#I’m just grumping comics be like that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shediot · 1 year

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SUMMARY → Known as the Scrooge of your town, you spend the majority of your life isolated from others. Yet, when the child of a brother you never knew you had winds up on your doorstep in the dead of winter with nowhere else to go, you find yourself reluctantly opening your home to her. And perhaps, with the help of the townsfolk you’ve spent your life avoiding, you can open your heart, too.

PAIRING → Jin/Female Reader

TAGS → Christmas fic, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Family, Nice Jin, Single Dad Jin, Mean/Grump OC, set in an early 90s small town

WARNINGS → Angst, Past Death, Irresponsible Grieving, Alcohol, mentions of a physical fight and its bloody aftereffects (non-graphic).

WC: 55k

18+ only.

AO3

“No. No. Absolutely fucking not. Get. Off. My. Property. I am not throwing money at whatever crock of a charity you’re going to claim this is.”

Hugging the brown sack stocked full of your groceries for the week to your chest, you scowl at the intruders standing on your front porch as you walk up your cobblestone pathway to get a fuller look at the pitiful image they portray: a man, wiry and tan, with chocolate-brown hair and an affable smile that slowly fades as he turns around from knocking on your front door to watch you come up on your porch. Beside him is a young girl in a poorly-patched coat and mittens, her hair in haphazard pigtails and her wide eyes a dark, pitless black. She looks as miserable as you feel, which, while not necessarily typically characteristic of the children who are forced to go door to door singing jingles to collect charity donations, is an expression you feel is entirely fitting to the actions their parents force them to undergo.

Directing your attention away from the pitiful little girl back to the grown man, you shift the weight of your grocery sack onto your hip so you can point, away from your door, down the winding path that leads to the road, at the signs that are staked firmly into the ground, unbending. “See those signs? They clearly state that this is private property and thus, you are trespassing. Being unable to read at your age is quite pathetic, but not a plight I’m particularly tenderhearted for, so if you’re here to try to panhandle some cash for illiterate adults like you, you’re in the wrong place.”

The man scrunches his brows together, though his expression grows grim — like a wave of cold reality has just splashed him in the face. “Miss, we are not here to collect donations. My name is Jung Hoseok, and I’m a social worker. You were listed you as the next of kin for Ms. Cho Dasom here, per her father, your brother.” He grabs her shoulder in a comforting manner, a hopeless smile etching itself into his grimness of his visage.

You look back down at the child — Dasom — who says nothing, only staring back with those bottomless eyes.

Then you laugh, wry and dry. “Nice prank,” you say. “Now get off my property.” You sidestep past the pair, shimmying your front door key out of your pocket. You slide the key into the lock and open the door, using your shoulder to turn on the light. You move your foot back to kick the door shut behind you, but it meets with a loud thunk of resistance.

Immediately, you move from mildly amused to irate, as irascible as you can be, and you whirl around to glare at Jung Hoseok, who holds the door open with one arm, the other still resting on the shoulder of Dasom.

“Ma’am, this is not a prank,” he says, sounding harried, which is ironic, because you’re the one being put upon.

“If it’s not a prank, then it’s some weird, elaborate ploy to get me to shill out some money. Because, Mr. Jung, I don’t have a brother,” you say. “I’m an only child.”

Hoseok frowns. It’s comical, you think, how much this man wears the way he feels on his sleeves like a fitted, luxury coat. Showy and unable to be denied.

Despite his troubled expression, when he speaks, he sounds clear and sure, the first resonant note of an acapella song — he says your name. First and last. And then your mother’s name, first and last. Which isn’t an issue. This is accessible information: just point at a any member of town and ask. Nine times out of ten, someone knows of you.

The issue is when he says your father’s name. “Cho Chulsoon. Dead as of three days ago.”

That’s when he attracts your attention, and by studying his expression, you know he’s caught on to your interest anew. He steps forward, continuing his spiel, though his eyes glisten, as if genuinely upset upon relaying this sort of information.

“His wife, Lee Haseul. Dead in 1988. Cho Daehyun; the son of Cho Chulsoon and Lee Haseul, deceased as of May of this year.” Then he shakes the girl’s shoulder lightly. “And Cho Dasom, Daehyun’s daughter. Born in 1987.”

Having been properly stunned into an unwillful silence, you slowly set your lone sack of groceries on the oaken table in your foyer. The table had been a labor of love of your father’s, constructed decades ago. Made by the same hands attached to the same man who had abandoned your mother and you, years ago.

You hadn’t known your father had used his penchant for craftsmanship to make an entirely new family for himself before kicking the bucket, but you suppose, all things considered, it makes perfect sense.

Refusing to look at the little girl standing silently outside your front door, you try, voice steady, “Can she not go to someone from her maternal side? Where’s her mother, for that matter?”

You suspect the answer before you receive it, but it doesn’t lessen the blow.

“Well…” Hoseok swallows, wringing his hands.

“Also dead,” finishes the little girl. Her tone is blank, empty, void of much emotion at all. She could have very well just told you the sky was blue, for all the hurt she sounded.

Hoseok seems encumbered with the weight of the world more than the girl does, but he says, “There isn’t anyone else. You are Dasom’s only living kin.”

Feeling a twisting in your stomach, you sink down onto the ledge of one of your living room’s armchairs, trying and failing to process all this — all this bullshit that’s just plopped in your goddamn lap.

“Fucking Christ.”

This is not how you expected your planned day of relaxation to go. All you wanted was to run your one errand, hurry home, draw a scalding hot bath, light some pine-scented candles and immerse yourself into a good book and let the outside world fade to black before working some on your manuscript.

This was not in your plans. Not for today, tomorrow, nor ten years from now.

This? This kid? She’s a wrench thrown in the midst of your meticulously crafted plans. Upturning everything, making it topsy-turvy. You feel like it, certainly; as queasy as if you’d just ate five theme park hot dogs and then got on a spinny ride.

(That is to say, you feel very queasy.)

“Can we come in, Miss?” postures Hoseok, quiet and testing, as if afraid to startle a skittish mouse he wishes to trap. “It’s quite cold out here.”

You hadn’t even really taken notice of how cold it is outside, ice-cold as your blood is at the moment, but you give an empty nod of assent, and Hoseok steps inside, swiping the bottom of his loafers against your mat, and Dasom trails in behind him. The social worker carefully shuts the door behind him.

“Look. I know you’re hoping I’ll take the kid in,” you say, an internal bruising in your ribcage blooming, “but I am definitely not in any position to take care of a child.”

Hoseok only gives you a pitiful gaze. “Could we have this conversation in… Private?”

“Oh. Yes.”

You give Dasom a nervous look. Hoseok immediately attempts to put that to rest. “She’ll be fine out here, I assure you.”

Still unsure, you stand, gesturing him down the hall, to the door on the left. Into your office. The place you come to do what you do best: write.

Hoseok shuts the door behind him, looking cautiously around your office, as if studying every piece of it. Your large, ornate wooden desk, pristinely kempt, maybe. Or the wall-to-wall shelves of books. In this room is where you keep your non-fiction books, according to the dewey decimal sorting system, which you strictly adhere to. You own books exploring the humanities, such as philosophy, the social sciences, linguistics, memoirs and historical accounts. You also wield an assortment of books that explore more than the human realm; the world of science. Astronomy, geology, physics, paleontology and more.

If a book exists, it’s very likely you own it. You are quite greedy in this sense, rapacious for knowledge.

Hoseok’s widened eyes take in the whole of your office. Your kingdom. A life within these four walls; a life you built by yourself, for yourself.

He clears his throat, still looking at your mini-library. When he speaks, he’s quiet. Likely to avoid prying ears. “Well.. If it’s financial assistance you seek, we do have programs, but considering your… generous income, I’m not certain you’d qualify.”

Irritation darts up your spine at this stranger having accumulated all this private information about you, but you wave him off with a hand regardless. “The financial aspect of a kid isn’t my concern,” you clarify. “My concern — which I find to be a perfectly rational one — is that I have never in my life wanted children. Not even as a child myself. Thus, I know jack shit about kids, and I know even less about being a caretaker for one.”

Pitying eyes meet yours, and he rings his hands. “Well…”

“That child would be much better off with someone who knows how to take care of kids. I’m bound to fuck up if you stick her with me. I’m not cut out to be a guardian, so you should pawn her off to someone who is.”

Hoseok winces, a wave of anger rushing across his otherwise kind eyes. “Miss, I am not looking to pawn Dasom off,” he starts, his tone only barely concealing an undercurrent of anger. “She could enter the foster system, but…” He tilts his head. “Between you and me, Miss, the foster system is not the better choice here.” He gestures around your office. “You have quite the gorgeous house, large enough for multiple children, even. You live in a safe town with good schools. You have a well-paying career as a novelist that would afford Dasom everything she would need and possibly most anything she’d want. And you’re her only living family.”

Your eyes flash. Family. You don’t have family, regardless of blood relation. Never have. Even long before your father had died, you hadn’t considered him family. So why should the offspring of his offspring be considered yours?

Just because your father decided to run off and play family with someone else when his first family wasn’t enough for him doesn’t mean you should be saddled with the consequences of his selfish actions.

How fucking cruel the hands of fate are.

You have a vision. A long-held and carefully worked towards life plan. And in these best laid plans, you’d never accounted for the possibility of a child. Hell, you’d even taken permanent steps to ensure you could never have one. You also don’t date, let alone consider relationships to be something of interest.

You live a solitary lifestyle, divorced from others, and you like it.

So, this? Dasom? A wrench. A wrench. Also a wrench is this guilt wracking you from the inside out, shaking you asunder and tearing everything apart as easily as ripping a soggy piece of paper.

Head in hands, gritting your teeth, you cautiously say, “Look, Mr. Jung. Like I informed you, I don’t know shit about kids. If I agree to this — and it’s a big if — how do I know what to do?”

You hear the shuffling of a coat pocket, and after a second he says, “Here. My card.”

You look up to see Hoseok extending said card to you, hope in the lines of his face — as if he’s the walking embodiment of hope.

“I don’t live in this town, but Dasom is my case. If you have any questions, or need anything that I can help with, feel free to give me a call and I’ll help to the best of my abilities.”

You stare, unmoving, at the card, before your gaze flickers to the door, behind which is a life-altering little girl, standing in your living room, just as shaken up as you are.

Perhaps you’re both deer caught in the headlights of a shitty life.

Cho Dasom.

Your niece.

Your world tilting on its axis, you reach out, and grab the card.

“Alright,” you say. “What do I do now?”

——

After the legalese had been completed and Hoseok had helped Dasom bring in her minimal luggage, the social worker had departed, leaving you feeling as though you’re floundering with nothing to grab onto and a child in your home.

A child under your care.

It’s silent for a long while as Dasom shows herself around the house. She surveys your leather couch, and the halfhearted decorations on the wall. It’s a sparse house, with little inside. You tend to live minimally, far below the means your income would afford you. A single person with zero obligations to anyone but herself and little interest in the material world doesn’t really find many occasions to spend much money.

And then her gaze rests on your bookcase, and her eyes widen, portraying the first bit of emotion from her you’d seen since she’d shown up at your doorstep.

You understand it. Whereas your office boasts nonfiction, the living room is for fiction. While your workspace is for understanding life, your living room is for the books that make you live.

Not only are you an avid writer, you’re a voracious reader as well.

The bookcase is built in, spans wall-to-wall and is filled with novels of all kinds, all genres, all eras. From Mary Shelley to Miguel de Cervantes to Shakespeare to Jane Austen to Stephen King and more. From Fried Green Tomatoes to Cujo to Pride & Prejudice, you purport a bookshelf teeming with life and all the worlds held within.

“Do you read?” you ask the child, trying to gauge if a seven year old is old enough to read.

(You really know nothing about kids.)

She gives a slow nod as she walks along the width of the bookshelf. “Dad told me not to read your books though. Said they were too adult for me.”

You quirk a brow, even as it hits you that when this kid says dad she’s referring to your brother. A brother who lived and died without you ever knowing he even existed.

But he knew about you?

“Well?” you query, even as you have more burning questions. “Did you listen?”

Dasom quirks a devilish upturning of her lips. “Nope.” Before you can question her about which books of yours she’s read and what she’d thought of them, though, she turns on her heels and gives you a perfunctory nod. “I’m going to unpack. Which room should I take?”

You blink, and then point up the stairs. “First door on the left. It’s a guest room.”

But this isn’t a guest. You never had guests anyway, but this house was your mother’s before it was yours, and she was a socialite of epic proportions. You never saw a need to undress the spare rooms, however. You just pretend they don’t exist and pay your cleaning service to take care of them.

Now one will host a child.

With that, Dasom grabs one of her suitcases and begins to lug it up the stairs. You expect her to ask you for help, but each thunk of the suitcase against each wooden ledge passes with the girl remaining quiet, a determined look on her face as she takes the suitcase over the last step and pulls it into the room.

As soon as she disappears from sight, you make a beeline into your kitchen and grab for the landline on the wall, punching in one of the only two numbers you know by heart. One is the number to the local pizza place. The other…

“Hello?” comes the baritone on the other end of the line.

“Yoongi,” you hiss into the phone, feeling frayed and raw. “Do I have some fucking news for you.”

Min Yoongi is by and far the only person in the world in which you would dub the title of friend. Not that either of you have ever called each other that in the decades you’ve known one another, but you think that fact is self-evident enough. Being that you were both loner outcasts since preschool, you ended up paired together in most things, and you wound up finding a fondness for sometimes spending your time with Yoongi.

He’s the kind of friend where months can go without seeing or speaking to each other, but he holds no grudges and neither do you. You simply pick right back up to where you started from.

“Always nice to hear from you,” he says drily. “It’s been, what, five months?”

You have no time for this. “Yoongi. I adopted a fucking kid.”

When the clanging of phone dropping onto counter sounds, you pull the phone away from your ear, wincing, until you hear the phone picked back up and Yoongi’s disbelieving, “What?!”

“Okay, look, long story, and I will explain later, but right now I have questions.”

“Questions.”

“Yeah, like… What do kids eat? Do I have to buy packages of those mushy green food? Or like formula? Do I have to buy formula, Yoongi?”

“Um.” You hear him shifting through the phone. “How old is this kid?”

“Seven,” you answer.

“Oh — Oh my God, no, you should not be buying a fucking seven year old formula or baby food. How clueless are you?”

“Well then what do kids eat?” you toss back, feeling helpless.

“Normal people food. Whatever you eat.”

You furrow your brows. “But… Their teeth are so tiny. How in the hell do they chew? Do I have to, like, mama bird or—”

Yoongi cuts you off with a firm ringing of your name. “Christ. Just — Look, hang tight, I’ll be there in twenty. And do not, under any circumstances, mama bird that child.”

“Ugh, fine. Just hurry.”

——

Yoongi, thankfully, makes it in sixteen minutes. He opens your front door without knocking and steps into your foyer, pulling off his beanie and shaking his long, black hair before settling his dark eyes on you.

“I don’t believe you adopted a kid.”

You gesture toward the table in which your forgotten grocery sack sits, on it the extensive paperwork Hoseok had left behind for your records. “Don’t believe me, feel free to consult the devil’s paperwork.”

Yoongi glances at the file, before moving forward and opening it. His eyes only widen in disbelief as he pores over its contents quickly, sieving through the dense legalese to find the meat of the information. A stretched on moment of silence passes before he asks, “You had a brother?”

“News to me, too,” you say as he shrugs out of his scarf and kicks off his boots. He looks like there’s something hanging on the edges of his words that he wishes to put voice to, but after a moment’s reluctance, he seems to shrug it off and says something else.

Thank fuck. Neither of you like talking about feelings. Just one of the myriad reasons that Yoongi is your friend.

“I don’t know much about kids, either,” he says, his lips punched into a perpetually thin-lipped line. “But apparently… More than you do.”

You exhale. “I — Have zero idea what I’m doing, Yoongi. But this kid had nowhere else to go but foster care, so I mean…” You shake your head, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “I can financially take care of her —”

“But emotionally…” Yoongi interrupts, trailing off. He doesn’t seem downcast or disparaging about it, more amused than anything.

“Eat it, Min. I’m not the only one here who has the emotional IQ of a wooden pole.”

He shrugs. Fair’s fair, in your friendship. “Well, I can tell you that kid’s need daily baths, eat three normal meals a day of normal people food, and since she’s seven, she needs to be enrolled in school. Like, ASAP.”

You groan, feeling the urge to bash your head into a wall. “I’m gonna have to speak to Namjoon, aren’t I?”

Yoongi, the devil, has the audacity to smirk. “Yup,” he says, far too cheerily.

“I would quite literally rather fling myself off a bridge.”

He releases one of his dry, low laughs, and turns to begin the trek up the stairs. “She’s up here?”

You point wordlessly to the guest room — Dasom’s room, now — and he walks up the stairs, the floorboards’ old bones creaking as he goes. Though Dasom has left the door open, he gives it a soft knock to announce your presence.

She looks up from where she’s placing her neatly folded clothes into the once-empty dresser. You raise a brow at the sight. Kid’s anal. Kinda like you, actually. “Come in,” she says, before returning to her task.

Yoongi walks into the room, taking a look around at the lone full-size bed and cream-colored comforter, low and wide dresser with a TV seated atop it, and her luggage. The room is plain and lifeless.

He gives the girl one of his patent gummy smiles. “I’m Min Yoongi,” he tells her, extending a hand for her to shake.

Dasom looks at his hand but makes no move to set down her clothes, her eyes dragging up your friend.

“Are you my aunt’s husband?”

Yoongi’s composure cracks as he snorts, and you elbow him in the stomach.

“No,” you answer for him, firm. “He’s not my husband. He’s my friend.” At his smarmy grin, you add, “Barely.”

“Do you have a husband? Or wife?”

Yoongi has to turn to the side to guffaw into his fist, and you grit your teeth. “No, Dasom. I have no spouse to speak of.”

“Huh. But you’re old.”

“Oh my God,” says Yoongi on a laugh. “I like this kid.”

You’re unbothered by her assessment — you thought twenty was old at her age — and turn to leave her room, seeing no reason to stay. You’ve introduced Yoongi and Dasom, and now you’ll leave her to her own devices.

“Hold on.” Yoongi grabs your forearm, succeeding in stopping you in your tracks. “Let’s get pizza for dinner. My treat. Do you like pizza, Dasom?”

Dasom is cautious, her voice soft, when she says, “Yeah. It’s my favorite.”

“You know, it’s your aunt’s favorite, too. You have so much in common,” he teases, his gaze steady on you. You resist the urge to clock him in the face and wipe the smirk off of it. He can really be annoying when he wants to be.

Instead you, reluctantly, acquiesce, resigning yourself to your new ill fate.

——

You look at the daunting, large building of brick towering before you.

The elementary school.

This is the school you yourself had attended, years ago, when you were a child.

You have no nostalgic or emotional attachment to this place. It was, and remains, the place where you had come to subject yourself to the banal terror that is public school education. Luckily, back then, your teachers allowed you to do your own thing, seeing that you understood the class material exceedingly well. So, you spent seven hours a day in a place you didn’t need surrounded by other kids you didn’t like — except when you had the (mis)fortune of being in a class with Yoongi.

The school is constructed of rust-colored brick, but multicolored lights are strung across the school in celebration of the coming holidays. Maintenance workers continue to decorate the grounds, hanging up wreaths in between the large windows, tinsel along the white-painted window sills, and more. It looks properly bright and festive.

Ugh.

Christmas is such an eyesore.

“Wha… Is that you? Would never have thought I’d see you back h— Is that a kid?”

You turn around, scowling as Kim Namjoon strides up to you and Dasom. Dasom hides partially behind you, peering at the incoming man with her studying, bottomless eyes.

Kim Namjoon: irritating, pompous asshole, and your childhood rival. Namjoon, dressed in what you suspect is a tailored navy suit (considering how well it fits him), with his gelled back silver hair (you want to snidely remark that it’s a bottle-dye job, but considering how well it’s been done, you bet he went to a salon in the nearest city), and his Italian leather loafers (he’d probably cry if you scuffed them).

Sleek, expensive, well-dressed. A far cry from the nerdy Namjoon you were so familiar with as a child, but one thing remains the same: how out of place he is here.

(Just like you.)

“I need to enroll her,” you say, not deigning to give Namjoon any pleasantries. “How do I go about this?”

Namjoon narrows his eyes, as if trying to discern if what you’re saying is some sort of sick joke. He evidently must find the answer in the serious pallor of your face, for his expression relaxes and he says, “Well, I need a birth certificate and proof of guardianship, because I know for a fact that she’s not yours.”

You extend the file in your hand to him. “It’s all in here.”

Carefully, Namjoon takes it, and sifts through the life-changing papers inside. His eyes widen, before settling on you, half in pity, half in surprise. Luckily, he says nothing. Offers no condolences or anything of the sort. And you’re glad of it.

See, you and Namjoon have always disliked one another, spending your years in K-12 competing against one another. He was the only real competition in your school academia-wise, and he had a habit of not just competing against you, but being a sore winner or loser — which never endeared him to you, certainly.

You will admit that you were beyond surprised when Namjoon chose to come back here and be the dean of the school after getting his PhD, though. For all your dislike of him as a person, you definitely respected him as an academic, and it seems to you a waste of his cerebral mind.

Oh, well. Not your problem.

Namjoon’s gaze settles on Dasom, and he smiles dazzlingly as he squats to his knees, his suit stretching over his thick, muscled thighs. “Hi there. I’m Dr. Kim, the principal of this school. What’s your name?”

Dasom peeks her head out farther and says, “Cho Dasom. But that’s in my file, so why are you asking?”

You can’t help it — you laugh, and Namjoon pins you with a fast as a flash glare before directing his flustered attention back to the girl. “You know, you’re a lot like your aunt. Too smart for your own good.”

His words shock you.

But Dasom almost smiles, still pinning the man with dark eyes. “My dad was smart, too. He was an engineer.”

Rising to his feet, he swallows nervously, but he immediately seems to right himself when his gaze settles on someone or something behind you. “I see,” he says to Dasom, slightly awkward, as if he’s not quite sure what to say. “Do you want to meet your teacher?”

“The deftness of a rusted knife,” you jab.

Namjoon glares at you.

Slowly, Dasom nods, not seeming to care, and he gives a relieved smile before calling out, “Jungkook! Come here for a second.”

