in a few bizarre days.

Before he leaves Seokjin alone, Namjoon decides to make a proposition. “Hey,” he says, “After this week, I want to take you out to dinner.” Maybe it’s forward but Namjoon doesn’t care. “Like a nice dinner. Okay?”

Seokjin’s smile is wide and bright. “Alright,” he says, “If you’re paying.”

It’s a deal.

 

DAY 7

 

The day is spent packing up. Letting the hotel room become a hotel room again instead of his temporary house. He shoves dirty laundry in a bag and considers washing the contents when he gets home. Now, he knows how.

With every item he packs away, Namjoon turns more into who he was seven days earlier. It’s his final act of normalcy, the bidding farewell to a life he’s always looked down upon. Namjoon could spend a hundred weeks on debit cards and mailroom jobs and he’ll never truly understand what misfortune is.

At night Namjoon’s father—or his driver, at least—picks Namjoon up in a Mercedes. It a bit odd, being in a car again. “I hope you learned everything you wanted to, son,” he says, “Your bag’s here.”

He doesn’t sound impressed, doesn’t ask Namjoon how the experience was. Namjoon’s attention falls to his bag, which he typically carries around. He’s immediately hit by the smell of new leather and strong cologne. You practically smell like you have money.

From the window of the Mercedes, Namjoon recognizes the path he’d walk to the mall. And there’s a tug deep inside him to do something, because he might not get a chance to do this again. When Namjoon gets back to the penthouse, he doesn’t know what will happen. “Can you stop for a minute, please?” he asks the driver, “I forgot something.”

The driver steers toward a curb, and Namjoon’s father says, “Whatever it is, make it quick.”

She comes into sight quickly. It’s the same woman, at the same storefront with the same sign. The same sad jingle of coins on plastic. But this time, Namjoon opens his bag and fishes out some bills that he doesn’t need and doesn’t remember earning.

It’s the way her face lights up, the soulful grin and bright eyes that make Namjoon’s heart beat in a new way. A selfless way. “Thank you,” she says, “This means a lot to me.”

Namjoon could easily say the same.

 

***

 

He takes a while to readjust. Like culture shock. Namjoon’s fingers stumble as he ties his tie. He goes out for dinner and counts his change.

They’re all over him with questions: Hoseok and Taehyung and Jimin, like little kids when their father comes home from work. “It was alright,” Namjoon tells them, “I learned a lot. Thought it would be harder than it was at the end. But I got some help.”

Hoseok winks, but Taehyung, who never wastes time in getting to the point, asks, “Does this mean I can take over the company when your dad retires?”

Namjoon almost hesitates to say no.

 


 

“I don’t even own a suit. I mean, I own a suit, but it’s probably way too small because the last time I wore it was at—”

“Jin. Just wear a dress shirt and pants.” He’ll look good in anything. “Nobody’s going to see you anyway. Except me, of course. We’re in the private dining area.”

Hoseok told him, two days ago, not to go for anything too upscale because Namjoon doesn’t know how to do much without an excessive amount of money. It’s a learning curve. “I don’t see why we can’t go to, I don’t know, a cheap barbecue place or a bar.”

Usually, Namjoon would agree and do whatever his date wants. But this is different because this is Jin. “Just let me take you to a fancy place once. And next time, I’ll go wherever you want.” He can imagine it now: pizza parlors, street food stands. If it’s Jin, he’ll go.

“That’s fine,” His voice sounds more reserved, “Maybe I’ll even cook you something.

It’s a cruel promise, one that almost gets Namjoon worked up as he wonders what heaven this angel came from—cooking for Namjoon, looking amazing without even wearing a suit. Then Namjoon remembers (and maybe it wasn’t heaven, but hell):

“As long as you don’t pick McDonald's.”