Turning, you find yourself confronted with a man you’ve never seen before — which is unfortunate, because he is very much candy for the eyes.

(Just because you’re an antisocial misanthrope uninterested in dating doesn’t make you blind.)

Jungkook has a rich, fluffy mess of hair and hosts a good many piercings — on his eyebrow, lip, and multiple on his ears. What with him being dressed in all black — a fitted black sweater tucked into black slacks, replete with a black belt with its gleaming silver belt buckle — he looks intimidating, almost. And most definitely not who you would expect to be a teacher, of all things.

He may seem intimidating, but the illusion is immediately dispelled when he smiles and opens his mouth. “What’s good, Dr. Kim?”

Namjoon sounds the picture of authority when he replies, “Mr. Jeon, meet Cho Dasom. She’ll be enrolling in your class starting today. Apologies for the short notice.”

“No worries.” The teacher’s smile grows as he looks down at Dasom—eyes wide like a doe’s, grin like a bunny. Jungkook seems young, younger than you at least, and with his apparent youth comes a level of enthusiasm found in the likes of children. “A new kid, huh? The class is going to be so excited to have someone new,” he tells her. “And guess what? Since today marks the start of December, we get to start decorating for the holidays!”

Dasom says nothing, only staring at her teacher with unsure eyes.

Namjoon clears his throat and leans over and whispers something not-so-slyly in his ear.

Jungkook looks immediately sheepish and apologetic. Though he says nothing, it’s easy to surmise by his abrupt change in demeanor that Namjoon had informed him of Dasom’s far from fortunate plight.

“Well, uh.” Jungkook rubs the back of his neck. “Dasom, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me so your aunt can get you enrolled with Dr. Kim…” He licks his lips, brown eyes glistening. “I have to get ready for your classmates, but you can help me. Or… you know, not.”

Dasom only looks up at you, and you give her what you hope is an encouraging nod and she extricates herself from your vicinity, moving toward her teacher. With a smile, the teacher leads her inside, chatting to her all the while. You can’t tell if Dasom responds any, but as soon as the two enter the school, Namjoon directs his attention back to you.

“Look,” he says, all low and pitying and everything you hate. “If you ever want to talk, or… I know it can’t be easy, losing your dad and your brother, especially after your mom not long ago…”

Your eyes lock on to his, icy cold. “I never knew my brother, and my father has long since been dead to me.”

Namjoon gives a slow, digesting nod, as if he’d expected that sort of answer from you. You’d both been kids when your father booked it from town, and, as much as you despise having your life on display for the amused consumption of the town, Namjoon knows the story well — just like everyone, it seems. Like it’s a story from a book and not horrific real life.

“Well, Jungkook’s a good kid,” Namjoon says. “It’s only his third year teaching, but he loves the kids, and he’s good at what he does. Very empathetic.”

You lift a brow. “So that’s why you put Dasom in his class.”

He shrugs. “It’s a good fit. And — Y/N, I’m serious. Beyond losing your family, you gained a child. I know you. And as much as you’re going to try to appear like a heartless robot, you’re human, same as the rest of us. I know this is going to be tough for you. And if there’s anything you need…”

“Hesitate to ask,” you finish for him, dry, a half-joke.

Namjoon’s thick lips pull into a smile that’s one-part grim, two-parts softly amused. “Yeah, hesitate to ask. But do ask, if you need to.”

You stare at him, unspeaking, for a moment. Studying him properly. He’s so grown now. You’ve seen him several times since you’d both graduated high school, but… This is different, somehow. Without being forced to speak to one another in school, in the years since graduation, Namjoon was no longer any larger part of your life than a grocery store clerk.

And now you have to accept him back in it, at least for this small piece of it,

Instead of expressing any of those daunting thoughts, however, you merely gesture to the file. “Well, let’s get Dasom enrolled.”

——

See, you knew parenting wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. You knew it wasn’t always easy. You knew parenting came with unique hardships.

You were incredibly well aware of all of that.

Hence a major reason as to why you never wanted kids of your own.

But you thought you’d at least get one goddamn day before the major problems started.

“Five hours,” you say flatly, storming into Namjoon’s office, feeling glumly irritated and in the mood to hit something. “She’s been here five fucking hours. Not even a full school day. What in the god damn world is so bad that you need to call me back to the school five hours after she gets enrolled?”

You’re beyond pissed. You were hitting a steady groove in your writing, submerged in your authorial efforts, enjoying your first moments of peace since a social worker had showed up at your door with a niece you never knew you had in tow, twenty-four hours ago. Then the phone rang, Namjoon’s assistant asking, no, demanding you come down to the school immediately as there was an issue that needed to be immediately addressed.

“Well, that’s not—”

“Look, the kid’s grieving, all right,” you defend, a storm in your tone. “So maybe she’s not eager to listen, or do her times tables, but just give it time because —”

“Nice of you to join us, Y/N.”

Hackles raising, you slowly turn around to the source of the voice: a man you vaguely recognize. Not enough to place him as any level of significance to you, but he does have an aura of familiarness to him, so he’s likely one of the townsfolk you see around with semi-regularity on the rare occasion you have to leave your house and brave society for some errand or other.

But the way this stranger looks at you is piercing, surprised and knowing all at once. Despite the unaffected amiability in his greeting, the look he gives you is not fitting of a look one would give a stranger.

Him knowing your name doesn’t mean much — you are well-known in this town, but his eyes.

You tear your gaze away from his direct one, taking in the full of him. This man’s appearance takes you aback. With his thick, dark hair swept back off his perfectly proportional forehead, minimal pores, your gaze pulls back from his eyes to take him all in. He’s unfairly symmetrical, like you could cut him in quarters and he’d look perfectly the same. There’s a strong slope of a nose that leads down to pink, pretty lips that look soft as his cashmere sweater. The cream sweater stretches generously over his excessively, inhumanly broad shoulders that taper down into a slim waist that join with long, long legs covered by black slacks, a pair of pristinely cared for leather loafers on his feet.

He looks as well-dressed and cared for as Namjoon, but where Namjoon is all Stern Professor, this man is Kind Dreamboat. You’d find Namjoon on the cover of Hot Professors Weekly, but this stranger as the male lead in a K-Drama, or in a catalogue for sweaters. Despite the broadness of him, his angular slimness and carefully constructed profile, he gives off an aura of softness. One that can’t be falsely curated, something innate.

When your eyes flicker back up to meet the man’s, his soften almost imperceptibly.

His brown eyes are so warm they evoke the feeling of sitting beside a bonfire on a chilly night.

You tear your own chilly eyes away and pin Namjoon with a glare.

“What the hell am I doing here?” you question again, your first couple words coming out oddly hoarse.

“Your niece beat up my son.”

You snort, turning your look back to the unknown man. “Really? So what? She pushed him down on the playground? Boo fucking hoo. Kids do that.”

(That’s something you do remember about kids from your own childhood. And parents were certainly never called.)

“Not quite,” the man says, watchful eyes remaining firmly on you.

Namjoon decides then is the time to interject, coming around from his desk and sitting on the edge of it, crossing his heels at the ankle. “Look… I am trying to be understanding, I promise you, but Dasom… She beat Taehyung bloody.”

That takes you aback. Way aback. The defensiveness falls from your demeanor and horror replaces it.

“Yeah,” says Namjoon, watching your expression. “That was my reaction, too. I understand what Dasom is going through, and I took the liberty of explaining the situation to Seokjin, and he wants this matter to be resolved in a manner that is fair and just for all involved.”

“Invoice me the kid’s medical bills, and they’ll be taken care of,” you tell the man — Seokjin, evidently. Your tone is categorical, quick and empty. “I consent to you retrieving my information from Namjoon in order to do so.” Then you look at Namjoon, straightening and readying yourself to leave, as you believe the conversation to be over. “Do I need to take Dasom home with me?”

“Not so fast,” says Namjoon, appearing somehow… smarmy about the whole ordeal. “Seokjin offered a solution he thinks won’t punish Dasom, but will teach her consequences of her actions, especially since Taehyung did, unfortunately, get hurt.”

“And you often listen to parents when it comes to performing your job?”

Seokjin quirks a grin, eyes flashing in amusement.

Namjoon ignores your retort. “Seokjin’s solution,” Namjoon says, barreling on, “Is for Dasom to perform seven hours of community service.”

Your stomach drops. “Now wait a s—”

“And, seeing as she is a minor, all community service must be performed with a guardian present,” completes Namjoon, his grin wide and self-satisfied.

“Holy shit, no. Why are you punishing me? I didn’t punch the kid.”

How wholly, incredibly unfair.

“You think helping out your community is a punishment?” asks Seokjin, a huff of amusement belied in his tone.

“Yes. Is that even a question?”

Namjoon continues to ignore you. “Seeing as it’s December, and Seokjin here has organized several events for the town to participate in for the holidays, there will be many opportunities for Dasom to volunteer. She’s new to town, so our hope is that in assisting her community, Dasom will come to know and grow with it. We — I think it would be good for her. To build a support system. To help others. It’ll heighten her self esteem and give her a better, more productive outlet for her grief.”

Grouchily, you say, “And the alternative to this is…?”

“One week suspension that goes on her permanent record.” He gives you a grim look.

“Seven year olds have permanent records?”

“Take the community service route, Y/N. Seokjin here is being incredibly generous, considering the damage inflicted on Taehyung. Help him help you and Dasom.”

Your attention darts to Seokjin, whose head is tilted slightly forward, brown eyes sparkling in the lighting of the office’s overhead lights. For a split second, there’s a trick of the light— something glowing above the man, making him appear ethereal.

“It’s seven hours,” Namjoon presses. “You can do it.”

You blink that odd observation regarding Seokjin away and nod, swallowing. “Fine. We’ll do it. But I’m going to warn you — I will absolutely complain the entire time.“

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” says Seokjin, but he doesn’t sound as if he’s trying to insult or belittle you. Not in the least.

You furrow your brows. Odd. How much information did Namjoon give this stranger for him to be acting like you two are fond old friends, catching up, and not complete strangers who’ve only met by an unfortunate turn of fate?

With a full sigh, you say, “Right. Then we’re done here.”

With that, you turn and hightail it out of Namjoon’s office, searching for Dasom. You spot her by her black hair, smooth and reaching down to the small of her back, and make your way toward her. She sits on a bench, Jeon Jungkook beside her.

He brightens when he sees you and immediately stands. He comes forward, so that you stop several feet away from Dasom, and says, lowly, “I apologize.” He bows his head deferentially. “I wish I could have stopped it before it got that bad, but it came from nowhere.”

“Ah…” You shift, feeling uncomfortable. “Dasom made the conscious choice to hit him. I don’t see how that would be your fault.”

Relief seems to cascade over the young teacher, and he graces you with a smile. Based on that reaction, you’d put good money down banking on Jungkook having been in similar situations before where the parents have directed their anger towards him. Blamed him for the wrongdoings of their kids.

(Parents — such an entitled class of people.)

“She’s a bright kid,” Jungkook says, his feathers fluffed. “I tested her today, to gauge where she was at, and man…” He shakes his head. “She’s way beyond anything I’m gonna teach. Would if be alright if I tailored lesson plans specific to her, and just had her participate in social activities with the rest of the class?”

“That’s fine. Do what you think is best. I’ll defer to your expertise, Mr. Jeon.”

“Please, call me Jungkook. At least, if you want. You don’t need to be so formal.”

You say nothing, only eyeing him. You tend to swing on a pendulum between overly, uncomfortably formal and overtly crass. Hitting it in the middle with Comfortably Casual and Friendly is not your forte, and never has been.

Jungkook’s gaze flickers to the right of you. “I’m gonna go chat with Mr. Kim,” he says, gesturing toward that same direction. You follow where he points to find Seokjin — Kim Seokjin, evidently — squatting beside what must be his son. His son wields a budding black and yellow eye and dried blood above his lip, which Seokjin dutifully wipes away with a pack of baby wipes in hand.

You watch the scene before you, curious and studying, but you say nothing and Jungkook takes your silence as agreement, so he moves on, likely looking to make the same apology to Seokjin as he had you. You can’t hear their low conversation, but you do get a view of Seokjin’s side profile and the understanding laced in his gaze as he speaks to him.

Evidenced by the way Jungkook’s shoulders relax with each passing second, you’d bet Seokjin is soothing the young teacher.

You tear your gaze away from the two men and settle your eyes back on Dasom, who kicks her feet against the grout and stares at the wall, expression blankly inscrutable.

Unceremoniously, you sit beside her, on the opposite end of the bench. You look outward and not at the girl when you ask, “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to ask how your first day at school went?”

Dasom says nothing, shamefully looking down at her knees.

You lean forward, elbows resting on your thighs. “I’m not going to yell at you,” you tell her. You’re not much of a yeller, really. Never have been. No, you’re more of a boiling-anger-beneath-the-surface kind of person, scathing quips relayed in your characteristic flatline tone kind of person. You don’t need to raise your voice to make your discontentment known. And you’ve certainly never hit anyone in your life, no matter how many times you’d wondered at the therapeutic benefits of doing so. “But I do want you to explain to me why you punched the daylights out of that kid.”

“Why do you want to know?” Dasom grumbles, still looking away.

You shrug. “I want to know your reasoning. Not that you telling me will really lessen your consequences, which is community service, by the way, but it does help me understand.”

The girl slowly, uncertainly, turns until she faces you. “Me and Taehyung were reading together. In the reading nook. We talked. He asked if I wanted to be his friend. I said probably. Then he asked me why I was new. I told him why.” A stone in your stomach circles the drain forebodingly. “But then he had the nerve to tell me that him losing his mom was the same.”

The stone in your stomach sinks.

That kid — Taehyung, Seokjin’s son… his mother had died. One would be able to logically conclude then that Seokjin’s wife had died.

With that, you immediately understand where Dasom’s confession is going. Yet you allow Dasom to get it out on her own.

“I just — I was so mad,” she says, sniffling. “I don’t know what happened. One second he said that. The next he was on the ground, bleeding, and I was on top of him, making him bleed.” She swallows. “I’m — I’m so sorry.” Her voice trembles, wobbly with sorrow.

You stiffen like stone, unsure what in the hell you’re supposed to do with a crying, grieving child.

For a brief, incredibly brief second, beside Dasom is a flash of child you. Numbed, eerily still. Just the lone you, empty and alone and unmoving. No one comes to sit by you then.

(Why would they?)

“Hello, Dasom. My name is Kim Seokjin. Would you like a tissue?”

You quickly discard that unpleasant memory, redirecting your focus to the here and now, as shaky and unstable as it feels, to find the sight of Seokjin standing before Dasom, extending the crying girl said tissue.

Dasom stares at it, still as a statue, so Taehyung appears to take matters into his own hands, taking the tissue from his father’s hand, and holding it and his arms out toward Dasom for — a hug?

She backs up as far as the bench would allow. “What are you doing?”

“Dad says we should help people that are sad,” Taehyung says simply, eyes shining with empathy embedded into them. “You look sad. And hugs make everything better.”

You resist the urge to snort.

“But I — I hurt you,” Dasom says, clearly confused, the wheels in her head visibly turning as she clearly attempts to make sense of this.

Taehyung shrugs that off, like it’s no big deal, which is mildly comical considering the yellowish bruising of his eye and cheek isn’t going to go away for quite a while. “It’s okay. Just don’t do it again, and we can be friends!”

Dasom ducks her head, looking the picture of taken aback as she gives him her pitless stare. “Okay…” She says slowly. “I won’t hit you again.”

Taehyung beams at her. “Yay! Can I hug you?”

“Um.” She shifts. “I guess.”

Excitedly, the boy reaches forward to wrap Dasom into a bone-crushing hug, the girl looking slightly stiff as she lets him. Seokjin watches the two with proud mirth, a ghost of a chuckle tugging at his lips.

“Dad!” Taehyung turns. “Can I play with Dasom?”

Seokjin purses his lips to hide his amusement. “I don’t know, Tae. I think we should get you checked out at the doctor.”

“Noooo,” Taehyung whines. Then he presses his nose, first on one side, and then on the other. “The nurse already told me it isn’t broken, and it doesn’t hurt. My eye does, a little, but she said it’ll heal in a couple days. So? Can we?”

“Hmmm.” Seokjin turns to look at you. “I think that’s up to Dasom’s guardian.”

You blink. “That’s fine.”

“Yay!” Taehyung reaches forward and grabs Dasom’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go to the playground.”

Dasom gives you a look before standing and trailing after Taehyung as they skip (Taehyung) walk (Dasom) down the hallway, toward the school exit.

Seokjin releases a very-much amused, fond-hearted laugh. “Kids,” he says. “They get over their wounds so easily.”

Your eyes rest on Seokjin. “Not the ones that cut deep.”

Your words seem to startle the man, if but for a second, but he quickly fixes himself and gives you a smile. “Shall we chaperone?”

“Are we meant to?”

He raises a brow. “I mean, I’m sure they’re fine, but seven year olds do generally require supervision when playing outside.”

“Oh.” You rise to your feet. “I wasn’t aware.”

That only makes his brow raise higher, but he merely gestures forward, as if to say, after you. The two of you walk down the school hallway, side by side.

It’s odd, you think, how strangely familiar and comforting this total stranger smells. It’s hard to place the scent, as it triggers so many senses at once, but he smells like frosted citrus, wintery and fresh and addictive. It’s a subtle scent, not obnoxious, but one that beckons you to get closer and inhale deeper.

“So,” he begins, jolting you from your (to be frank, creepy) admiration of the way he smells. “What other basic things about children do you not know?”

“I mean, I just learned as of yesterday that seven year olds don’t eat formula, so you tell me.”

Surprised, Seokjin tosses his head back to laugh — it’s loud and squeaky, like wipers on a windshield. The laugh is so open, so free and bare it stuns you, as much as the sight of the fully exposed curve of his throat makes you swallow, watching with vested interest the way his Adam’s apple bobs.

“I wasn’t joking,” you say plainly.

His laughter tapers off, and he looks at you warmly. “No, I know you weren’t. That’s what makes it even more comedic.”

You look away from Seokjin and furrow your brows at the odd stirring in your stomach as you and Seokjin exit the school’s doors (he, in an act of chivalry, holds the door open for you), to find Taehyung and Dasom on the swings. Taehyung’s smile is bright and free as he chatters on and on about something or other to your niece, and though Dasom is more expressionless and far quieter in comparison, she does seem to be enjoying herself somehow.

You watch as Seokjin’s fond, brown eyes turn several shades warmer and brighter as he stares at the two.

You swallow. “Look, Mr. Kim. I appreciate you talking to Namjoon and getting him to lessen Dasom’s punishment.”

“It’s no problem,” Seokjin says, waving your comment off with a wave of his hand. “Taehyung’s fine, and I understand grief manifests itself in us in odd and unpleasant ways, at times.”

Steadily, you study this stranger. Taehyung lost his mother. Seokjin lost his wife. You suppose he knows grief well. Far more than you do, anyway. Sure, every member of your family aside from Dasom is dead, but you certainly didn’t grieve any of them.

It seems he’s grown used to your unresponsive silences already, for he takes your lack of a response in stride, reaching into the pocket of his slacks and turning to face you. He holds out whatever’s in his hand and you inspect it — a small rectangle, white and gold. “My card,” he explains. “Admittedly, your utter lack of knowledge about children is worrisome, and I’d appreciate it if you gave me a call before doing anything possibly life-ending with Dasom.”

You eye his outstretched hand like it’s poisonous — and maybe it is; the lightly bulging corded veins of his crooked fingers seem venomous, at the least. Like touching his hands would discolor you, release acid in you that eats at your organs from the inside out. The lack of a metal band encasing his third finger only makes it worse.

“We can also arrange playdates for her and Tae,” he continues, as if worried you’re not going to take the card unless he can convince you of doing so. “And arranging Dasom’s community service will be easiest if you have a way to contact me. It’d be a shame if I had to wait for Dasom to go King Kong on my son again to see you again.”

Your eyes flicker to Seokjin’s amused ones.

Cautious and guarded, you take the card.

“When should I expect to have to waste my time?”

“If you mean when’s the soonest opportunity for you and Dasom to help serve your community,” Seokjin smoothly replies, “This Thursday, we’re doing a gift wrap-up. We already had a donation drive last month, but now it’s time to wrap them before giving the toys to the less fortunate.”

You scowl. “Sounds delightful.”

“Doesn’t it? I’ll look forward to seeing you and Dasom there.”

“I’ll look forward to it being over.”

“Oh, come on. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“Never had it.”

He grins. “So I’ve heard.”

So he’s heard? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve amassed quite the reputation for yourself among the townsfolk,” he says. “Haven’t you heard what they call you?”

“Cunt? Jarring, sure, but that’s not really newsworthy.”

His eyes flash — somehow in a mite bit of anger — before they settle and he corrects you. “They call you Scrooge.”

“Scrooge,” you deadpan. “Like the graying old dude from the movie? The one who doesn’t let his employee see his family for the holidays? The one who can’t spare a coin for the homeless?”

“One and the same.”

You scoff. “Oh, come on. If they’re going to refer to me as an assholish character, can’t I be something more accurate?”

“Judging by all the door-to-door collectors you turn away, I’d say it’s at least mildly accurate, no?” Seokjin’s grin is amused, flashy.

Hm. If Seokjin runs the charity events in town, then of course it would have gotten back to him when you notoriously turn away panhandlers. “Well, they do deliberately trespass. And when I ask them for paperwork regarding the organization they work for including transparency in how resources are allocated and they can’t provide it, of course I’d rather give my money to organizations that I can thoroughly research on my own and give me peace of mind in knowing they will use my money responsibly, and not to fund the CEO’s luxury car addiction or to be put in a Hot Cocoa Fund Jar for the town.”

Seokjin’s smile curves upward, though he seems to be at least somewhat taken aback by your mini-spiel. “You don’t believe in free cocoa for all?”

You roll your eyes. “The point is, I’m not Scroogish at all, Mr. Kim, just because I don’t throw money at any haggard panhandler who shows up at my door. Can’t I just be an antisocial misanthrope in peace?”

Seokjin laughs, granting you an unfairly pretty smile, brushing back the lock of his hair that falls over his forehead with long fingers. “I’m sure you can continue ascribing to your misanthropy, but unfortunately, antisociality ends when kids begin.” He shrugs. “One of the few downsides of parenthood, but considering all the good that comes from children, one I view as rather easy to give up.”

“As if you were ever antisocial.”

“Hmmm.” He tilts his head, pulling back a centimeter, as if erecting a thin wall between the two of you. Thin, but unable to be surpassed or denied. “Yes, you’re right. I lied for relatability's sake.”

Oddly enough, you’re not a fan of this invisible wall. Before you can tear it down, or climb over it, however, Seokjin calls out his son’s name. “It’s time to go home and prep dinner!” he yells to his son. “Tell Dasom goodbye!”

Taehyung, expectedly, whines about having to go, but eventually acquiesces and reaches out to give Dasom a hug goodbye. She gives him a stiff one back.

Seokjin looks at you, and then the card in your hand, a hesitation in his look. “I look forward to a call from you, Ms. Y/L/N.”

“All right… Mr. Kim.”

He smiles then, a restrained one, guarded, but still just as appealing as you’ve come to expect his gleaming grins to be. With a wave over his shoulder, he soldiers down to where Taehyung and Dasom are, waves goodbye to Dasom, and just like that…He’s off. Gone.

You watch him go, feeling something odd pang inside of you. Something indelible. Uncomfortable. Like you’re missing several pieces to a puzzle and unable to see where you’re going from the few pieces you do have.

You decidedly do not like that feeling.

Dasom walks over to you, her cheeks pink from cold. She looks up at you, but her black eyes seem richer now — less like black holes and more like dark chocolate, bitter but sweet.

“They’re kind of weird,” Dasom says, eyes on their backs. “Nice weird.”

You make a noise of agreement. “You know… I agree.”

You look down at his card. It feels weighted in your palm, despite being light as a feather. Heavy.

Kim Seokjin seems to be very kind, generous, and yet — odd.

A puzzle.

You’ve always liked puzzles.

And, oddly enough, you find yourself with the goal of wanting to piece together the puzzle pieces of Seokjin.

You keep Seokjin’s card in your pocket, but don’t utilize it.

Not because you actively don’t want to call him — also not that you do — but because even if you did, you find yourself at a loss for what you should say.

You’ve never considered yourself the best orator.

In order to be someone good at speaking, one has to be able to connect with others. To weave through the air and find a common thread with their conversation partner and tug on it, pulling their attention onto you and the conversation.

You’ve felt a long-held disconnect from others your entire life.

Even Yoongi.

So, on the rare chance you do have to speak to someone, like an editor or a grocery store clerk, you rely on your catalogue of stored and pre-packaged scripts in the repository of your brain. To you, conversation doesn’t tend to flow — it’s more like you’ve programmed yourself to respond to ‘hi’ with ‘hello’ than anything innate in you.

You’ve always felt as though everyone else had been given a rulebook regarding conversation and relationships as a child and you’d been the odd one out, having to stumble your way to learn what everyone else seems to know already.

So you concoct scripts for people. You study them, from the inside out, and determine what you think they will say, and go from there.

When people go off script, when things don’t go according to plan — that’s when you flounder.

You’ve yet to curate a script for Seokjin. There are too many gaps in his character, too many oddities and unexplained phenomena, and so because you feel as though you can’t get a grasp on him, you haven’t figured out the things he should say. The things you should want him to say.

This is why fictional characters are easier for you to handle than real people. From the moment you conceptualize them, you know who they are, how they’ll behave, what they’ll do and say, and there’s comfort in that inexplicable, long-reaching knowledge. No guessing. No unwittingly saying the wrong or the weird thing.

It’s simply easier to hole yourself away in your office and write your characters speaking to one another than to actually try to talk to someone yourself. The former you tend to get right, if the success of your novels is any indication. The latter, however… It seems you always get it wrong.

“Dasom!” you yell up the stairs, trying to get ahold of the girl. “We’re going to be late and—”

Dasom pokes her head out of the bedroom door. “And you hate being late. I get it. You’ve told me. Give me a minute.” She disappears again, and you stand there, brow raised.

Do you really raise that much of a stink about timeliness?

Well.. Perhaps. You are rather uptight.

Five days into being a guardian, you still feel like you’re sinking, but you’re starting to grab a hold of a lifejacket and craft a plan to pull yourself back to shore.

Just like with conversation, planning your life is important to you. Vision-focused and forward thinking as you are, you tend to make a contingency plan for a contingency plan. The kicker, though, is that in your best laid plans you never accounted for a child.

You’re molding those plans now. Regardless of your reluctance for guardianship and the still-held belief you are not the right woman for the job, you’ve begun to shoehorn Dasom into your plans. Like how you have a meeting at the bank tomorrow morning to open an account for her, so you can invest in her education. As stated prior, the financial aspects of parenting are of no harm or hardship to you.

It’s the… everything else you’re struggling with.

Dasom comes rushing down the stairs with a brush and two colored rubber bands in hand. “I want my hair in pigtail braids, please.”

You blink down at her hand. “I don’t know how to do braids.”

Dasom sighs. “Just pigtails are fine then.” She turns around and holds the brush over her shoulder for you.

Brows scrunched, feeling incompetent — and you hate feeling incompetent — you part her hair down the middle and put the two parts of hair into separate pigtails, as asked. It looks lopsided and not great, and you frown.

“I’ll learn,” you tell her as she also frowns in your living room mirror. “But later. We shouldn’t be late for your community service.”

With a sigh, Dasom undoes her pigtails and walks over to your foyer to pull on her boots and coat, slinging a scarf around her neck. Luckily it’s not too cold to walk. You grab a beanie from the rack and pull it down over her hair, pulling a bit too tightly.

She huffs out a laugh that’s the closest thing to a giggle you’ve heard from her. “Hey!” She lightly bats your hand away. “I can do it myself.”

It’s your first time hearing Dasom laugh.

An odd feeling stirs in your chest, and you find yourself looking down at her, the beginnings of an unplanned smile tugging at the corner of your lips. You clear your throat to shake that weirdness off and open your front door. “Let’s go,” you say. “We need to leave like five minutes ago.”

“Well, what if we race? That should make it faster.”

Before you can fully comprehend her words, Dasom darts off, her laughter ringing through the surrounding woods of your house as she sprints away. Taken aback, you quickly find yourself running after her.

Fucking God. If being a guardian means you have to run…

Luckily, Dasom slows down a few minutes in, and you try to catch your breath (what? you like to go for long walks, but you don’t run because you’re not insane) as the two of you walk down from your cove nestled away from humanity and toward the far more lively town.

Dasom comes to a stop at the edge of a cliff, eyes wide as she takes in the whole of the town. Despite how large it actually is, especially with it having doubled in size in your lifetime, the town seems small from up here. A mere speck on the fabric of life, glittering and glowing with lights that sparkle in the waning dusk.

“It’s beautiful,” says Dasom, eyes glowing.

Well. Your eyes follow hers, taking in the whole of the town. And for the first time you find yourself thinking that… Yeah, the view of the town from up in your solitary neck of the woods is kind of beautiful.

And then she races down the hill, and you jog down after her.

You and Dasom make it to community service six minutes late, according to your watch. You grimace.

Tonight’s service takes place in the community center’s gym, which is dressed up for Christmas and excessively large. Ignoring the eyesore that is the lights and decor, you push open the door to the gymnasium, and Dasom trails in behind you.

You take one of the community center’s cubbies and hang up your coat and scarf, and Dasom follows suit, taking off her beanie and hanging her stuff beside yours.

After that, you turn to find dozens of people in the gym, likely a hundred at minimum, splintered off into a multitude of groups.

The first thing you notice is how loud it is. This many people in one enclosed space only amplifies all the chatter, as overlapping and cacophonous as it is. The second thing you notice is how colorful it is. Christmas lights are strung up along the walls, and everyone is dressed in some combination of red, green, white, gold or blue — in contrast to your typical black sweater, black boots and jeans, you stick out like a sore thumb.

The people laugh, and talk loudly, and the sound of gift wrap paper ripping sounds throughout the space in spades, to the tune of Stevie Wonder’s Christmas music that plays through the speakers of the DJ’s table down the way.

Immediately, this is overwhelming. It’s loud, and bright, and there are far too many people. You haven’t been in a room with this many people since your high school graduation. Even being a popular author, you actively avoid events with too many people like this.

Trying to not feel like a packed sardine awaiting consumption, you swallow down your anxiety. Dasom. You’re here for Dasom. You can handle it.

Then, over the cacophony, you hear your name called. In that voice. A voice you’ve come to play over and over in your head, in an endless donut of a loop. Trying to dissect it. Dissect him.

You turn to your side to find Seokjin coming up to you and Dasom, without Taehyung in tow. He wields two white paper cups filled with brown liquid (cocoa? from the cocoa stand?) and a dazzling smile. “I’m so glad you made it,” he says to you both. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“It was this or prison,” you deadpan. “Wasn’t much of a choice, now was it?”

His smile only grows as he rounds near, before tilting his head downward and directing his attention to Dasom. “Hello, Dasom. I’m so glad you came. Taehyung especially will be happy.” He extends a cup to her. “Would you like some cocoa?”

Cautiously, Dasom takes the cup and looks down at it like it’s foreign. “I like cocoa,” she says, and if you’re not mistaken, there’s the tiniest bit of inflection to her tone.

“I’m happy to hear it.” He then looks at you. “And for you.” You take the extended cup and he says, “I took a guess and wagered you’re not a cocoa fan. It’s coffee. Black.”

You examine the cup, surprised at the prescience of this stranger. “Am I that predictable?”

“Is there anything wrong with being predictable?” Seokjin counters.

You tilt your head. You decide to grab the extended cup. “Black coffee is the only coffee worth drinking.”

He shrugs. “To each their own. I find it bitter.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“You know…” He leans marginally closer, his scent clouding your senses, eyes dark as they lock onto yours firmly. “I find I have a thing for acquired tastes.”

Dasom looks between you and Seokjin, brow raised as she takes a sip of her cocoa, staining her upper lip brown in the process.

Unsure how to respond — because how in the hell are you supposed to respond to that? — you stay silent. You don’t like when he goes off-script. It’s too much.

Sensing you’re not going to grace him with a verbal response, he only turns to look at Dasom, pointing to your right. You and Dasom follow his finger to find Taehyung in a small group of teenagers and another girl his age, putting a bow on top of a present a teenager finishes wrapping. “Tae’s over there,” Seokjin says. “Why don’t you join him for your service? Don’t worry too much about wrapping. Just help the older kids out where you can and have fun.”

Slowly, Dasom nods, but she seems at least slightly brightened upon finding Taehyung in the crowd of strangers. “Ok. Bye.”

You watch as she walks away. “You sure about not making her work? She’s talented,” you say to Seokjin, once she’s out of earshot radius.

“I’m not entirely fond of making children labor away,” Seokjin ripostes. “I’ve always been thankful we outlawed that years ago.”

“Yet here I am on the opposing side. I’ve always hoped child labor laws would be repealed.”

Seokjin’s sweet gaze settles on you, sparkling and diverted. “How Scroogish of you. Really living up to your nickname.”

“I’m merely giving the people what they want,” you toss back. “If they want me to be a monster, then I’ll bare my fangs.”

Despite your deadpan delivery, you had meant it as a joke, but Seokjin doesn’t seem to take it that way, amusement quickly disappearing from his expression. “You’re not a monster, Y/N. Please don’t joke about that.”

Stunned, you use the excuse of taking a healthy swig of the coffee Seokjin had given you for your nonresponse.

That’s not the reason for your lack of response.

People have certainly called you a monster before, and they most definitely hadn’t been joking. But you don’t understand why Seokjin has taken it upon himself to care — or feign caring. He doesn’t know you, other than the maybe ten minutes the two of you have spoken to one another.

You’re a stranger. So why…?

“So you’re calling me by name now?” you ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from that… oddness.

“Ah. Well.” He straightens. “I assumed we could drop the formalities and call each other by name. Did I make too far of a leap?”

“I mean, I don’t care what you call me, but I will continue to refer to you as Mr. Kim.”

Something about it affords you a thick amount of psychological distance between you and this handsomely confusing, no, confusingly handsome — no, confusing and handsome man.

He lifts one of his well-manicured brows. “Well, then. By all means, Ms. Y/N.” He steps a half step forward, the air around the two of you tensing. “You never called.”

Before you can muster up an appropriate response to that, you feel an arm sling itself over your shoulder, and you freeze, your entire body locking up.

(You… Do not like being touched. You’re very much not used to it.)

“Oh my god, Y/N! You’re here!” Jungkook crows into your ear. He sounds drunk, for fuck’s sake. “I’m glad you made it. Seokjin kept asking about you.”

A quick glance at Seokjin reveals that he doesn’t look the least bit sheepish about that information, which means it means nothing.

“Jungkook,” you say, plainly. “Take your arm off of me.”

He immediately does. “My bad,” he says. “I was just excited to see you. I hear you don’t get out much.”

“Ah, well — one of the struggles of parenthood,” you say, staring at Seokjin. “Losing your ability to be antisocial.”

Seokjin grins in understanding of your callback.

Jungkook only sighs blissfully. “Man, I can’t wait to be a dad one day.”

“You’re already a second dad to twenty kids,” Seokjin says. “You’ll get there.”

“This is why you’re my favorite parent. You’re so nice,” replies the teacher, grinning. Then he tilts his head. “Well, that, and because you bake. You’re awesome.”

Now that makes Seokjin mildly uncomfortable. “I do what I can.”

“No, seriously.” Then Jungkook meets your eye and relays: “Seokjin bakes a lot. For every holiday. Even for most birthdays! Especially when I tell him a parent isn’t planning on bringing treats for their kid’s birthday. And he goes to all our PTA meetings. And he’s so involved in Taehyung’s life. And for teacher’s appreciation week he got me like a buuuunch of giftcards and made me breakfast one morning and—”

“All right,” Seokjin says tightly. “She’s heard enough, Jungkook. No need to bore her.”

Well. The last thing you felt was bored, as invested as you were, but you’re not sure how to say that without it coming across as weird.

(Like. Weirder than normal.)

Jungkook seems to cease in his storytelling at Seokjin’s request, and he clasps the older man on the shoulder, doe eyes wide and admiring. “When I become a dad, I want to be one as good as Seokjin. My kids would be so lucky.”

Seokjin ducks his head slightly in mild embarrassment. “Alright, Jungkook. Why don’t you go top off your rum chata cocoa? I don’t think you’ve had enough.”

Jungkook looks down at his almost-empty cup. “Oh. You’re right.” Then he beams at the both of you. “If we don’t talk again, enjoy your night guys. Like. Enjoy it.” He winks at you specifically before heading off.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Seokjin turns back to you, and says, “I sincerely apologize for that. I can assure you I did not ask him to do that.”

“He likes you, and has nice things to say about you,” you say. “He looks up to you. That’s really nice, Mr. Kim. You should be proud that you’re someone to admire.”

Seokjin seems to be incredibly taken aback by your words, as if not expecting them. “That’s not what he was d —” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, adjusts his stance and gifts you a small smile. “You’re right. I can’t believe you’re the purveyor of optimism between us.”

With a blink, you shift. “Optimism? Not really. Envy’s more like it.”

He swallows, mirth fading from his gaze as it settles firmly on you. “I think you’re admirable,” he says, his voice low and threading in the static of the air. “More than.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” he says. “A lot of it’s from your novels, admittedly, but also when—”

“You’ve read them?” you cut in, your surprise poorly concealed due to the crack in your voice.

He fixates his brown eyes on you. “All four. Multiple times. I couldn’t put them down, and I couldn’t wait to pick them back up. I fully believe that you are a genius where it comes to the written word.”

Cheeks reddening, you take a step back and avert your gaze. You don’t handle compliments well. “So that’s why you’ve been acting like you know me? Because you’ve read my books? My books aren’t me, Mr. Kim, in the same way that a painting isn’t its artist.”

“Well, of course they aren’t,” he says. There’s a bit of confusion underlying his tone that only confuses you. “But they’re enough to make me want to know more. And, admittedly, the things our fellow townsfolk have to say about you aren’t very kind, nor very illuminating. I concoct my own opinion of people, and I have to say, I’ve never seen what they see.”

“A grouchy, miserly bitch who hates the world?”

“Hater of the world, maybe, the other things, not at all.”

“You’ll see it eventually. They all do.”

His lips settle in a moue. “Doubtful. Because right now, all I see is a witty, struggling aunt who’s trying her hardest with the less than ideal hand in life she’s been given. I see a woman who showed up to community service so that her niece wouldn’t have her wrongdoings on a permanent record. And sure, maybe you’re reluctant to do all those things, but in my mind, the rest of us all had months and years to prepare for the downsides of parenthood. Your child fell in your lap just days ago, and you’re trying. I fail to see what’s miserly about any of that.”

Your mouth opens and shuts like a gutted, brainless fish, too taken aback to drum up any sort of response to his — his mini monologue about you. You want to respond. You truly do. But you don’t have a response set aside for something as kind and unexpected as that.

“Jinnie!”

The intruding voice is a higher, feminine and lilting one. One you vaguely recognize.

Seokjin’s jaw ticks, but he wipes the irritation from his face smoothly before turning to face the intruding two women, an amiable expression on his face. One of the women slides her arm through his, blinking up at him through thick, long lashes.

“Jinnie,” she repeats. “I need your help. This one gift is oddly shaped and too tough to wrap. Will you come to our table?”

Something tells you she doesn’t truly need his help.

Whether or not Seokjin’s able to tell the same thing, you’re unsure, but he looks back at you, an apology in his eye before allowing himself to be literally pulled away from you.

“I think that was the longest conversation I’ve seen you have with someone since we graduated.”

“Oh, shut up, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s eyes sparkle in amusement as he pulls up beside you, cup of alcohol in hand. “What did you talk about?”

“None of your business.”

“Ah. And here I was, hoping that you’ve changed.”

You laugh derisively. “Lucky for you, I’m still the same cold-hearted bitch I was a week ago.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Namjoon, mussing your hair. You bat his hand away. “And I doubt you’ll be the same person a week from now, if Seokjin has anything to say about it.”

With those odd words, Namjoon continues on his line of people to annoy with his pompousness, and you stand alone in the crowd.

For a moment, in the absence of Jungkook, or Namjoon, or Dasom or Seokjin — you feel truly, utterly alone.

It’s an upsetting feeling, truthfully. Feeling alone, surrounded by people. If you’re going to feel alone, it’s better to actually be alone. That was something you realized a long, long time ago. Instead of reaching out a hand for no one to ever come, it’s best to just… Curl up and away, obscured from society.

It doesn’t bother you, sitting without contact in your home for weeks and weeks. What bothers you is coming into the fold of society and watching lovers hang on one another, families spending time together, friends swapping jokes, and knowing you’ve never really had any of that, and never can.

You never minded being alone, but you’re not a fan of feeling lonely.

It’s less a hatred of the world you hold and more an enviousness of it. Whether you’re red with anger or green with envy, though, you suppose you’re unpleasantly Christmassy.

With a sigh, you trudge forward to find Dasom and Taehyung in their group, placing bows on wrapped gifts. Dasom’s quieter than the others, barely interjecting, but she does, at times, chime in.

She looks up when you near, locking eyes with you. For a brief, so brief moment, she grins at you, placing a bow on a present for you to see. Unsure what else to do, you give her an approving thumbs up, and her smile grows, before her attention’s pulled away by an older kid.

Your life has irrevocably changed since Dasom’s unexpected entry into it.

But…

You turn to find Seokjin in the crowd, surrounded by half a dozen people who burst into laughter at something he said.

As much as you’re not a fan of change and how it overthrows your life plans —

Maybe you’re curious what it’ll be like to change more.

If you don’t seem like the kind of person who would carve out a niche for herself in the town she grew up in… That’s true. You’re not that kind of person.

You hadn’t always lived in this town. You may have been born and raised here, but you hadn’t intended on staying past graduating from high school. In fact, your plan had been to take immediate flight from here once you were able, and never come back.

In a way, this plan did work.

For… eight years.

You went to college (in Europe) while spending all your spare time writing, made vital connections in the industry stemming from a professor who had been in love with your prose, and you took off from there — publishing your first novel at the age of twenty-one, which garnered incredible and incredibly unexpected cult success. Things only blew up for you.

Then your mother fell ill.

You sent her money, at first, wanting nothing else to do with her. She had alimony from your father and had an office job, but it never made her very wealthy, and since you had money in excess, you found it easy to pay your filial dues in a way that didn’t make you have to pretend to care about her.

Then she died, and you rerouted your plans. You came back to deal with the legalese and the matters of estate and were surprised to learn the house you now live in had been given to you in your mother’s will. Seeing as you had no one holding you in Europe and a lucrative career that could be done from anywhere, you decided to relocate and concoct a solitary lifestyle for yourself in your hometown.

It’s far quieter here than in the city, with the house nestled away from the rest of humanity, shrouded in forest and tucked away from society. Then there’s also Yoongi’s presence here, which is a draw itself.

So — Here you are. A staple resident of this town, with no plans to relocate yet again. Especially now with Dasom under your wing.

You stare intently at Seokjin’s card, turning it over and over, as if it will anthropomorphize itself and write a script for you.

You need to call Seokjin because you need to know when the next holiday event is so Dasom can acquire another hour of community service. Even still, the view of the pretty woman and her manicured nails on his arm gives you pause. Well, not the woman herself. Seokjin’s obvious look of irritation is what gives you pause. The way he smoothly wiped it off and treated the woman with smooth, false friendliness.

It gives you pause because it makes you question just how much you can trust his expression, his words, if he’s that good at feigning niceties. What if Seokjin had just given you his number to be nice? What if you call him, and he’s truly irritated that you actually took him up on his offer?

Shit.

You wish you understood people and their confusing social rituals and mores and norms more. But you never have. You doubt you ever will.

Regardless… You need to call. And you’re calling for Dasom, not for you, so if he has a problem with it, he can eat shit. Or.. Whatever.

Swallowing your anxiety, you dial his number. It rings a few times before the click.

“Kim Seokjin speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”

“When and where is the next event?”

A brief moment passes in silence before Seokjin says, “Y/N! Lovely to hear from you. Yes, Taehyung and I are doing well, and of course I’d love to give him a hug for you. I ate well, and yes, the weather is gorgeous today, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Kim.”

“Perfect for the ice skating rink, especially for Dasom to do the gracious thing of passing out hot chocolate to shivering skaters. Then there will be the ornament decorating of the town tree on the square, next to the rink. Sounds like a solid two service hours. What do you think?”

“What time?”

“Why are you so eager to be done with our first phone conversation?” He sounds amiable and amused at himself. “You have no care for my heart.”

“Ew?”

Squeakily, he laughs. “Maybe one of these days I’ll manage a sentence or two out of you over the phone, replete with a noun, an adjective… Maybe even an adverb. Until that lucky day… The skating rink opens at 2:00 today. I’ll look forward to seeing you and Dasom.”

“We’ll be there.” With that, you hang up the phone, staring down at the receiver in sheer confusion.

Seokjin hadn’t sounded irritated at all. Which is too weird for your brain to comprehend. You can’t imagine any reason he wouldn’t be irritated to hear from you.

You look back down at his card.

Kim Seokjin. Why does the name seem so familiar to you? You know he wasn’t in your year at school — maybe he was a senior? Or maybe your junior. Actually… You don’t know how old he is. You’d assumed he was older than Jungkook at least, but he has the kind of face that’s impossible to glean age from. Mature, yet in an overtly youthful way. Like he could be twenty-five or thirty-five. Taehyung’s age could clue you into Seokjin’s, but there’s a possibility Seokjin had his son young. He certainly wouldn’t be the first in this town to have a child or two before twenty. Yet, despite Seokjin’s rather… forceful way of interaction, he seems mature in a way that would speak of age.

Dropping Seokjin’s card on the counter next to the phone, you elect to leave it — and muddled thoughts of the man — behind as you make your way out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and to Dasom’s room. You knock. She opens the door.

“You can earn two hours today,” you inform her. “Passing out cocoa and decorating a tree.”

Dasom’s eyes widen. “Mr. Kim is making my punishment very easy.”

Your brows furrow. “It’s not a punishment, Dasom. You did something wrong, yes, but Dr. Kim and Mr. Jeon and Mr. Kim all want the best for you.”

She averts her gaze, chewing on her bottom lip and not responding for a few seconds that stretch too long. Then her eyes meet yours. “I like Mr. Kim. He’s nice. Do you like Mr. Kim?”

You swallow, shifting. “… Dasom.”

“He could be your husband.”

You close your eyes and sigh, though… It’s a more fondly put upon one than genuine anguish. She’s a seven year old kid. She’s bright, too bright, smart for her age, but she’s still seven. She doesn’t know how the world works as of yet. She sees a man and a woman look at each other and imagines a bright, full wedding between them. “I barely know him,” you tell her, half-entertaining her statement — and wanting to nip it in the bud. “And don’t say anything like that around Mr. Kim.”

The last thing you want is to make Seokjin uncomfortable.

Dasom purses her lips, but nods.

“Now, get ready. We’ll have to leave in a half hour.”

With that, you leave, needing to get ready yourself — and feeling overly anxious about it.

——

People.

So many goddamn people.

You had no idea just how popular these holiday events were, seeing as you’d never been to one before Dasom’s entrance into your life.

The ice skating and tree decorating events are located in the generously sized town square, a large expanse of green, the town park, in the middle of a square-shaped conglomeration of shops. The town has grown exponentially in the past couple decades, but the square is its beloved old bones.

In the green, it almost looks like an actual festival has been set up. Several booths are placed in the leftmost corner, all trying to sell something or other. A brief glance reveals there to be handmade trinkets on display, as well as homemade coats, ornaments and various other sundries. Beside them are food trucks with tornado potatoes, fish cakes and other snacks and hot cider stands. It smells like a mix of cinnamon, vanilla and fried meat mixed in with the crisp air of winter.

A temporary ice skating rink has been erected next to the booths, with a couple dozen people already skating inside of it. Christmas music blares over a speaker from the DJ stand under a pergola, and couples and families and children dot the wide expanse of green in pockets of happiness.

Seeing as it’s been a dry year with no snow and mild weather, the only thing that really hammers in that it’s winter is all the holiday decorations and Christmas sweaters and other various Holiday-themed paraphernalia.

“Auntie, can we look at the booths?” questions Dasom, standing on her tiptoes to attempt to get a good look at them over the crowd.

You look around the park, trying to catch a glimpse of Seokjin. “We can after your service.”

“Don’t be a buzzkill, Ms. Y/N. She can look now if she’d like.”

Dasom turns around and grins toothily at Seokjin. “I like snowglobes,” she says. “Do they have snowglobes?”

Seokjin makes a show of tapping his chin to mimic deep thought. “Hmm. I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe we could look together.”

She nods, already making her more peppy way toward the booths. Your eyes remain on Seokjin as he trails behind her, and steadily, you follow.

“Where’s Taehyung?”

It only feels fair to you if you talk to Seokjin’s kid, too, but Seokjin tilts his head to the left. Your gaze follows to find Taehyung and three other children ambushing Jungkook, the teacher looking more than excited to be at the center of the first graders’ attention, with his bunny smile and wide, pure eyes.

“The kids seem to like him,” you note.

“Kids love Jungkook,” Seokjin says. Then he steps closer, a smirk on his face, as if about to swap with you a secret. “Between you and me, I think it’s because he is one himself.”

You snort, and Seokjin grins, eyeing you in a soft and watchful way. You end up swallowing your laugh prematurely, unsteadied by the man’s eyes.

“I found a snowglobe stand!” Dasom crows, coming up on said stand. “Look, Mr. Kim!”

Seokjin’s grin seems etched permanently into his face as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his long, black coat, covering a pleated egg-white sweater. “Indeed you did. Do you have a particular favorite?”

(If he isn’t already a model for a men’s catalogue, he should become one. As it stands, there’s a dearth of Seokjin in magazines. Not that you read them. It’s the principle of the thing.)

Dasom’s eyes light up as she surveys the display case, scanning over the myriad multiple kinds. There’s Rudolph, and Frosty, and other children’s favorites encased in the globes, but Dasom zeroes in on an unassuming globe pushed off to the side. A large white dove spreads its wings and flies above a tiny, evergreen forest.

She presses forward, even though she carefully doesn’t touch the glass, and points. “That one,” she says. “It’s beautiful.”

You and Seokjin both raise brows at the globe that caught her interest.

“What about it do you like?” Seokjin asks probingly.

She tilts her head. “Doves were dad’s favorite animal.”

The back of your neck pricks. Her voice seems blank; not entirely sorrowful, but still. You’re not the best at dissecting the emotion of the moment, but even you can recognize the heaviness that settles over the three of you as a result of her confession.

Seokjin looks to you, brows furrowed.

Dasom continues, as if she didn’t just drop a bombshell. “I really like snow globes,” she says. “I’ve always wondered how they make them.”

An elderly woman you recognize perks up at Dasom’s declaration, and she turns to look at the girl, interest piqued. It’s Mrs. Han — white rolled hair, sunspots and a demeanor that’s similar to icy-hot; cold one second and warm the next. “Would you like to learn how to make them?”

The girl’s eyes flicker to the elderly woman’s in surprise. “I can?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Han crows. “Not many kids want to learn the art of snow globe making anymore. Who will continue to make the snow globes for the future if not your generation?”

Dasom smile grows. “I can do it! I really wanna know —what goes inside it? It can’t be water, can it?”

“Now that’s a secret, little dove.” Dasom seems surprised at the nickname, but mollified, and Mrs. Han reaches beneath the counter and sets the globe that caught Dasom’s eye on the counter. “Here. Why don’t you go ahead and take this one?”

Feeling as though you should step in, you ask, “How much?”

At this point, considering how content Dasom seems to be, you’d pay any amount to get her that snowglobe. This is the first you’ve seen her remotely happy since you’d adopted her.

Mrs. Han waves you off with a wrinkled hand. “Honestly, dear, seeing you at one of these events is payment enough.” Then her gaze settles on Seokjin. “And you, Seokjinnie. Come here. You look too thin.”

Seokjin sheepishly ducks his head and steps forward, allowing the tiny elderly woman to grab his cheeks and pinch them. “I’ve been eating well, Mrs. Han, I assure you. Eight square meals a day.”

Mrs. Han presses her lips into an unimpressed line. “None of that funny business, Seokjinnie. You need to stay healthy and take care of these two, because God knows Y/N hardly takes care of herself.”

Feeling slightly indignant at that — you think you do just fine at taking care of yourself, thank you very much, you say, “I don’t think I really have an issue with—”

She pins you with a stare. “I wasn’t talking about your eating habits.”

Stunned into silence, you look to find Seokjin giving you a sheepishly apologetic glance, and even you can read the message behind it: just roll with it.

Well.. you suppose Mrs. Han is harmless. And if Seokjin doesn’t mind if she says weird shit like that, then you don’t mind either. You’re used to people concocting their own narratives about you. You’re just not used to said narratives assuming you and Seokjin have anything to do with one another.

Mrs. Han puts the snow globe that caught Dasom’s interest in a brown sack, wrapped tight, and drops a card inside. “For you. You can come pick the snowglobe up after today’s events,” she says to you. “Call me when you’re ready for the dove’s snowball lessons.

Dasom grins. “I can’t wait!”

If it’ll make Dasom that happy, then you can’t wait, either. With a gracious nod, you exit the booth, watching as two new families enter and Mrs. Han greets them.

The three of you walk along the booths, Dasom’s eye not quite being caught by anything else. She seems to be curious, but not much of a materialist, lacking an interest in clothes or flashier toys.

“Well,” says Seokjin as you exit the booth-heavy area. “I think it’s time for ice skating. What do you think, Dasom?”

Dasom furrows her brows. “Don’t I need to pass out cocoa? For my service?”

Seokjin shrugs, a self-serving smile on his face. “Oh, I don’t know. I think you can serve with some killer moves in the rink. Can you ice skate, Dasom? If not, I can show you.”

You watch Seokjin with wide eyes, something unfamiliar growing in the coves of your stomach.

“I can ice skate,” Dasom says, tilting her chin upward in a show of pride. “Dad and I used to skate a lot.”

Lover of ice skating and doves, an engineer — pieces to the puzzle that is the brother you never knew.

You blink. You don’t want to see the dead as a puzzle. He… means nothing to you.

Right?

But he does mean something to Dasom. And you do like that she can speak so freely of him and not seem plagued with grief.

“Well, that’s great. Let me grab you a pair of skates. Your size?”

Dasom tells him, almost seeming giddy at the prospect, and Seokjin walks over behind the booth of skates, greeting one of the volunteers, and grabs her shoe size, holding up a pair of pretty ice skates: blue, with white lace running across the boot.

Dasom lights up as he passes her the skates, and she quickly sits down on a bench right outside the rink to kick out of her sneakers and slip into the skates.

Then he sets his stare on you.

“Oh, no. No. No. Absolutely not.”

He… Jesus fuck, he pouts as he looks at you. How can a man still look so handsome when he pouts? “Come now. Be a good sport and do it for the kids.”

“What about me falling flat on my ass is for the kids?”

“You’ll give them amusement for weeks to come. A nice bedside story to tell to all their friends and family.”

You glare at him.

Seokjin remains undeterred. “Your shoe size?”

“Mr. Kim,” you say, levelly, “What about me says that I somehow know how to skate?”

Seokjin only smiles, dazzling and assuring. “I’ll teach you.”

Taken way aback at his offer, you feel many threads overlapping in your mind, all vying for you to tug at them. Why must he go off script like this? If you irritate him, he shouldn’t do things like this. Offering his services to you. Dasom is one thing, but you’re not a child.

Resigned, you reluctantly give him your shoe size. He grins at you, jogging off, his broad shoulders enhanced in their broadness as he does.

(Fuck. He’s so handsome. You do not like that.)

It doesn’t take him long to come back armed with two pairs of ice skates. A pair of leather ones, which look far too personalized to be freebies, and a pair of ones black as midnight in your size. He gestures for you to sit on a bench closer to the rink, and with a scowl you do so. Following Seokjin’s suit, you slide out of your boots and into the skates, carefully lacing them while he makes quick work of doing the same, clearly far more assured in himself.

You look up when done, and a quick scan around the rink reveals Dasom to be skating next to Jungkook.

The corner of your lips turns up in the beginnings of a smile, watching Dasom’s happy laugh as she skates circles around Jungkook — who seems to be holding his own quite well, stunned at her prowess, however.

“Shall we?” Seokjin asks.

Feeling perpetually grumpy, you carefully wobble across the grass.

Oh. This doesn’t seem too bad —

— Until you step in the rink, feeling incredibly far out of your depth.

You’ve never been the most physical of people, and you’re feeling that now, suddenly terrified.

“I want — Out,” you hiss, feeling mildly embarrassed when a child eyes you as she skates by.

“It’s not as hard as it seems,” Seokjin says assuringly, stepping onto the ice beside you. He fluidly does a 180 degree turn until he stands in front of you, and he slides back a few steps. “We’ll take it small bits at a time. Why don’t you try coming to me?” He holds out his arms.

You stare at him. “You’re fucking insane. You’re all insane. Every single person who does this for fun.”

Seokjin isn’t deterred, and he says, his voice soft and low, “Come, now. Baby steps. You can do it.”

“Mr. Kim, I am going to fall.”

His eyes sparkle. “I’m right here,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

Despite the overly pleasant heated coil that tightens in your gut at that, you manage out, levelly, “I am going to kill you.”

He laughs. “Then I would die one particularly happy death. Come on.”

Feeling like you’re taking a leap of faith — and fearing for your life — you do as instructed and take small baby steps, dragging your skates along the ice, feeling far too wobbly. It’s slow-going, but as your eyes lock on to Seokjin, it feels like the world falls away, until there’s just you, and him, and the ice beneath you. You fail to note any of the people who skate by, only vaguely realizing that some people have stopped to watch you toddle onto the rink.

You move forward, almost reaching Seokjin. Your competitive nature suddenly turns on like a light, and suddenly, this is your newest goal. A small goal, but one you need to reach all the same. Just — oh, three more steps, if you’re gauging correctly, and then—

Right when you’re about to touch him, Seokjin pulls back, a tease in the glint of his eye.

“Oh — You asshole,” you toss out, but, somehow, you don’t really feel that angry. No — You feel other emotions entirely. Ones you don’t fully understand, but ones you note and feel thrumming in your veins all the same.

His laughter rings through the rink, loud and unabashed and whole, like the sound of a bell tolling.

You stumble, and you scowl. “Kim fucking Seokjin, stop playing around.”

“Just two more steps,” he says, an attempt to appease you. “I promise you can do it.”

With a measured sigh, you take one more step. And then two.

And then Seokjin rushes forward to grab onto you, and lifts one of your arms in the air.

“You did it!” he says, with a beaming, sparkling grin.

Even with your sweater as a barrier between Seokjin’s hand and your arm, the heat that bleeds through his touch is scorching in its novel intensity.

It leaves you speechless.

“Yay!!! Ms. Y/L/N, you were so cool!” You turn to your side to see Taehyung grinning up at you, another kid his age beside him. Before you can say anything back, however, Taehyung skates away.

And then other cheers ring out.

“Go Y/N!” someone says in the crowd. You place the voice as Jungkook. You look to see Dasom giving you an awkward thumbs up — very similar to the one you had given her. Jungkook looks down at her, raises a brow, and then gives you a thumbs up, too.

You duck your head, not enjoying all this oddly placed attention on you. “They’re acting like I’m a child who just spoke its first words.”

Seokjin shrugs. “They’re supportive.”

Huh. Supportive? You glance cautiously around the rink to find your fellow townsfolk giving you grins before they return back to their activities.

You would’ve dubbed the cheers and watchful eyes as mocking, not supportive. But… Maybe… You would have been wrong.

“I’m not the only one who’s glad to see you out of that castle you call a home,” he says, and that’s when you realize you’re still holding onto the man, his touch warming you in all the pleasantly worst ways on your wrist as he holds you steady.

On impulse, you yank your touch away, and stumble —

He grabs back onto you, brows furrowed. “Hey now. Don’t go thinking you’re an expert,” he says. “Stick with me. We’ll go for a lap around the rink, okay?”

You swallow, still feeling like you’re burning. But the kind of burn that comes from roasting marshmallows over a campfire, not something searing or dangerous.

“I’m not sure if I can…”

“Hold onto me,” he says simply, extending his arm for you to loop yours through.

You stare at him, unmoving. Then, against your better judgment, you follow the instruction, looping your arm through his. He pulls you comfortably tight against his side and begins to skate. As heated as you are where you touch, you attempt to watch his skates carefully, trying to mirror his movements. It works, you think.

Your balance is complete shit, but with Seokjin keeping you upright, it’s not so hard to keep moving forward.

You clear your throat. “So, Mr. Kim.”

“So, Ms. Y/N.”

You tilt your head as he guides you slowly along the wall of the rink, several more experienced skaters gliding past you — Dasom and Taehyung being two of them, evidently having linked up with one another. Despite their rough start, you think they may truly be friends.

“I’m pretty sure ice skating doesn’t count as community service.”

Seokjin’s quiet for a long moment. Almost a half loop around the rink, in fact, as if he’s attempting to compose an answer. You allow him his time, knowing well what it’s like. Needing time to gather your thoughts.

He finally comes up with one. “From what Namjoon told me, it’s Dasom’s first Christmas without her father.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You only get so many Christmases as a child,” Seokjin says. “I want Dasom to enjoy hers while she still can.”

You blink, feeling sullen. That’s… True enough.

“Besides,” he continues. “I’ll be truthful, Ms. Y/N. Half my reasoning for talking Namjoon into lessening Dasom’s consequence was that…” His gaze flickers to yours. “I want Dasom to become a fully-fledged member of this town. But I want you to, as well.”

You say nothing, too overwhelmed to.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “So if how she does so is speaking to Mrs. Han, or ice skating with friends — that works for me. Her happiness is paramount, and I refuse to let a distorted sense of justice get in the way of a grieving seven year old adjusting to her new life.” He looks out from the rink, the gentle winter wind whipping at his hair. “And, you. I’m sure you live a lovely life in your home, and I understand your career takes place inside it. But my hope is that you learn to at least see some merit to the outside world.”

His words hang heavy in the air, crisp and heartening and bringing with them a whiff of novelty and newness and an edge of old fear that thrums in your gut.

You look away from him, still hanging on to his anchoring arm. You feel like you’re slipping and sliding, pieces of your life’s puzzle jamming together in ways that are disjointed, but not physically. Physically, you feel more grounded than you’ve ever felt. Not only do you see the physical manifestation of Seokjin’s words wrapping around the two of you like a plastic chain, but you feel rooted to the world around you.

You want to ask him why he wants that for you, but this script of him you’re concocting inside your head — you’re not certain you're ready for the answer. Scripted or otherwise. You already feel beyond overwhelmed and unable to understand the first few throws of this game. If you keep stepping up to bat before studying the outfield, you’re going to end up striking out very, very soon.

“I don’t need you to love Christmas,” Seokjin continues into your silence, his voice soft and wispy as he gently squeezes your wrist. “I just wish you’d participate with the rest of us.”

“Well. I am now, aren’t I?”

Seokjin’s expression gives nothing away now, almost closed off. “Yes, you are. And luckily for all of us, Dasom will still owe four hours by night’s end.”

He pulls you to a stop by the opening to the rink, and slowly releases your hold on him.

(You don’t want to acknowledge why you don’t want to let go.)

“I’ll stop hogging you,” he says.

“Because the line of people vying to skate with me is so exceptionally long?”

He smiles, almost wistful. “I have rounds to make. I’ll see you at the tree decorating?”

Slowly, you nod. He backs away, pulling out of his skates and back into his loafers, and it takes zero time before he’s cornered by someone else. A trio of three men. He talks to them with an affable flair, a genial persona. You watch him, head tilted. The way he effortlessly works them; you wonder how in the hell he does it.

A moment passes, and then you feel a slight tugging on the sleeve of your coat.

Dasom.

She looks up at you, a smile on her face. “You and Mr. Kim skated together.”

Instead of responding to that and having Dasom tell you Seokjin should be your husband again — the mental leaps of children — you give her a soft smile. “I think I got somewhat better at skating, though Mr. Kim did the brunt of the work.”

Dasom giggles. “You can skate with me. I’ll help you.”

You hesitate, unsure if this tiny seven year old could possibly keep you steady.

“Please,” she urges. “You can hold onto the side of the rink.”

“Um…” You stare down at Dasom and her wide, hopeful eyes. She seems eager. Like she’s having genuine fun. How could you nip that in the bud? “All right. But just for a bit. And if I fall, we are done.”

Dasom only holds out her tiny hand.

It takes you a stunned second, but then you reach out, and you take her hand.

It’s a miracle you ended up getting out of that ice rink in one piece, only falling on your ass once.

You think suffering through it (and the potential ass bruise) was worth it, if Dasom’s damn near exuberance is any indication. Luckily, she did allow you to leave the rink and adopt yourself back into your own shoes — exhaling a long sigh of relief at feeling stable once more — and now you’re content to watch Dasom, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, skate alongside Taehyung and another little girl that looks about their age.

Head resting on the palm of your hand, you watch them for quite awhile, though you, admittedly, end up zoning out, as you tend to — it’s difficult for you to stay rooted in your body, in the now.

“Never expected to find you at one of these things, Y/N.”

Startled back down to earth, you look to your side to see Min Yoongi in a tartan coat and black gloves, his ears covered by one of his characteristic beanies.

“Well, I mean, I could definitely say the same for you,” you toss back, brow raised. “I think you’re the one person in town who could compete with me for lacking in Christmas spirit.”

He laughs, a light one, but shrugs. “You haven’t been around. I get out some these days.” Then he turns around, presses his back to the rink so he can pin you with his knowing look. “In any case, Seokjin called me.”

“Seok—” You sputter, eyes wide. “You know Mr. Kim?”

Yoongi raises a brow. “The entire town knows Mr. Kim,” — he says the title in a mocking manner, and you narrow your eyes — “Except for you, until a week ago, apparently. Which is difficult to believe.”

“Why is that?”

He lifts his mug of cocoa to his mouth and takes a sip of it. “I’d say, of all the people in this town, you and Seokjin are the most infamous.”

You snort. “And what, exactly, makes Mr. Kim infamous, Yoongi? Loving too hard? Spending too much of his time spearheading charitable events?”

Yoongi goes quiet for a moment. Then he tilts his head, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. “You really don’t know?”

“No. And I really don’t appreciate being in the dark.”

“Eh.” He shrugs again. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out with time. I can’t just tell you — that takes all the fun out of it. Besides, I still think you and Seokjin have met before. He’s lived in this town almost as long as we’ve been here.”

You furrow your brows in consideration. “Did he go to school with us?”

“Naw. He’s a few years older.” Then he quirks a grin. “Are you maybe curious about him?”

“Of course I am. You just told me he lives in infamy. Now me, I understand, because the townsfolk hate me—”

“They don’t hate you,” Yoongi says. “You’re famous because you’re a popular author. Christ, you’re dense sometimes.”

“Did you know they call me Scrooge?”

“So? You kind of are Scroogish.”

You blow out a long-held sigh. “I don’t like you.”

Yoongi says nothing, reaching into the pocket of his coat to pull out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“I saw you skating with Seokjin,” he says, finally, after taking a drag of his cigarette. “What’s that about?”

You pause, unsure how to answer him. You know yourself well enough to know that if you really hadn’t wanted to do one bit of that, you would have laughed in Seokjin’s face and stormed off.

But that’s the exact opposite of what you did.

“How much did you see?”

“I only caught the tail end of it,” he says. “But you were hanging onto him pretty tightly—”

“I thought I was going to die, Min.”

“Doesn’t explain the look in your eyes, though.”

You freeze. “Wh—What look in my eyes, Yoongi?” He only smirks, unanswering, and you feel horror creep up your spine and prick at the back of your neck. “Yoongi. For my sanity, please assure me I didn’t have a fucking look in my eyes.”

He laughs, gently mocking. Your horror only expands tenfold.

Before you can respond and demand Yoongi retract every horrifying thing he just said, you feel a tapping at your back, and you turn to find Dasom, standing with Taehyung and his gummy smile and fluffy hair.

“Auntie,” she says simply. “The tree decorating is soon. Are you helping?”

“Um. Yes,” you say, still feeling slightly flustered from Yoongi’s revelation.

“Hey, Tae Tae,” Yoongi says with a wave toward the boy. Then he tilts his head at the girl. “Dasom. Always a pleasure.”

“Yoongi!” Dasom says brightly. “Will you be decorating with us?”

Yoongi tilts his head and hm’s. “I actually gotta get back to my partner.”

Your jaw drops. “What partner, Yoongi?”

He only grins and pushes off the rink to walk away from the three of you.

Just for that, you yell after him, “I hope they break up with you.”

Back facing you, he flips you off. You watch a concerned parent cover the eyes of their child and move them away, and you blow out a sigh.

Damn. You and Yoongi really don’t talk much, for you to not know he was dating someone. In fact, speaking twice in one week seems to be a record for the two of you. At least, since you came back to town three years ago.

In a roundabout way, that’s Dasom’s doing.

You watch Yoongi retreat away into the crowd, supposed partner nowhere to be found, no matter how much you squint your eyes and search for them. He could be lying, but lying has never been Yoongi’s style or strong suit.

Then Taehyung pulls Dasom away, toward the tree, and you trail a few steps behind them, eyes falling on The Tree. It’s large: towering and real. A staple of your storybook town, a nephrite-colored, pine-needled evergreen tree that as a child had seemed to expand onward and upward, stretching up toward the sky.

As an adult, it’s much smaller, much tamer, but you certainly understand the look of sheer awe that lampshades over Dasom’s face. It’s her first time seeing the tree, after all.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, barely audible under Taehyung’s overly enthused, “Holy cow, it’s huge!”

“Tae, you see this tree every day.” The intruding voice is Namjoon, lugging around a tub filled with what are evidently decorations — tinsel, covered candles, ornaments et al, the bulge of his generous muscles straining against his tight sweater (because apparently this man doesn’t own any clothes that aren’t a size too small). “Are you two ready to decorate?”

Dasom nods, standing on her tiptoes to peek inside the tub.

Taehyung eagerly says, “Yes, yes, yessss please!”

Namjoon laughs, old and familiar.

“Well then, you two, why don’t you set up shop down there, where Mr. Jeon is?”

Without another word, Taehyung sprints off toward Jungkook, who squats at the base of the tree, carefully putting a wooden ornament on a branch — and Taehyung jumps on his back, cheerfully knocking him over.

Dasom smiles and trots after him, far more contained, and you watch them ambush Jungkook.

“Should I step in?” you question, watching Jungkook give Taehyung a gentle noogie. “I feel bad that the children don’t leave him alone.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Some people love kids, Y/N.” It’s a pointed remark, one you take offense to.

You purse your lips. “I never had a problem with kids. I just never wanted to be a mother.”

The amusement seems to leave Namjoon at that, and he clears his throat, averting his gaze. Awkwardness dampens the once-crisp winter air, and he doesn’t look at you when he finally says, “I think it’s great, you know. What you’re doing.”

“Dasom didn’t have a choice.”

“No,” he says, his eyes falling on you. “But you did. And I’m glad you chose this.”

Taken aback, you slide your hands into your coat. It seems very pointed. Like he isn’t just talking about the service. Before you can muster up a response — but truthfully, you doubt you could — a woman comes up to Namjoon and asks for his attention elsewhere. You watch them walk away, Namjoon dropping off the tub of decorations to Jungkook on the way, an odd feeling in your marrow.

You stand there for a moment, feeling frozen in time while the liquid world moves on around you.

It hits you how fast this all is. A week ago, your life was normal. Solitary. It was just you in your big, empty house. It was just you, and your writing, and your excessive royalties. Your life was simple and organized and everything was clear. You knew who you were and who you planned on being ten, twenty, thirty years from now.

But then Dasom happened, and now everything’s unraveling like a poorly knitted hat.

Disoriented and out of it, you don’t take note of Seokjin coming up before you until he asks, “Are you all right?”

You eye the proferred paper cup in his hand. “Is that coffee?”

If Seokjin is bothered that you ignore his question, he doesn’t show it. “Unfortunately, there was no coffee. Are you a fan of adult egg nog?”

“Adult egg—” You snort. “Are you offering me alcohol at a family event, Mr. Kim?”

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Well, I could get us the non-adult stuff, but that seems kind of boring, doesn’t it?”

“You’ve convinced me,” you say, reaching for one of the cups and taking a healthy swig. Bitter and sweet — your favorite mix of flavors.

“So you’re a fan of alcohol,” Seokjin says with a nod. “Noted.”

“Well, what’s a tortured, solitary, nutcase of an author without her alcoholism?”

He laughs, softly. “By all means, but please don’t make a Bukowski out of yourself.”

You lift a brow as you take a sip of your eggnog. “You’re a fan of Bukowski?”

“Not quite. I find his work far too cynical and morbid for my tastes, but I’m sure that’s just the kind of thing that attracts you.”

“Well, I thought you were a fan of my novels. I’d consider them just as cynical as Bukowski’s.”

Seokjin tilts his head, considering. “Yes, well. Maybe I’m biased, but I inexplicably enjoy yours more.” His gaze slides to yours, mirthful. “You’re the better writer, I think.”

You gape, portraying mock affrontement. “Don’t go saying that in a room full of pretentious book lovers, Mr. Kim; they’d put you at the stake.”

“I’m glad there’s only one of you here, then.”

You laugh, free and loud. Seokjin watches you laugh with a softened gaze that makes you feel seen through, x-rayed down to your bones. You end up swallowing your laugh prematurely.

“Besides. I find your writing raw and human,” he says. “Not morbid. Just… Human.”

Inexplicably moved by the man’s unexpected words, you swallow, unsure how to reply. You decide to ask him a question. “You have surprisingly strong opinions about writing. Are you a writer, Mr. Kim?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I'm creative enough to write. I do admire people like you who are, though.”

“Ideas can come from anywhere. Anyone can write,” you say. “Maybe not well, but. Anyone could. And I could help you, if that was ever something you wanted to try. Even as a side hobby to your job as a…” You hesitate. You realize that you actually have no idea what Seokjin’s career is. Or if he has one at all.

He finishes your sentence for you: “I don’t quite have a real job. Unless you count being a dad slash completer of odd jobs around the town as a job.”

That makes you lift a brow. Your eyes scan over Seokjin: the watch that glitters on his wrist, which you’re fairly certain is a Valentino Constantin. The sweater he wears, which looks expertly weaved, a soft bechamel-colored sweater that certainly doesn’t look as though it comes cheap. In fact, no part of Kim Seokjin looks cheap or thrifted. So if the money he uses to dress in such a way doesn’t come from his own income, then… Whose?

A sugar mommy? Or perhaps since he is so beloved and kind and attractive the entire town sugars him? Which seems highly unlikely, but people have done more for less.

The puzzle that is Kim Seokjin only becomes more scattered.

Now you understand how he has all this free time to man these charity events.

He shifts under the weight of your surveyance, and clears his throat. “We should help decorate,” he says tightly. From the tone of his voice, he sounds almost upset that you’d looked at him like that. It wasn’t that you were judging him though, you were simply confused and trying to connect some dots.

“Oh.” You nod, slow. “Okay.”

There comes that wall he tends to erect again. You thought you were the one with the unscalable tower between you, but it seems he’s even more prone to shutting you out, despite being the more outgoing of the two of you.

The two of you join the rest of the town in decorating the tree. At one point, Taehyung comes to you to show you this “really cool” car ornament, all wide-eyed and excited, but other than that, it’s a pretty tame time period. Seokjin talks to you, but it’s off small, unimportant things, his tone more cooled than before. Other people come up to talk to him, people that either ignore you completely or at most give you a polite grin, but to Seokjin they’re all sunshine and warmth and in awe.

You’re in awe, too, though, so you don’t blame them.

When the ornaments run out, making the tree look like Santa Claus himself had puked on it, the townsfolk step back and look at the tree with amazement, and excitement.

And then you hear the squeak of a mic and subsequent too-loud tapping.

“Excuse me,” comes Namjoon’s undeniable tenor, and you wince at the feedback of the mic before turning to find Namjoon standing in the pagola, where the DJ is with her turntables. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Dr. Kim and I’m the principal of the elementary school in town. First off, I would like to say that the tree looks positively lovely. Better than last year.”

“And the last twenty years,” comes an unknown voice in the crowd, which causes a wave of chuckles to pass through the otherwise silent crowd.

Namjoon fondly rolls his eyes before continuing. “And so it is with great honor that I’m here to announce the lucky child who will get to put the star on the tree.”

A small wave of oohs passes through the crowd, a couple of kids' voices clamoring higher and excitedly, all vying to be the Chosen One.

You raise a brow. You, understandably, had no clue this was a tradition — you’ve never been to one of these events.

Someone mimics the sound of a drumroll.

Namjoon smiles. “Cho Dasom, would you do us the honor of bestowing upon our tree the Lucky Star?”

You whip your head around to look at Dasom, her mouth slightly agape as she stares at Namjoon. Taehyung nudges her, all bubbly and excited. She doesn’t move, however, nor does she speak.

That’s when you speak. “Dasom,” you say. She looks at you. “Go,” you whisper-mouth. “If you want to.”

“I do. I want to.”

You smile, you hope encouragingly, and she seems to dethaw herself enough to walk forward to Namjoon. He beams as she nears and — the crowd watches as he points at the tree and she nods, eyes wide in marvelment. He grabs the star from the DJ’s table and together, they walk to the tree.

Dasom’s hands are careful, attention focused as the two of them put the large ornament on, together.

As soon as they do, the crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers.

“Go Dasom!” one townsfolk calls, while others whistle and cheer in support and others echo the call.

From down here, Dasom looks startled and disbelieving at all the people cheering her on, but you? You feel dethawed all the way through, warmed.

For this moment, you feel connected to the world around you. To the people around you. And you think that Dasom’s feeling it too — this unexplainable spirit that threads amongst you all, connecting you to your neighbors.

Dasom and Namjoon lower down to the ground, and he jumps down before offering her a hand and setting her down on solid ground.

“You did great, sweetie!” says a middle-aged woman you can’t place.

“High-five!” comes an elementary schooler.

Dasom gives the kid a high-five and bashfully thanks everyone around her.

“Are they always so….” You gesture toward the kind townsfolk and all the attention they lavish upon Dasom, watching her shy but happy smile.

“Well…” Seokjin tilts his head. “Not always.” His eyes are dark, focused and knowing as they meet yours. “But aside from the loud minority that is the bad apples, a lot of people in our town are good people, and word has gotten around about Dasom. It’s inevitable that the majority of the townsfolk want to double down on making her feel part of us.”

When you’d asked, you’d forgotten that Seokjin isn’t entirely happy with you, but as you watch him look out at Dasom, a fondness in his features, you find yourself thinking — even if Seokjin’s upset with you, you wouldn’t trade this moment for the world.

Yet there’s a slight curve to his smile.

You eye it carefully, and it dawns on you.

“Did you ask Namjoon to do that for Dasom? To let her be the one to put the star on the tree?”

Seokjin startles — as if caught — but he seems to take your intuition in stride. “I may have suggested it, but it was a joint decision. I should have clued you in, but—”

“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” you interrupt.

That’s when Seokjin turns to face you, dark eyes wide in sheer surprise. You eye him back, for just a moment, where the crazy, bright world outside the two of you seems a mere cold rush, illusory. For a moment, it fades away, and though normally when this happens it’s only you who feels real and clear… Seokjin is, too.

And then you’re ambushed.

Dasom. Hugging you, her arms around your waist, head pressed to your stomach. “Did you see?” she asks, eyes glistening with tears as she looks up at you, rubbing one of her eyes with the back of her mitten-covered hand. “I put the Lucky Star on!”

“I saw,” you say, mentally stumbling.

“Can I get funnel cake now?” she asks, vibrating with excitement.

“Oh — Ah, sure, but maybe—” you say. But your eyes fall on Seokjin and his sweet-eyed grin as he raises a brow to you in acknowledgement before backing away. It isn’t but five seconds before his attention is captured by someone else, and you watch the broad lines of his shoulders fade away as he moves through the crowd, blending in with it.

You were going to ask Seokjin if he and Taehyung wanted to join you and Dasom, but now you see that unspoken offer for what it would have been — a mistake.

You’re you. And Seokjin is Seokjin. Two vastly different people. You may have both lived in and grown up in the same town geographically, but the world he’s concocted for himself is galaxies away from the iron castle you’ve wrought up around yourself, a bastion of self-security.

Your circle is small — it was just you, with Yoongi at the fraying edges. And then Dasom joined, and it grew, but it can’t grow more. You shouldn’t try to let Seokjin in. Why would he want to be in, anyway? The entire town is his backyard. You’re just one insignificant Scrooge inside it.

With that oddly depressing and equally revealing thought, you push down thoughts of Seokjin, and direct your full attention to Dasom as she pulls you gently forward.

Forward, to this strange new world.

The activity tonight is movies.

Considering the weather is rather nice for winter: chilly, little wind and a bright, cloudless sky, cold enough for sweaters but not for gloves, the movies will be playing on a wall in the town square courtesy of a projector, with participants encouraged to bring their own blankets and snuggle up to gorge themselves on buttery popcorn and hot cocoa.

Dasom’s ‘job’ will be to help make popcorn, but at this point, you’re not sure she’ll be actually doing any work anyway. But a service hour is a service hour, and so whether she’s laboring or playing with Taehyung, you’re obligated to go.

But she’s managed to drag you out to town far before the movie is set to take place. For her snowglobe lessons. You’d given Mrs. Han a call, and now here you are. At the old woman’s shop.

You suppose that somewhere in the dim catalogue that is your memory of things you consider unimportant or extraneous is a time in which you knew Mrs. Han owned a coffee shop. The fact of the matter, though, is that you didn’t remember until your phone call to her this morning a few hours prior to your visit.

Which is great, actually, because while Dasom’s studying under Mrs. Han’s tutelage, you can suck down cup after cup of black coffee and work on your manuscript.

So, with that plan, you open the door to the coffee shop, the bells above the door tinkling to signify your arrival.

And a couple dozen pairs of eyes fall on you and Dasom.

It’s packed. It is Saturday morning, after all, and this is a café, with an abundance of breakfast foods, teas and coffee to choose from.

Still. Anxiety bubbles beneath your skin. When people look your way, it’s almost never a good thing. In this town, especially. They look at you because they find you odd. They look down on you for your solitudinous lifestyle or because you don’t fall in line with whatever their moving goalpost of a woman should be. They don’t like the way you look, speak, behave.

Their opinions on you based on that criteria is fine, you suppose. That’s all shit you have control over: what you wear, your career, how in-line you are with traditional femininity, how asocial and odd you are. Even though you view each of these things as simply parts of the authentic whole that is you, you acknowledge you could change if you really wanted to.

(You don’t.)

The one thing that the town looks down on you for that you don’t understand, however, is your father abandoning you. As if that had anything to do with you, or at least, not anything you could control. You couldn’t earn your father’s love any more than you could bleed a stone. No matter if you were demure instead of coarse, or social instead of withdrawn, or naturally kind instead of awkwardly mean — your father wouldn’t have stayed.

Years ago, when you were still a child, the town mocked you for this.

Broken families are looked down upon in small, nuclear-ridden towns like this, and yours was considered a broken family, no matter how little you saw it that way. Your thought process was that you didn’t want a dad who didn’t want you, didn’t want to be someone’s consolation prize.

It still hurt, though. The mocking whispers and not-so-sly glances.

So, no. You don’t have a great opinion of the townsfolk. But they likewise don’t have a nice one of you, so the dislike runs both ways.

Maybe if you had become their version of a real woman once you hit adulthood, you would have garnered favor. As it stands, you didn’t, and so…

Here you are. Glaring back at everyone who stares at you and wishing you could turn around and go back into solitude, where you don’t have to deal with being looked down on.

You have to remind yourself who you’re really here for: Dasom.

You let the door shut behind you, and then—

The café resumes its original scheduled programming, though a couple of people wave and greet you both before turning back to what they were doing originally.

“Wow, Dasom, I love your coat,” says an elder woman, whose table is a few feet from the door. “Looking spiffy!”

Dasom ducks her head shyly. “Thank you, Mrs. Lee,” she says, her cheeks red.

“Dasom!” a female child you’ve come to recognize crows from her place sitting on the floor next to what could presumably be her parents, a baby’s carseat beside her as she plays with a train and her parents drink their coffees. She jumps to her feet and darts over to Dasom, all bright smiles and excitement. “I can’t believe you’re here! Do you want to play with me?”

Dasom frowns. “I would like to, but I’m here for snow globe making lessons. Maybe we can play later, Sunhee.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “Snow globe making lessons? That sounds fun. I want to make snow globes!”

“Mm…” Dasom looks to you.

“Maybe you can ask Mrs. Han if you can join,” you offer stiffly despite trying to feign warmth.

“Ooh!” says Sunhee, before grabbing Dasom’s hand. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

The girls dart away, and you trail behind them before coming up to the counter.

A man mans the counter, with wavy ash-blond hair and a cutely-crinkling crescent smile as he greets you. You vaguely recognize him, but can’t place the face to a name.

“Jiminie!” says Sunhee. “Is your mom in the back?”

Jimin, that’s right. Last time you’d seen him, you’d been in high school, and he’d been around Dasom’s age, probably.

He lifts an amused brow. “What?” he asks, with faux hurt. “I can’t get you more chocolate milk? I’m suddenly not enough?”

Sunhee giggles. “Noo,” she says. “Mrs. Han promised Dasom snow globe making lessons. I want to see if it’s okay if I do them, too!”

Jimin’s eyes fall on Dasom, and realization seems to dawn on him. “Oh! You’re the girl she’s been waxing on and on about. Dasom…?” Then his eyes fall back to you, and set in an obvious connecting of plainly laid out dots. “Wow. I heard you adopted a kid, but I thought it was a wives’ tale.”

The immediate retort that finds the tip of your tongue would be something along the lines of; nope, no tales here, unfortunately — to my detriment, this is real.

But you thankfully swallow that down before you can speak it into the world. It’s not something you can unsay.

But…

You glance at Dasom as Jimin shouts to the back for Mrs. Han, and the trio in front of you exchange kid-friendly pleasantries while you merely observe, before the elderly woman comes out to greet them both with an excited smile.

… You’re not entirely sure the statement would be true.

“You girls both want lessons?” Mrs. Han asks.

Sunhee nods, excitedly. Dasom gives Mrs. Han a quiet smile.

“Ooh! Jiminie, this is so exciting,” Mrs. Han says with an excited laugh. “Come, girls, behind the counter.” She looks at you. “Would you like to join us?”

“Oh…” You tilt your head to the side. “I was planning on working on my manuscript, but if she needs my supervision…”

The woman waves you off. “No need. I watch the kids often. I’ve been empty nesting lately,” she says, reaching over to pinch Jimin’s cheeks, “Especially since this one left it to go chase his dreams at college all the way in Seoul. He only comes home for the holidays. It breaks my heart.”

“Ma…” Jimin blushes, ducking his head. He makes quick work of pulling away and moving back to man the register to avoid his mother, but the way he looks at the woman, you can tell how visibly he adores her.

“Ah… Okay,” you say.

You feel even more awkward than usual upon seeing such a display.

(You wonder what that’s like; a healthy, loving relationship with a parent. Seems like a fantasy, honestly.)

The bells that tingle to signify an arrival do their thing, and you pay them no mind as Mrs. Han leads Sunhee and Dasom further behind the counter, off to a table and speaks to them, both girls already clearly enthralled. You take what seems to be the only empty table, toward the more secluded back of the cafe, and pull your tattered journal out of your bag.

You pick up your pen and get to work, scribbling down a few lines. But they make you furrow your brows. It just doesn’t feel… Right. Something’s off.

Could be the fact that you’re at a café, coffee-less, but you feel it’s more than that. This plot, this story, these characters… They feel off. They’ve been feeling off for a while now.

You exhale. Caught deep in trying to decide what’s worth more: deciphering this inexplicable feeling or caffeinating yourself to make the effort easier, you hear your name.

Spoken excitedly.

Thrice.

“Why, hello, Tae,” you reply, hoping you manage to keep irritation out of your tone.

This is another reason you never wanted kids of your own. You get submerged in your own world, your thoughts and musings and deliberations so easily, so often, and so deeply that being pulled from them is like yanking electrical wires out of their outlets. Dangerous, liable to start a fire, and at the very least, unpleasant for all involved.

The outside world is one in which you often shut out, and enjoy doing. Kids don’t really allow for that.

“Ah… Tae Tae,” comes Seokjin’s deeply familiar natural tenor from down the café, toward the front. From the looks of it, he’s enmeshed in a conversation with Sunhee’s parents. “Let’s leave her alone today. It looks like she’s working.”

“Working?” Taehyung sits on his legs on the sole chair across from you, peering over the table at your journal, ignoring his father’s request. His fluffy hair falls down in slight waves. “Wow! So cool! I didn’t know you could do work here.”

“You can if all you need to work is a pen and a journal,” you say blandly, unsure how else to react.

“That’s all you need?”

“Yes. I’m a writer.”

“And what do writers do?”

“… Write?”

Taehyung’s eyes brighten at this evidently new and mind-blowing information. “Wooow. That sounds so fun. Dad! Dad!” he calls, jumping up from your table and running to jump at him. Despite Seokjin having seen him coming — considering his attention was firmly on your table — Taehyung nearly knocks him over.

You watch the scene with mirth as Seokjin grabs Taehyung just in time to steady him and beams down at him. “Yes, Tae?”

“I wanna grow up to be like Ms. Y/L/N. She’s a writer! She writes.”

A couple waves of laughter pass through the café as the adults watch him with fond amusement.

“Really?” Seokjin raises a brow down at his son, before looking up at you and shrugging helplessly in a way that says hey, what can you do? “That’s great, Tae. I think you’d make a lovely writer.”

Looking up from your journal, you spend a moment watching them as Seokjin turns back to his original conversation.

You acknowledge the way Taehyung and Seokjin are so weaved into the fabric of this microsociety, so widely beloved. Seokjin especially. His entrance seems to make the café become less like disconnected people from the same town getting coffee and breakfast and more like one big family reunion.

This seemingly inherent way he works people; makes them laugh and smile, the way he engages them with him… It’s an ability you’ve certainly never possessed, but you find yourself admiring and valuing it in Seokjin, enticed every time you get to experience him working the room.

Swallowing, you tear your gaze away, shake off thoughts of Seokjin, and return to journaling.

Minutes go by, or a half an hour, you’re not really sure. To be submerged in your writing is to render time so meaningless it essentially ceases to exist.

Until something pulls you from writing and time starts back up again.

“It’s rare I see you without a coffee in hand.”

Like that.

Startled, you look up to find Seokjin standing before you, sans Taehyung, a cup of what you’re hoping is coffee extended to you. He wears a jade green sweater that brightens his eyes and a pair of black slacks, and when he smiles at you in greeting, you take note of the dimple in his right cheek.

Interesting.

“Here,” he says, into your silence, setting the coffee down on your table. “My treat. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, truly, but I thought you had to most definitely be missing your caffeine.” He pulls back. “I’ll leave you to i—”

“Wait.”

Seokjin ceases his movement, lifts a curious brow.

You shift under the weight of his brown-eyed gaze. Sweet and honeyed. “Thank you, Mr. Kim.”

He smiles then, all pearly teeth.

“You two — Out.”

You look to your side to find Mrs. Han standing on her side of the counter, pinning you and Seokjin both with stern looks the likes of what one would give a dog who’d just torn up beloved furniture.

“I —” Seokjin’s eyes widen as he stares at Mrs. Han and her glare at him from across the counter. He points to his chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. And Y/N, too. Get out.”

You furrow your brows, unsure what it is you did, but stand and gather your things. “All right. I’ll grab Dasom and leave, then.”

“No, no.” Mrs. Han chooses then to give you a reassuring smile. “The kids are in good hands. But the payment I ask as compensation for my services is that you two need to leave.”

“Why?” you question, incredibly confused, and it’s then you notice that Taehyung had joined Sunhee and Dasom in making snow globes, and what looks like cookies, too. The trio laugh loudly — well, Sunhee and Taehyung do, while Dasom watches on, a smile on her face.

Huh. You’d been so involved in writing that you hadn’t even noticed the boy joining in.

“You’re distracting them.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Out. Both of you.”

Seokjin laughs and lifts his hands in a show of acquiescence. “All right, all right Mrs. Han. I do have to point out, though, that Sunhee is also taking lessons, and her parents aren’t being kicked from your shop.”

You tilt your head. “He’s got a valid point.”

“Ah…” Mrs. Han looks up, thinking. “Sunhee’s parents have an infant, so they can stay.”

“Well, suppose we’re in want of an infant, then,” Seokjin says to you with a smile, leaning over slightly.

Surprised, you release a snort.

(He can’t be funny. Holy shit he can’t be funny, and kind, and smart, and handsome. Is he even human?)

“You two could make one!” suggests someone in the café, which makes some of the other patrons snicker.

Mortified, Seokjin turns his head, a slight dusting of pink across his cheeks.

Trying to make light of it (seeing as you don’t really care about the crude comment), you whisper to him, “You definitely set that up for them.” Then, before he can respond, you turn on your heel and leave the shop, bag slung over your shoulder and cup of coffee in hand.

Seokjin shortly follows after you, sliding on his coat as he does, cup of chai in hand.

“Don’t you feel the sweater and coat are excessive?” you tease, opening the door to the café.

He looks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. He seems to shrug off the tension that the suggestive person had rested on his shoulders and comes to walk with you, side by side. “Not at all. I’m not a fan of the cold.”

“And yet you love Christmas?”

“I love the events,” he replies. “How united everyone is. The decorations, the food, seeing everyone come home for the holidays. Admittedly, Ms. Y/N, the holiday isn’t of much interest to me for any reason other than that.”

“Oh.” You digest that, considering.

A moment’s silence passes as you and Seokjin walk on the sidewalk, past the ornamented and lit-up shops. You don’t know how or why the two of you decided to spend your forced exile together, but it seems… natural, somehow. Like only posthumously, with more reasoning and cognitive abilities would you choose otherwise.

In all honesty, you feel a gravitational pull toward Seokjin lately. In any area where you both are, you feel you’d end up next to him.

(He’d probably be alarmed to hear you voice such a thought aloud. Seokjin’s merely a nice person. You doubt he feels this weird pull the same way you do.)

“Now, Ms. Y/N, you like your bean water bitter, but does that mean you don’t like sweets?”

“I find some of them abhorrent, some tolerable, and very few worth eating.”

“How about churros?”

“I like them.”

Seokjin beams. “Great. Let’s get some. I know an amazing restaurant. Come with me?”

Curious brow raised, you nod.

With your agreement, he leads you away from the square, down a road off the main part of it. You walk for a few minutes. You don’t come to this part of town often. Restaurant Row. Seeing as you mainly eat your solitary meals or order delivery, you find few occasions to come here. He takes you down an alley (not a sketchy one — this is a pristine small town, not a city) and pulls to a stop at a white door.

“Here we are,” he says, opening the door in what’s likely an act of his innate chivalry.

Reluctantly, you step through the threshold, and Seokjin steps in behind you.

You realize you’ve entered what can’t be anything other than the back half of the restaurant.

“Jinnie!” says an older man carrying a cardboard box, clearly beyond ecstatic to see Seokjin. “It’s been far too long. Where in the hell have you been?”

Seokjin beams, shrugging off his coat and laying it neatly on a table by the door. “It’s December, Mateo.”

A swinging door that must lead to the front half of the restaurant opens, a woman around the man’s age walking in, also insta-lighting up upon seeing Seokjin, swatting the man lightly with a towel. “Jinnie’s always busy this time of year. You leave him alone.” She looks at you, displeased brow raised, before directing her attention back to Seokjin. “Jinnie, where is Tae?”

“He’s got lessons with Mrs. Han, don’t you worry, Sofia,” he says. “I’ll bring him by once we have time.”

“All right, all right,” says the man — Mateo— mollified. “What are you and this lovely lady having today?”

Lovely lady.

You don’t think you’ve ever been called that in your life.

Seokjin steps forward, looking at you with excitement sprouting in irises. “Y/N, meet Mateo and Sofia Espinosa. I like to call them my bonus parents.”

You meet Seokjin’s eye in sheer surprise. Bonus parents? Is there something wrong with his real ones? You’ve never heard Seokjin speak about his parents. Granted, you don’t see a reason why he would, so it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Nice to meet you,” you say to the Espinosas, hoping you come off politely enough.

They extend you the same textbook greeting.

Sofia is a squat woman with brown skin and thick, dark hair, and an almond-shaped face. Mateo is taller and thinner, his skin tone a few shades lighter than Sofia’s, and has a square jaw.

But most importantly, you think, is the way they light up as Seokjin rounds nearer and he allows them to hug him. Like just being in Seokjin’s radius brightens their day.

“I was hoping to drum up some churros,” Seokjin says, once their greetings are over with. “Y/N likes them.”

Sofia directs her attention back to you. “Do you like El Salvadorian food?”

“Well, I wouldn’t knock anything until I tried it.”

That’s when Sofia gives you the first slightly pleased look she’s given you. “Fantastic. Let’s get some real food in both your bellies. Not just dessert,” she scolds Seokjin in a whiplash change of temperament. “You’re too skinny, Jinnie.”

Seokjin fondly rolls his eyes. “You all are always saying that. I am just fine.”

It seems Sofia doesn’t care. “You —” she says, pointing to you. “Come with me.”

“Um…” You look to Seokjin for help.

He leans forward, voice incredibly low, almost whispering in your ear. “If you really want out, just tell me.”

You have to resist the urge to jump out of your skin. His lips. Those damned pink, thick lips. So goddamn close to your ear. It… Makes you feel all sorts of inappropriately weird.

Trying to ignore that, you look at Seokjin. Under the restaurant’s fluorescent lighting, as close as he is to you, you get a good, full view of him.

He looks at home here.

Messing with your fingers, you look away and say, “It’s alright. I just hope she isn’t planning on serving you me.”

Seokjin laughs. “She’s like a hard candy,” he says. “Work to get through to, but soft and chewy on the inside.” His eyes sparkle as he meets your eye with a wink. “Kinda like you, actually.”

And with that, Seokjin makes off to help Mateo with lifting mystery boxes, and though you watch him as he goes, Sofia gets your attention once more, and you follow her.

As soon as you’re through the door and into the kitchen, she pins you with a glare. “Hands washed, hair up. Now.”

Despite your typically combative nature, there’s something inexplicable that tugs inside you that wants you to oblige. So you do, the both of you silent.

Sofia slaps down dough onto a wooden slab covered in a powder. “Ever made pupusas?”

You shake your head. “But I’m guessing you want me to change that?”

“This,” she says, “Is essentially corn flour. I mixed together the masa harina and salt. All you have to do is to make it into small balls. Like this.” She shows you exactly what she means, flattening the dough out. “And then we fill them with cheese.”

“That’s it?”

“Simple and delicious. It’s a good meal for parents who don’t have much time to cook.”

You blink. “Well, I appreciate you taking the time to show me, but—”

“I know who you are, Y/N.”

Words stopping in their tracks, you immediately deflate. For some inexplicable reason, you had wanted to leave a good impression on the Espinosas. But of course Sofia knows who you are. The entire town seems to. You are infamous, after all.

You say nothing, unsure what you even could say.

Sofia pins you with a look. “Listen. If you even think about hurting Jinnie—”

That’s when you cut her off, bemused. “That would be impossible. I’m not in any sort of position where I could hurt Mr. Kim, unless you mean with physical violence, and I’m not predisposed to that.”

Sofia is not amused. “Jin is like a son to me,” she tells you. “He was good to me and Mateo before a good amount of the rest of the town was.”

You glance at her in surprise as you kneed the dough, passing it to her to sprinkle cheese inside. “Because you’re…?”

“Foreigners,” she finishes for you. “Yes, unfortunately. I think the past twenty years have cemented this as our home, and us as anything but second class citizens, but… It’s difficult.” She smiles, as if fondly remembering the past. “But Jinnie was kind to us from day one. He was just a kid then, oh, thirteen or fourteen possibly, but he saw us moving boxes and jumped to help. He introduced himself, assisted us in moving in…. He spent quite a lot of his youth in our shop. I grew accustomed to seeing him here. He helped out when we were swamped and didn’t allow us to compensate him with money.”

“He didn’t?”

“No. All Jinnie wanted was a place.”

Sofia takes the completed pupusas and sets them on the grill, turning on the heat while you mull that over.

A place?

“And though we wanted kids, they just never ended up being in the cards for me and Mateo. So having Jinnie around was a real blessing for us.” She stares at you, fixed and stern, but with a great deal of care in her eyes. “As you can see, he is very dear to me, and I, admittedly, don’t like the things I’ve heard about you.”

That makes something crawl inside your stomach and shrivel up, something unpleasant. You turn your gaze, understanding full well what she’s insinuating and why — and you’re not sure you’d have any rational basis for a rebuttal.

“Look — Mr. K— Jin — he,” you say, “is very kind. I fully agree. And I am a notorious asshole. I also fully agree. But I assure you, I make no illusions of occupying a space in his life more than just…”

Just what?

Are you and Seokjin friends? You’re not strangers, not anymore, but…

“… A casual acquaintance,” is what you settle on. “Me coming here with him today wasn’t planned at all on our part, and especially not mine. I understand my reputation isn’t the best, but even in my reputation as a Scrooge, I haven’t made a habit of concocting nefarious plans to break the hearts of men, and I’m not planning on starting now.”

You highly, highly doubt you even could break Seokjin’s heart, but still.

Sofia stares at you with dark, penetrating eyes. “He brought you through the back door. Seokjin doesn’t bring casual acquaintances through the back door.”

The back do—

Your eyes widen, an unpleasantly comfortable — no, pleasantly uncomfortable — sensation darting up your spine.

But — Sofia’s placing too much meaning on door placement. The restaurant probably isn’t even open, considering the Espinosas are busy talking to you, so it’s likely the front door wasn’t even an option.

So. Yeah. It means nothing.

Sofia pulls the pupusas off the griddle and slaps them into a toweled basket. Without another word, she shoulders past you and through the door. You follow suit and open it to find Seokjin and Mateo deep in conversation as they slice and dice tomatoes and onions.

Ceasing in cutting his tomato, Seokjin looks up to meet your eye. He gives you a small, gentle smile. “You two have fun?”

You want to lie, but Sofia beats you to it.

“Yes,” she says. “Now hurry up and finish, before the pupusas get cold.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, getting back to make quick, steady work of cutting the tomatoes.

You watch him work with a stone sinking through the lining of your stomach.

Oh no.

——

You and Seokjin leave the Espinosas’ with stomachs full of pupusas and churros and, for Seokjin, an even fuller smile.

And you, with an irrational, confusing gnawing at you. An ache in your bones, foreboding and warning. Like there’s something you’re missing.

Something’s off.

“Thank you for taking me there,” you say slowly, albeit belatedly.

“I’m glad you were open to going,” Seokjin replies. “Too many people turn up their nose at what’s different.”

Sofia informing you about the xenophobia she experienced from the town flashes across your mind.

“Yeah, well. I have an inkling for what that’s like.” You shrug your coat tighter around yourself. “Besides, they’re sweet people. They really love you.”

“Yeah. I love them, too.”

It’s nice, you think. That Seokjin has these people, these people he chooses to consider family.

Still, you’re even more curious about him. It seems like every piece of information about Seokjin you manage to acquire only sprouts a dozen more questions.

Enmeshed in your own thoughts and musings, you end up walking in silence with Seokjin for a good while, walking past townsfolk and passersby and barely taking note of the way they stare at the two of you with wide, interested eyes — but you do take note of it. Of course they’re looking. You’re the Town’s Most Hated — Seokjin is among its most beloved. The sight of the two of you together is likely as jarringly mismatched as oil and water.

After some time, you leave the more crowded town area, walking through the quieter, sparsely populated back streets.

“It really doesn’t bother you?”

Surprised at his out-of-left-field conversation starter, you lift a questioning brow. “You’re going to have to be specific, Mr. Kim. Quite a lot of things bother me, and very few don’t.”

His tongue prods the inside of his cheek, but he doesn’t meet your eye. “When people make comments like… That.”

You almost think he’s talking about Sofia — who had only slightly let up about her ribbing you during the lunch you, Seokjin and the Espinosas had shared — but your mind then runs back to the whole making an infant comment from earlier. That seems to be the more likely cause of his question.

You laugh lowly. “No, Mr. Kim. It doesn’t bother me.”

“And why not?” he asks, tone cautious.

“Those comments mean little. People are sexual creatures,” you say with a casual shrug. “They’ve been making sexual jokes since the dawn of time. Check the cave paintings for proof. As far as sex jokes go, that one was rather tame.”

Seokjin swallows, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks. “I see your point, but I meant more that it was pointed at you and me specifically.”

The near-permanent stone in your stomach does a roll around. “And that bothers you?”

“Well…”

And then the stone sinks. Still, you forge forward. “I wouldn’t pay them any mind. The people in this town see a man and woman standing next to one another and assume they’re coupled. Is it dumb? Yes. But it’s the society we live in.” You shrug. “Besides, I’m used to getting that assumption anytime Yoongi and I were out in public together, back in the day.”

Seokjin puffs out a breath. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. So don’t stress too much about it. They’ll get over it when they see you standing next to another woman, and then make similar comments about you and her. That’s the way of things.”

Something flashes across Seokjin’s eyes at that — an unpleasantness you can’t decode.

Silence tarps over the two of you again for a good few minutes.

Until he breaks it.

“So you and Yoongi aren’t…?” He looks slightly to the side as he asks, as if not proud of asking. Not wanting to meet your eye.

You tilt your head. “If you mean to ask if Yoongi and I were or are romantically interested in one another, the answer is a hard no. Me and Yoongi just… are. We were always punted aside and together as kids. Other people didn’t like us. So sometimes it felt like it was me and him against the world.”

Seokjin directs his gaze back to you. “So, romantic feelings…”

“Aren’t there,” you immediately finish with a dry laugh. “He was my first kiss, though.”

He lifts a brow. “Really?”

You nod, thinking back. You hadn’t thought back to that moment in a long, long time. “We were fourteen. You know, the age when people start to get cool about romance. He asked if we could try it, and I thought it would be good to test out if kissing was really all it’s cracked up to be. It felt weird though.” You feel slightly fond of that memory. “We were both immediately like absolutely not and the topic never came up again. I don’t see him that way, never have.”

Seokjin’s broad shoulders seem to relax infinitisemally. “He’s family,” he says, after a moment. “That’s why.”

Family? Min Yoongi, your family?

Inexplicably, that feels right — even if you’d never thought about him that way before.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah he is.” Then you shrug. “But it’s whatever anyway. My theory was proven right — a kiss isn’t this world-bending, mind-blowing thing. It’s just something that is.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Seokjin says, his voice a key lower than usual.

You roll your eyes. “You’re going to tell me you’ve had a novelistic kiss? The one they write about where worlds join and fireworks alight and all that corny shit?”

Seokjin swallows, looking down at the ground for a brief second. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve had many.”

Realization hits you like a truck, or a violent hailstorm of a wave, and you cease walking. Seokjin walks on one step, two, before stopping and turning around to face you.

“That was insensitive of me to say,” you say, feeling guilty. “It was dumb, too. I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” he says, with a half-hearted waving off of his hand. “You didn’t offend me. I don’t expect others to tiptoe around the topic of Mihyun.”

Mihyun.

You stumble on your thoughts at the name. It’s a small thing, you think — a name. But it makes her less Seokjin’s Late Wife and more a person.

Feeling brave— or more likely, stupid— you ask, “What was Mihyun like?”

Startled, his gaze darts to yours. “You’re really asking?”

“Well.” You shift uncomfortably. “Only if you want to tell.”

Quiet encases the two of you in its suffocating hold, making time seem to crawl to a standstill.

Then Seokjin turns, gesturing with his elbow, and begins to walk down the sidewalk once more.

Curious, you catch up with him, walking by his side. You take in the whole of his pensive, considering, and slightly pained expression. He doesn’t look at you, looking wrapped up in his thoughts, as if trying to cook up the words he wants to say.

He finally breaks the silence. “She was… Bright. I don’t just mean intelligent, though she was certainly smart, too, but I mean more… Mihyun was my sun. My light in dark times. She was hilarious, and sweet, but…” He swallows, a fist lightly clenched at his side. “Stubborn. My God, she was more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You remain quiet, attentive.

He swallows, sliding his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders forward slightly. “Her stubbornness was always a thing I loved about her,” he says, quiet, like he’s speaking through a gossamer thread. “Until it killed her.”

You tilt your head, taking that in.

Seokjin gives you a side-eyed, guarded look, an apology in his eye. “I… Don’t mean to dump that on you—”

“I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to, Mr. Kim.”

A dry laugh seems to escape him, likely more subconscious tic than anything willful on his part. It sounds so… empty. So unlike the Seokjin you’ve come to know, who always seems so… Sunny. So full and homey and sweet and rich with life, like a homemade cake made just right.

“You can tell me whatever you’d like,” you continue. “I’m curious. So, please, don’t feel as though you’re dumping anything on me.”

“You’re… curious?”

“Perhaps the wrong choice of words when speaking of the dead, but…” You look down at your boots, shame crawling in your bones at your tendency to say the wrong thing. “I’d like to know, Mr. Kim.”

Seokjin slowly nods, and continues: “Mihyun and I… We were beyond happy. I was beyond happy. We met doing charity, though she told me she had heard of me before then through the grapevine.”

You have to wonder at that. Not Mihyun and Seokjin meeting through charity, which, well, was practically a given, but hearing about him through the grapevine is the part that captures your notice. Is it because Seokjin is handsome that he’s so widely known? Or is it because he’s friendly and orchestrates charity events for the town?

Or is there more to it?

What makes Seokjin infamous, as Yoongi had dubbed him?

“Things progressed rather quickly after we met,” Seokjin continues. “We had this… Instant connection, and we wanted the same things out of life. We both wanted marriage and kids and saw no reason to wait, and so…” He swallows. “We got married. She got pregnant with Taehyung soon after that. Taehyung was born a healthy baby boy, and we were ecstatic.”

“Sounds picturesque,” you comment.

Seokjin makes a noise that’s wryly amused, but not quite a laugh. “Sure. It was picturesque, until she was diagnosed with cancer when Taehyung was a year old.”

Oh. Oh.

“The prognosis was a 20% chance she’d live if she fought it. If she went through chemo, did everything she was supposed to do. It was a small chance, but there was a chance. And a death sentence if she didn’t.” Seokjin’s tone is flat and dry and you decidedly do not like it.

Horror washes over you. “Mihyun didn’t fight.” It’s conjecture, but something in your gut tells you it’s true anyway.

He turns his head away from you, his broad shoulders sinking slightly. “She claimed she wanted me and Taehyung to remember her as she was, and that if she were to die, she was going to die fully her, and not a weak shell of who she used to be. I begged her, Y/N. I begged her to reconsider, to try, but ultimately, I had to respect her decision. She died a year after her prognosis.”

You stare at Seokjin with consideration.

“She was so — so stubborn,” he says. “She didn’t want anyone but me to know so that no one would dote on her, or pity her, or—” He chokes on his next word, swallows it down. He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t have to.

“Do you resent Mihyun for that?” you ask. “For choosing to not fight?”

That’s when he directs his attention back to you, eyes widening in slight horror. “No. I mean… I don’t know. I can’t resent her. She was the one who was dying. I can’t be mad at her for the choice she made. That would make me a terrible person.”

“You can be a terrible person with me,” you say. “You’re in like company.”

It’s at this moment — this moment, here, suspended in time, that it feels like Seokjin looks at you. He finally looks at you, and he sees you.

For a brief moment, you aren’t the Scrooge-alike. You aren’t an outcast, a weirdo, a pariah or misfit. And he isn’t the town’s favorite, the widely beloved Kim Seokjin.

You’re just… You. And he’s just him.

And he sees you — and you start to see him.

Dark eyes glistening, he says, “I do. I was angry. More angry than I’ve ever been. But I kept it all inside. Tucked away. I didn’t think I was allowed to be angry, and she was dying, and I didn’t want it to be about me, but God damn it, Y/N.” He chokes on his words. “Why didn’t she fight?”

Even you, as clueless as you tend to be, know that this is a question that doesn’t require you to answer it. Seokjin knows why Mihyun did what she did, and you know why he’s upset. And… Despite your discomfort with the emotional realm, especially other people’s emotions… you’re grateful for it. That Seokjin can confide this in you.

You stand there, stiffly, as Seokjin composes himself.

A single tear slides down his cheek.

You reach into your coat pocket and extend a packet of tissues to him. “Uh. Here, Mr. Kim. If you want. It’s cold.”

He looks down at your hand like it’s something more than a packet of tissues. There’s something in the vestiges of his waning expression that you have the ability to pick up and notice but lack the ability to glean a proper meaning from.

“What?” you question, feeling defensive.

He looks up to you, slow and sad. “You really don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

For a pregnant pause, Seokjin stares at you, as if urging you to remember whatever he’s talking about. Your only response is a confused, blank stare. He exhales, shakes his head, but does reach forward and take a single tissue, dabbing at his cheek with it. Instead of answering your question, he says, “I’m sorry you had to see me like this. I never wanted you to see this side of me.”

“What side?” You feel incredibly confused in all manners.

“This… Pathetic side.”

You scoff. “Pathetic? Mr. Kim, I think you’re more human now. It’s comforting, I think, to know you’re not perfect.”

In fact, though the image of the Perfect Kim Seokjin was someone you admired, you think this Seokjin is one you find more personally endearing. Far more reachable and real.

He furrows his brows. “I’m far from perfect, Ms. Y/N.”

“So I’m learning.”

“Would you have made the same choice?”

Ice freezes in your veins, the rapid-fire and coldly-delivered question stunning you. Seokjin looks… Intense. Intent. Fully aware of the question he’s just asked you, and fully expecting you to answer.

You decide to oblige him, the best you can.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to die in dignity,” you say, slowly, chewing on the words. “But it seems to me irrational. I think I would have fought. But I don’t think I could ever know what I would have chosen in that situation. I don’t think anyone could until they’re in it.” You sigh, looking down at your boots. “Death is frightening, and uncertain, and maybe… When she was told her life was slipping from her hands, she took what little control she could. She felt she couldn’t control dying, but she could control how she looked and felt when she did. I can’t say I’d commend her choice, but I understand it.”

“Is that so?”

You look back up to watch Seokjin’s dark hair whipping in the wind as he stares determinedly at some fixed point in the distance. Somehow, simultaneously, he seems lightyears away and closer than he’s ever been at once.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he says, softly. “For listening. And offering your viewpoint.”

You clear your throat, feeling all of a sudden stuffy and uncomfortable. “… You’re welcome?”

He seems to compose himself, clearing his throat and straightening, setting his shoulders back. “We should probably get back to the kids. I want to make certain Taehyung doesn’t somehow burn the shop down.”

You immediately feel glad that you’ve moved from sticky feelings territory to this. “I think it’s more likely that Dasom does.”

“Really, now?”

“Really. The girl is a menace in the kitchen. Everything she touches turns to coal.”

Seokjin laughs, soft and flitting, weaving through the air and surrounding you like a warm, thick velvet. You find you have a severe fondness for Seokjin’s laugh. Every time you have the fortune of hearing it, you feel good. Like you’ve just been injected with morphine.

“You know,” he says, turning and walking back toward the square, you easily falling into step beside him. “That reminds me of Namjoon. He almost burnt his parents’ house down once, did you know that?”

You smile, small. “I do. I thought it was hilarious. Namjoon and I had an ongoing feud as kids, so it was definitely… Vindicating, for me.”

Amusement overtakes Seokjin’s expression, and even you wouldn’t believe that just two minutes ago, he’d been crying. You’re wowed by his ability to do that, this intense control over his emotional state and how it appears to others. How quickly he picks up the pieces of his fractured emotions and pieces them into something pretty and palatable.

How well he hides how he feels.

As much as you admire it, you also hate it. Because the puzzle that is Seokjin is only polarizing further, and you desperately want to complete the puzzle before December’s end.

“I implore you; take the money.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Han insists, for the third time. “I promise, just seeing you—”

“Out is compensation enough,” you finish with a sigh. “That’s all well and good, but you performed a service for me, and I will pay you for that service. If you don’t want the money for yourself, then feel free to pass it on. To anyone but me.”

“Maybe consider it as Y/N buying us all a round of coffee,” tries Seokjin, far more pleasant and affable, smoothing over your rough edged tone with ease.

“I like that idea,” crows one of the café’s patrons.

So with that, Mrs. Han looks between you and Seokjin before reluctantly pulling your generous cash off the counter and placing it in the register.

“Look, Auntie,” cries Dasom, coming close, holding up a snow globe. It isn’t at all shoddily constructed, at least in comparison to Tae’s. It’s of a pine tree, covered in snow, with a silver star atop it and blue and silver glitter to give the illusion of snow. “Isn’t it so pretty? I wanted to put a dove, but Mrs. Han didn’t have doves. I still like it, though.”

“Maybe we can buy one?” you offer.

She beams, clearly happy with that solution, then shows it off to Seokjin.

“Wow,” he says, admiringly. “Stellar workmanship. Do you want to make snow globes when you grow up?”

Dasom shakes her head. “I want to be a carpenter. I like making things.”

You’re taken aback — this is her first mention to you that she liked such a thing. Though it makes sense, you think. When she isn’t reading books, she’s always tinkering with her legos, and you’ve found more than one electronic on the ground, taken apart.

“Is that so?” Seokjin lifts a brow, with a surprised yet happy grin. “You know, I have a friend who’s a carpenter. Maybe you can apprentice with him some time?”

Dasom gives him a mirroring toothy grin. “Yes, yes, please. I used to hang out with Grandpa in his shop, and I really liked it.”

Oh.

Yeah.

Your father was a carpenter.

You imagine Dasom sitting in his shop, maybe sitting on a bench, watching him with her pitless eyes and blank stare, absorbing his work. You imagine them talking, and laughing, and your father sharing trade secrets with her; maybe around some hot chocolate and cookies.

It’s a scene you yourself never got to partake in.

Seokjin gives you a cautious, curious look, something dawning in his expression, before looking back at Dasom and saying, “That’s amazing! I’ll set something up for you, okay?”

“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” she says, before turning back to Taehyung and Sunhee, the trio showing off their respective snow globes and admiring them with awe.

Despite the iciness that had taken over your veins just seconds prior, seeing Dasom weave herself seamlessly into the town does manage to warm you some.

After a round of heartful goodbyes on Dasom’s end, you and Dasom exit the café.

“Dad! Dad! Can I play at the park with Dasom?”

You turn back to find that Seokjin and Taehyung had trailed out the door behind you and Dasom.

“Ah, well. That’s up to Ms. Y/L/N,” says Seokjin, looking at you with a mix of hope and apology. “She may need to prepare for the movie tonight.”

“Nope, no preparation needed,” you say plainly. “What you see is what you get.”

Seokjin does a quick once-over of you and your cable knit sweater, jeans and chunky black boots, prompted by your words, likely, and drags his eyes back up to meet your gaze, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek. “I have zero problem with what I see.”

Taken aback, you feel something pull tight in your stomach. It’s something familiar to you, but not regarding Seokjin.

Seokjin takes your non-response in stride (as he, oddly, tends to) and turns to Taehyung and Dasom. “Go play, kiddos. And always —”

“Look both ways before crossing the street,” completes Taehyung, beaming. “We know!”

Then he grabs Dasom’s hand, and the two dart off — and yes, Taehyung looks both ways at least a dozen times before they cross Main street and move into the park.

You and Seokjin trail much more slowly after them.

“You know, Mr. Kim, I feel as though I’m growing accustomed to your presence.”

Seokjin’s response isn’t what you’d expected upon saying that. He glows, from the inside out, his smile bright and enticing. Then again, what expression did you expect at your confession? For him to sneer at you? Laugh at you?

… Yeah, that doesn’t really sound like Seokjin.

Still.

“Yeah? That sounds like a good thing to me, Ms. Y/N. Why do you sound so glum?”

“I don’t. That’s just my natural tone.”

He tilts his head, soft laughter tumbling from his lips. “Fair.”

“But really,” you continue as you and Seokjin cross the street. “I have to wonder why. I want you to know that I understand your goal is to acclimate me to society, and I know you’ve got a thing for misfit toys, but you don’t need to spend so much time with me out of pity or obligation.”

“It isn’t obligation.”

He says it so firmly, darker than anything else you’ve heard him say, with an undercurrent of irritation.

You look at him in surprise to find his irritated, dark eyes focused on some point in the distance, jaw tensed. “Mr. Kim, you don’t have to lie to me. I believe in the truth above all and my ego is not easily wounded; there’s no need to put on false airs.”

“It’s not false,” he bites back, nippy like the winter wind. “Ms. Y/N, please, I know you must think I'm some dogooder with no thoughts of my own, but I do have free will, and I do spend my time in the way I want to.” He tilts his gaze toward you, eery. “You don’t have to be like me, but I do wish you’d respect my choices, even if you think poorly of my charitability.”

“I don’t think poorly of it,” you say, slowly, even as his confession rushes over you like a world-upending wave. “Even if I find much of it irrational… I admire you, Mr. Kim.”

His countenance becomes marks more pleasant at that, irritation fading as the two of you come up on the park to find Dasom and Taehyung swinging side by side.

He gestures for you to sit on a white-painted wooden bench, in pristine condition, and you sit. He takes the seat beside you, leaving proper space between you.

(You find the sudden, unwillful and odd urge to fill it.)

“You do?” he asks, lowly, not looking at you.

“Well, yes.”

“You can’t say that like it’s obvious. You’ve never told me you did.”

You suppose he’s right. You’ve thought it, many times, but you’ve never actually told him that you admired him. Unlike Seokjin, who had told you he did you.

“And you, Ms. Y/N, are incredibly difficult to read,” he continues.

You laugh. “As if you’re not a dozen times more evasive and enigmatic.”

“Me? I’m an open book.”

“So am I.”

“So it’s not okay when I lie, but when you lie, it is?”

“Aren’t double standards so shitty?” you counter, smiling despite yourself.

He laughs, bright and friendly, and leans back on the bench, putting his arm across the back of it and spreading out. You admire how utterly handsome he looks like this; with his excessive layers and well-groomed visage, Kim Seokjin is a man of beauty. And seeing him unguarded now — it only makes him doubly so. “Right, then, so if I ask you questions, will you give me answers?”

“Sure, but I can’t promise to be honest.”

He grins. “Did you ever have braces?”

“What?” You laugh, unexpectedly thrown by his inane question. “That was your burning question?”

He shrugs, unbothered, but still amiably grinning. “I don’t know. I just can’t imagine you with braces. I can’t imagine you as a gangly teenager with ailments like acne or spindly knees.”

You lift a brow. “You can’t? Well, I can’t imagine you like that, either. I can’t be sure you ever did have an awkward phase in your life. I think you sprouted in a field of Christmas trees, just like this. Sweaters and great hair and all.”

Seokjin smiles, a soft one as he watches the kids play. “You know, I’d heard a lot about you. Back then. As a teen.”

Feeling thrown, you say, “Well, sure. I think I’m so infamous that most people in this town have.”

“But you’ve never heard of me? Before Dasom decided to gift my son a bloody nose for Christmas, I mean.”

He sounds like he’s in sheer disbelief, but not in a self-aggrandizing or pompous way. It genuinely seems as though he can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.

You shift on the bench as you try to sift back through your fuzzy memories— and come up empty. “I mean… Perhaps? To be honest, I find it easy to forget information I consider extraneous. If I had heard rumors about things like, I don’t know, your sex life, it’s not something I would have considered important enough to remember.”

He tilts back his head, showcasing the curve of his strong throat as he looks up at the cloudless sky. “I wish it had been so simple as my sex life.” He releases a soft noise in his throat, almost a laugh, but dry. “That would’ve been a lot easier to ignore.”

Your eyes dart to Seokjin, your brows knitting together as you attempt to make sense of that.

Just what in the world is he talking about?

“What do you mean?” you ask, levelly, searching him for the meaning if he won’t put voice to it.

A dark grin joins his face. “I just mean, Ms. Y/N, that you shouldn’t write me off because you think this town loves me and hates you.” He swallows, moving so you can’t see his face. “In fact, you’re not the only outcast between us.”

Floored, you say, “Mr. Ki—”

“Daaaaad!” Taehyung yells, racing over the green, his cheeks pink from the cold. “Dad! Dad!”

He runs up onto the bench and sits on Seokjin’s lap. Seokjin quickly switches from his earlier dark expression and gives his son a sweet smile, unencumbered by the conversation you two were just in the middle of.

“Yes, Tae Tae?” Seokjin asks, clearly amused.

“I’ve decided that Dasom is my bestest friend,” the boy says, beaming. “Can she come over to our house? I told her about my racecar bed and she said that sounds so cool. She also told me that racecar is a palindrome, whatever that means. It sounds like an ogre.”

You laugh into the back of your hand — Seokjin manages much more effectively to conceal his mirth. “Is that so? I think she can certainly come over sometime, but probably not today. And we have to make sure it’s all right with—”

“Ms. Y/L/N, I know!” Taehyung says, then he looks to you with pouty eyes and pouty lips, clasping his hands together tight. “Can we? Pleaaaase?”

You shift. “I’m sure that’s fine.”

“Yay!” Taehyung jumps up, running back to Dasom on the swing. He yells, “Your aunt told me you can live with me!”

Dasom narrows her eyes. “No she didn’t!”

You can’t help it: you laugh. And so does Seokjin. His laugh is so rich and pretty; you like it very much.

But then you immediately sober when you remember what you and Seokjin had been talking about before you were interrupted.

Seokjin? An outcast? You want to laugh in sheer disbelief at even the prospect of Kim Seokjin, handsome, widely beloved and likely well-sought after, doting father and head of charities, being an outcast.

But there was hurt, real and palpable and almost suffocating in his confession.

Both you and Seokjin live in infamy.

He didn’t want money — he just wanted a place.

What confounds you the most is what could possible set him apart from others? Unless he means that people other him because he’s too good, but… That’s not the feeling you’re getting from this talk. And you don’t think it has anything to do with Mihyun, especially because he met Mateo and Sofia long before he ever met Mihyun, so…

Huh?

You’re a curious person by nature. Usually this is more applicable to the way the world works, to academia and theory, but this insatiable thirst for knowledge also extends to Kim Seokjin. So you want to ask for clarification. You really want to.

“So, Ms. Y/N. I believe I was given a free pass to interrogate you?” He sounds genial and free now, so far removed from the sullenness he’d exhibited five minutes ago.

Ugh. His spinning carousel of temperaments is so unbelievably frustrating.

Yet it’s apparent that that line of conversation has passed, and he wouldn’t be very receptive to you bringing it back up. So you attempt to mirror his lightheartedness: “Well, no. It’s not fair if it’s a one-way interview.”

“Okay, tit for tat.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Seokjin’s buttery-brown eyes widen at the question, and then he laughs. “No, I don’t. Do you?”

You release a wry noise. “Very funny, Mr. Kim. I’ve never dated anyone.”

“Ever?” His brow raises high in disbelief.

“Is it really that surprising?”

“Well, I don’t know. I thought that maybe when you left town all those years ago…”

Stunned, you sit back. Has he been keeping tabs on you? “I did leave town, but I didn’t change. I didn’t have an interest in it then, just as I don’t now.”

“At all?” Seokjin’s gaze as he looks at you is dark and willful.

You shift under the weight of it. It’s far too pointed and heavy for your comfort. “Well… I mean.” You sigh. “It’s certainly not something I’ve ever sought, but I don’t know if I’d completely bar myself from it in all circumstances.”

“In what circumstances wouldn’t you bar yourself from dating, then?” he questions.

You consider that, and decide to rebut his question with a question. “Well, what would you say the end goal of dating is?”

He furrows his brows. “… Love?”

“Marriage,” you correct. “Kids. That’s the end goal for the vast majority of people, anyway. Marriage and kids. A lifelong commitment, to produce progeny, propogate the bloodline, and have a family. And for women — the end goal for us is to use ourselves to make this happen. We become wives and mothers; we’re meant to cook, clean and rear children. Sure, we can have careers as a side, so long as it doesn’t get in the way of that goal. That doesn’t appeal to me in any way. Wanting that sort of lifestyle requires the woman to be self-sacrificial and caring. You have to be wholly willing to ruin your body, your health, lose your identity as a person, and even risk death during childbirth. I don’t have a self-sacrificial bone in my body. I don’t have what it takes to be a girlfriend — or a wife. And I don’t want to have what it takes,” you enunciate carefully. You look to your side to find Seokjin actively listening to your monologue. “The thought of giving up myself, my time, my freedom, my life for that goal has zero appeal to me. And it never will. So it’s not the concept of dating or romance I’m against — it’s the long-term implications that give me pause.”

Seokjin sits, and he listens to you. Even if you share conflicting worldviews — he listens. Without judgment, or a derisive look, or a sneer for you not falling in line with stereotypical womanhood. He offers no comments about how you’re demonic for not wanting kids, or how you’re crazy for not wanting marriage.

“Can I ask you a question?” Seokjin asks, finally, after having chewed on your spiel.

“You can.”

“What of a relationship without all those factors? A relationship of equals? One where you’re not expected to rear children, be a housewife or a caretaker?”

You snort. “And what if a pig fell from the sky right now and left a crater in the park?”

Seokjin frowns. “I don’t think it’s that infeasible.”

“Sure, the chance isn’t nothing, but it’s next to nothing.”

“Well, then, hypothetically, would you be interested in dating or marriage if you were still allowed your freedom? To be your own person, but just…” He tilts his head and swallows. “To come home to someone you loved. To have someone you want to grow old with… Those kinds of things? Where you’re whole apart, but better together?”

You stare at Seokjin, feeling something curl in your stomach, an electric spark darting jaggedly up your spine. “That sounds fictional, Mr. Kim.”

“Indulge me?”

You sigh, kicking your boot into the grass and pulling up a patch of it. “I mean — I don’t know? It’s not something I ever considered as part of my plans. I knew from a young age what my vision for myself was, and dating never factored into it. But Dasom never factored into them either. And yet, my plans or otherwise, she’s here now, isn’t she?”

Seokjin’s eyes sparkle — glisten really, soft and sweet. “That she is. And I’m grateful for it.”

“Yeah.” The corner of your lip pulls up, alluding to the beginning of a smile. “Though I’d say me finding romance is even less likely than the daughter of a dead brother I never knew I had showing up at my doorstep. Then again, hard to find what you aren’t looking for.”

Seokjin goes quiet, and you look up to find him surveying you knowingly. “I’m sorry, you know. About your brother.”

Your first instinct is to tell him that you never knew him, so you don’t care.

Instead, you say, almost robotically, “Thank you, Mr. Kim. I appreciate your condolences.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but you look down at your watch and immediately rise to your feet, brushing your jeans of imaginary dirt. “Oh, good God, Mr. Kim, Dasom and I have to be at the town hall soon to pick up the projector. I hate being late.”

“Would you like me to come w—”

“Don’t you have your own preparations to take care of?” you quickly toss out, brow raised teasingly.

“Oh.” He rises to his feet as well, checking his silver watch and grimacing. “And I probably should have started doing so a good fifteen minutes ago.”

“And yet, you’ve been wasting your time.”

“I would never consider talking to you a waste of time, Ms. Y/N.”

With that casually imparted statement sending a rush through your veins, Seokjin and his stupidly broad shoulders turn from you, and he calls out Taehyung’s name. He turns back to you and grins.

You shift, feeling awkward. “I’ll, uh. See you in a bit?”

His grin grows. “Absolutely. I’ll look forward to it.”

Then he turns, and he walks away.

You watch him leave, stomach churning.

——

Despite it being the supposed dead of winter, it truly is a gorgeous night for movies in the park.

The sparkling sun’s position wanes in the sky, casting a warm, pretty light over the park’s new set-up.

The projector had been obtained by you and Dasom, but set up by other volunteers, and there are a couple popcorn machines on either side of the large lawn, as well as two stands for cocoa (or adult drinks?), which seems to be par for the charity event course. The expanse of green in the park is dotted by blankets of all sizes, shapes and patterns. Kids and dogs run about without a care, and adults form groups to socialize or sit wrapped up in one another on blankets.

Yet you groan when you find out one of the movies chosen to play this year.

A Christmas Carol.

Seokjin is so going to get an earful about this heinousness.

“Dasom!!! Over here!”

You’ve come to recognize the sweet voice of Kim Taehyung. So has Dasom, evidently, for she immediately brightens and turns just in time for Taehyung to ambush her with a hug.

“Taehyung,” comes Seokjin, warningly. “What do we do before we touch other people?”

“We ask for consent!” Taehyung grins toothily at his dad before looking back to Dasom and pulling away. “But Dasomie told me I could give her hugs when I saw her yesterday. She said she likes hugs!”

Seokjin looks at Dasom, mirthful. “Is that true, Dasom?”

She nods. “He asked me. I thought it was nice.”

“Ah, well. As long as you said it’s okay.”

“I see Sunhee. Let’s go ask if she wants to play!“ Taehyung suggests excitedly. Dasom nods, and he grabs her hand and pulls her away.

You turn to face Seokjin. “It’s nice that you teach him to ask for permission.”

Seokjin shrugs. “It’s necessary, I think. All kids should respect others’ boundaries. And hopefully, when they learn it as children, it carries over into adulthood and other aspects of their lives. And Tae… That kid is one of the most touchy people I’ve ever had the fortune of knowing. He always wants to be holding hands, or cuddling, or hugging.” He laughs softly, fondly, as he watches Taehyung and Dasom run up to Sunhee. “I really have to get it through his head that just because he likes to be touched doesn’t mean everyone does.”

You tilt your head in consideration. “I think I should also teach Dasom the same thing, but honestly… I doubt it’ll be an issue.” You swallow. “Does Taehyung get his touchy ways from you, Mr. Kim?”

Seokjin smiles, shaking his head. “Between you and me…” His smile fades, just a bit. “I don’t really enjoy it all that much. Unless it’s someone I really care about. What of you, Ms. Y/N?”

Oh. You’d only asked because you were curious; you hadn’t expected him to throw your curiosity back at you.

You duck your head, feeling slightly odd. How do you tell him that, other than the few times you’ve had sex, no one’s really bothered to try to touch you — to hug you, or hold your hand, and certainly not to cuddle? Yoongi isn’t the most physically affectionate of people, and neither are you, and your parents definitely weren’t by any stretch of the imagination. Not with you in particular, anyhow.

You’re normally pretty forthright, but that’s not something you have the desire to share with Seokjin. Even if he seems to effortlessly pull many other bits of private information from you.

So, you say the most watered down, succinct version of the truth you can: “I don’t know.”

He only looks at you; understanding and soft. Fuck, Seokjin can’t be allowed to look at you like that. It causes a flurry of leaves to blow in the alcove of your stomach, a mini tornado brewing. If he keeps looking at you like that, it’ll only grow and wreak havoc on everything.

But it seems he senses your standoffishness, or perhaps he doesn’t want to press you — whatever it is, he swallows and straightens and says, “Well. I’d enjoy it if you and Dasom joined Taehyung and I.”

Surprised, you ask, “Doing… what?”

He gestures behind you to the brick building at the far back of the park. You turn to find quite the sight; in front of the building is a large red and black plaid blanket on top of the grass, and on top of it is a wicker picnic basket and several throw blankets, and even a couple of pillows.

“You came… Prepared,” you note, raising a brow.

“Of course I did. Movie night is one of my favorite nights of the entire year, and I always come prepared.”

“Ah, well…” Your skin pricks in anticipation (of what? you’re not entirely sure) as you turn back to face Seokjin and his amiable, hopeful expression. “I think you would enjoy some time with Taehyung alone. Or with someone else…” Your voice tapers off, wispy as it is. You don’t like the thought of Seokjin sharing a picnic blanket with anyone else.

And you don’t like that you don’t like it.

“There’s no one else,” Seokjin says, firmly, eyes fixated on yours; soft and firm. “And Taehyung and I spend plenty of time together. You wouldn’t be intruding. If it would put you at ease, though, we can ask Taehyung.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “Actually — With Dasom, I think it would be more trouble separating the two.”

“Exactly!” He beams. “Think of the kids. They are best friends, you know.”

“With that logic, then we should invite Sunhee, her sibling, and her parents, too.”

His eyes flash in amusement. “Nope! Four’s perfect. Eight’s a crowd.”

You roll your eyes. “All right, Mr. Kim, I’ll join you. But I do require some adult egg nog —”

“Let’s go then. We’ve gotta hurry. The parents love the adult egg nog. It runs out fast.”

Easily, you laugh and just as easily fall into step beside him. The two of you walk side by side to the egg nog stand.

That’s when it hits you.

You’re enjoying yourself.

You never thought you’d be able to enjoy yourself in the outside world, and especially not at Christmastime. But… You are.

And at least a good chunk of it is Seokjin’s doing.

And that’s a road-thought you don’t want to travel down.

——

You keep a generous distance between you and Seokjin as The Christmas Carol plays.

Taehyung and Dasom have taken control of the majority of the throws, and sit in front of you and Seokjin. They’re snuggled inside the blankets, eating popcorn and sipping on hot chocolate to warm their extremities as they watch the movie, whisper and break out into fits of giggles with one another.

“Oh my God,” you say, watching as Scrooge denies his employee time off for Christmas. “I can’t believe people call me Scrooge. He’s a real dick.”

Seokjin’s lips pull up as he watches the movie. “I mean, yeah, but he gets better. Have you really never seen this?”

“Nope. I’ve never made a habit of watching Christmas movies, Mr. Kim.”

“Ever?”

You pull your legs up to your chest and rest your chin on top of your knees. You hesitate a bit on your answer, but you think of Seokjin confiding in you about Mihyun, and wonder if it’ll be all right to confide in him, too. Even if unprompted.

In the end, you decide to.

“After my father left,” you start, “Christmas became a… terrible affair. I don’t think my mom ever really recovered from my father leaving her. And for good reason, I think. Being unable to bear him a son hardly seems a fair reason to be divorced, but…” You shrug, feeling bitterness creep up your throat.

Seokjin sits to attention at that, eyes widening as they settle on you, warming you a good dozen degrees. They’re gentle, attentive, soft and you feel them burning holes into your bastion of self-defenses.

Feeling odd, you elect to continue, voice plain and empty. “My mom rarely ever looked at me after that. I realized pretty quickly that it was because she blamed me for him leaving. Because I was a girl, and not a boy, he left, and my mom hated me for it. So, after he left, she spent as much time apart from me as she could. Christmas was no different. She went to her friends’ houses and left me home alone. I never liked Christmas much before then anyway, but once my dad left…” You taper off and clear your throat, ensuring you sound more strong and clear. “Things like typical Christmas traditions, movies… They never appealed to me. My Christmas tradition was more like a solitary meal and Salem’s Lot.” You turn your head, feeling your throat constrict over the chalky ball inside it. “But you probably already know all that. The whole town seems to.”

“No,” says Seokjin softly, a hint of ire beneath his tone, the calm during a storm. “That’s not the story the town’s heard.”

You whip your head up, eyes wide as you stare at Seokjin’s heated gaze. “What? What do you mean?”

“I, uh. It’s not pleasant. You’re sure you want to hear?”

You nod, staring at him like he’s just grown three heads.

“Everyone thinks you were a disagreeable child. That you screamed and kicked and hit your parents. Your dad was unable to bear your abusive ways, so he left. Your mom graciously stayed behind to take care of you, but couldn’t handle you all the time, and so she would hire a sitter to watch you and take time off from caring for your mental health. She tried to get you out of your shell, as they’d put it, and you’d only scream at her until she left you alone.”

Your stomach churns. “Wh—What? No, I — I mean, I was never the best child, I was never overly friendly or cheery or anything, but I was never cruel or abusive. Christ.” You release a choked noise that’s somewhere between disbelieving laugh and dry sob. “All I did was write and read and take care of myself. And I was demonized for it? She — She lied?”

You knew your mother didn’t like you. You just didn’t know how much she despised you, in order to spin such a years-long and despicable lie.

You suddenly feel like you’re going to be sick.

And that’s when you start laughing. You try to keep it quiet, so as not to disturb the kids, but…“No way, no fucking way. That’s actually hilarious. Hilarious.”

In a way, it is funny isn’t it? This whole time — the town treating you like a monster. It’s because they truly thought you were one temper tantrum away from wreaking havoc? Not just because you’re a surly, solitary woman?

But then again — it’s not like you’ve ever done yourself any favors. When have you ever tried to dispel the illusion?

Seokjin’s eyes portray concern and worry, and moves closer to you, slow and persistent, with his own throw, hesitant but asks, “Can I?”

You stare at Seokjin before nodding, feeling icy and hollowed out by this revelation, and he comes in close, draping the large throw over your shoulders to warm you. He rubs your back, once, over the blanket as he eyes you, before ceasing the stroke of his hand quickly and pulling it back — like he hadn’t really thought doing so through.

Ignoring the warmth that hangs where his scant touch had been, you ask, tone hollow, “Did you believe the story?”

You may as well have just slapped him, considering the shame that slams across his expression.

That’s all the answer you need.

You sigh, turning away from him, facing toward the movie but not taking in any of it.

“Y/N, I’m really sorr—”

“Don’t be,” you say, empty. “You obviously weren’t the only one. My mom was a pretty good liar.”

“Maybe I did believe it,” he says, slowly, cautiously. “But even back when we were kids, I thought the town was far too harsh to you. You were a kid. They acted like you were a monster. They turned their backs on you. But even if the story had been true — you were only a kid.”

“We didn’t know each other back then,” you point out, confused.

“Not directly,” Seokjin says. “But…” He shifts. “I’ve always been interested in you, Ms. Y/N.”

“Out of pity?”

“Curiosity,” he corrects. “The town hated both of us, after all.”

His eyes are on the movie, but you can tell he also isn’t seeing any of it.

You swallow, leaning slightly into Seokjin and his warmth. He doesn’t move when you do, and you’re grateful for the barrier of the blanket to keep your sanity intact.

“What did the town hate you for, Mr. Kim?”

He laughs, hollow. “You really don’t know?”

Slowly, you shake your head.

He sighs, leaning back in his palms but still keeping the small bit of touch his arm has with your blanket-covered one. “Namjoon is my cousin, you know.”

You lift a brow. You actually didn’t know that. “Well, now I do.”

“Well, both of our families were originally from Seoul. They come from wealth. I spent my early childhood in a penthouse with a nanny to raise me.”

You nod. “I see.” So his parents are from money. That explains the designer clothes and watches despite being essentially jobless.

“Namjoon’s parents moved here some years before mine did. He was born here. My parents and I would come to visit for the holidays. And, Ms. Y/N, when I see this town, I see its character. Its sleeping beauty. The fact that it’s so beautiful and tucked away from the industry of society, eschewing modernity for something simple. My parents… They saw dollar signs. They saw an investment.”

Oh.

“I packed up my life from the city and was dragged by my parents to this town when I was ten. I wasn’t a huge fan of moving, but I did like the town, so I was excited to be here. But my parents…” He laughs dryly. “It’s funny, I think. That even as a kid, even if you acknowledge that you’re privileged, you don’t realize how much power money affords you. And it did. My parents had power. They changed this town, because discontent and old charm can’t beat money. They tore down buildings they viewed ugly and rebuilt them to their standards. They expanded, bought out homes just to remodel them and sell them back at outlandish prices, built new buildings. As you can imagine, the townsfolk didn’t like them very much.”

“But they directed their anger to you,” you surmise, and that’s when it all comes rushing in.

Kim Seokjin.

You did know that name. And you did hear mocking whispers about the moneyed Kims and how they were ruining the town.

“Fighting those who hold such an insane amount of power is a fruitless task. But me? I was just a kid. I had no control over what my parents were doing, but I sure did feel the brunt of the effects of their goals.”

“That sucks,�� you offer, and then wince at your own stupidity. Who says that? “I mean—”

“Yeah. It did suck,” Seokjin agrees, tilting back his head. “But I took a different approach, I think. I didn’t want to be hated, and I felt for the people who my parents adversely affected. So I tried my hardest to help the town where I could. I babysat, fixed things, ran errands — anything I could to help. And when I turned 18, I threatened my parents with disowning them if they continued to alter the town to pad their pockets. I’m their only child, so I scared them witless. They left, and I stayed, because this town had become my home. And I’ve spent the last many years cleaning up their mess to the best of my ability. When I turned twenty-two, I gained access to my trust fund, and now…” He gestures, to complete the story. He doesn’t need to complete it. You’ve witnessed and heard the rest of his story.

“You worked hard to change your image,” you say, taken aback.

“Ah… Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Changing my image wasn’t really my goal, but a pleasantly unintended side effect of righting my parents’ wrongs. But I found a genuine love for charity, for organizing these things for the town. And since I have more than enough money to bear the brunt of it…”

You look at Seokjin with brand new eyes.

He turns to you, smiling small. “I guess I wish you’d stop thinking me to be on this pedestal, because I’m not. You and I both know what it is to be unfairly hated by the town. So, yes, Ms. Y/N. I’ve always harbored an interest in you.”

“Misery loves company,” you say (dumbly).

Christ. You want any sauce to put on that foot? Make it taste better when you shove it in your mouth?

His gaze hardens. “It isn’t about that. And this —” he gestures between the two of you, “Isn’t about misery loving its company either. I genuinely enjoy your company, and don’t at all feel miserable in your presence.”

You feel properly ashamed of your assumption. Your tone is low when you say, “I don’t feel miserable in yours, either.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve established that we’re not seconds away from jumping off a bridge mid-conversation with one another.”

You smile then, despite things, and Seokjin’s gaze softens as he watches you. For a second, you feel as though he’s taking in the whole of you. Studying you intensely the way you do him.

You shake that off and turn back to watch the movie, unsure how to fill the silence. Seokjin doesn’t seem keen on filling it either, and you’re even less keen on moving so the two of you don’t touch.

(Seokjin doesn’t move, either. You don’t want to process the implications of that.)

Now that the sun’s set and Scrooge is growing increasingly horrified at the life that awaits him, the air around you cools considerably. You pull the blanket tighter around you before noticing out of the corner of your eye Seokjin’s shaking leg.

Horrified, without thinking, you open the blanket. “Here, Mr. Kim,” you offer. “You run cold, after all.”

Seokjin, startled, turns his head to the side and looks down at your hand opening up the blanket to him and then drags up your form, up to your face, brow raised.

It hits you then, the big fat mistake you’d just made. Embarrassed beyond belief, cheeks heated like an oven, you fling the blanket off of you and onto his lap, the cold be damned.

“That was incredibly idiotic of me,” you say in an embarrassed rush. “Just take the blanket and promise me to never bring that up again.”

To your dismay, Seokjin laughs, bright and loud, at a scene in the movie where Scrooge is watching himself die alone, which garners him a few unhappy looks from the other folks around you.

Despite yourself, you blow out a far softer laugh, and point at the townsfolk. Seokjin looks and swallows his laughter, but continues to visibly remain amused at your social faux pas.

He grabs the blanket you’d thrown in his lap and swings it over his shoulders, holding out his arm to you. “We can share the blanket. I was just surprised is all.”

You stare at him, bug-eyed and disbelieving. Is this a nicety? Is he just taking pity on your impending chilliness?

The logical, rational 90% of you screams at you to decline his offer, to look at his extended arm and scoot away.

The less rational 10% — the small part of you guided by emotions and foolish wants and disregard for logic — stamps down the other parts in an epic David vs Goliath battle, and you scooch in under his arm and milk this for all you can, pressing up against the welcoming warmth of his side. He rests his arm across your shoulders as you tuck yourself against him, and then he wraps you both in the blanket.

You feel quite heated, and a great chunk of that comes from anything other than the blanket. A blanket of happiness settles over you, enconsces you in its equal warmth, and everywhere Seokjin touches you feels afire in all the best ways.

He smells good. Really damn good, unfairly good, and you inhale his scent stealthily, drawing in all the notes of pine and something inexplicable beneath it.

And you sink into his side, and you watch Scrooge become a better person.

——

How the Grinch Stole Christmas plays next.

“Damn,” you say. “People really love their stories about people hating Christmas just to come to love it.”

“It’s the wonder of Christmas spirit,” Seokjin defends. “It makes everyone better people.”

You snort. “How dumb.”

“Hey — people like these kinds of stories. Maybe you could write one one day.”

You curl up your lip in disgust, and he laughs softly.

Dasom turns and stands, coming over to the two of you, holding out a ponytail. “My hair keeps getting in my face because of the wind. Can you put it up, please?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, gesturing for her to turn around. You open up the blanket and scoot forward some, and make quick work with unsteady fingers of a ponytail. It looks sloppy, and you grimace. You’ve never been the best with your hands. “There,” you say, patting her shoulder.

“Wow, Y/N. That’s terrible,” Seokjin says with a squeaky laugh.

“I’m learning, okay?” you defend roughly.

Being aware of your surroundings, having a good hold on the physicality of your body and fine motor skills — none of those have ever been your strong suits. It isn’t in your nature to be hyper-aware like that.

Hence one of the many reasons you live in books, in fantasy. In ideas.

And it’s not like you had any role models as a kid to teach you how to do something so simple.

“I like braids the most, but Auntie can’t braid,” chimes in Dasom unhelpfully.

Seokjin gives you a glance of surprise, but you feel no judgment in his look. Merely concern. “Do you really not know how to braid?”

“You’d be surprised at the amount of things the average person knows that I don’t.”

He swallows, seemingly taken aback, but then he nods. “I’ll show you, all right? If that’s all right with Dasom, of course.”

“You can braid?” you ask in surprise.

He nods. “I used to babysit, after all, and Tae had a phase when he was five where he wanted to have his hair long so he could wear different hairstyles. He liked braids, too.”

Dasom nods, evidently pleased with that information and turns back around, back facing Seokjin now as she sits in front of him, cross-legged. Taehyung’s attention is firm on the movie, likely oblivious to the goings on behind him.

“Do you have a comb on you?” he asks you.

“Oh — Yeah, actually,” you say, reaching into your bag to grab one. You hold it out to him and he grabs it. You move your fingers so he doesn’t touch them when he does.

Seokjin takes the comb and combs Dasom’s hair free of any tangles.

“Separate the hair into three equal plaits,” he tells you, doing as he instructed. “Just try to get them as close in size as you can. And then just…” He shows you the motions, looping one of the braids over the middle and tucking it back. Then your eyes rest on his fingers — thin and long, crooked and cleancut. Seokjin takes care of his hands, his nails a taken-care of pink, trimmed, his hands looking soft and moisturized. But what draws your attention the most is the veins on the back of his hands. You watch them move like undulating waves beneath his skin as he braids. Fluid, assured, quickening in pace the more he does. His fingers are dexterous and sure and very, very easy to sink your gaze into. Like they’re a welcoming whirlpool, beckoning you to watch.

“Did you get that?” he whispers. “Or do you need to see it again?”

You sit back, clearing your throat and shaking your head. “I… I think I got it,” you say, voice hoarse.

Dear fuck, you cannot be a lecher. Not to Seokjin of all people.

You’re sure he’s probably used to it, but you don’t want to be one of the people he writes off because they’re clearly attracted to him. You don’t want to be pushed aside for making him uncomfortable. Even if all you did was admire his hands, you think that may be too far.

Especially for you of all women to be doing so.

You’ve been physically attracted to people before, though it was rare when you decided to actually act on it. But those few people were all strangers, or people you knew in limited ways who you knew you would never see again, and it’s been years since your last soirée.

Seokjin is no longer a stranger to you. You’re not sure what he is.

Jinnie doesn’t take casual acquaintances through the back door.

Whatever the case, you find yourself thinking…

You selfishly don’t want Dasom’s community service to be over, if it means losing an excuse to see Seokjin.

——

This movie is probably for the adults, considering its playing last, and the subject matter is a little darker than the first two.

Taehyung and Dasom are curled up beside one another, peacefully sleeping, and you feel something lurch in your chest.

The movie, though: It’s a Wonderful Life.

You’ve never heard of the movie before, let alone watched it, but you feel something tug in your gut at its premise. Guided more by the plot than the winter’s chill, you pull the blanket tighter around you, and nest yourself against Seokjin’s side. The amount of adult eggnog you’ve downed in the past few hours definitely does you no favors in preventing you from being an idiot who seeks his warmth like a cold-blooded snake, but — why stop yourself if he won’t, right?

A good chunk of the way into the movie, you find your attention drifting from it. “It’s good,” you start, your voice a mere wisp, “that his town and his family love him so much. He even gets an angel.”

You feel Seokjin’s gaze land on you. “You know,” he starts. “You can choose your own family. Love can come from anywhere. And… So many people would miss you if you were gone.”

You snort, even as you feel mildly ticked the way he’s able to read between your lines so well. “As if.”

“What about your thousands of readers?” he tosses back. “Maybe they don’t know you, but they’d miss you. Dasom would. Yoongi would.” He pauses, tugs at the picnic blanket. “I would.”

Startled, you turn your head to face him, resting it on your knees and staring into his dark, pretty and inviting eyes. “Maybe you’re my angel,” you whisper.

Seokjin’s expression becomes guarded then, intensely surprised but otherwise unreadable.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, “I’d miss you, too.”

His eyes widen, his chest heaving in a big breath, before he gathers himself and they set in seriousness. “That’s worth a lot, Ms. Y/N. More than you could fathom.”

Your eyes meet his, staring into their beckoning depths for far longer than is proper, and then your gaze flickers to his clothed chest. How equally inviting and warm it looks. You scoot forward, objective set, and ask, “Can I?”

“I —” He emits a choked sound, deep in his throat (a sound that shoots right to your core) and swallows. “Yes, of course.”

So then you rest your head on his chest, a previously unknown warmth threading through every vein in your body, dethawing your supposed icy demeanor more than even the generous amount of alcohol you’ve imbibed.

You and Seokjin watch the movie in silence for quite a while, you being unwilling to speak as you listen to the comforting, rapid beating of his heart.

“I can hear your heart, Mr. Kim.”

It only beats thrice as fast, and he doesn’t respond.

You reach up and grab his sweater with one hand, gripping onto it tight. He tenses, but doesn’t move.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” he says, all too quickly and hoarse, like there’s something lodged in his throat. “I — Are you kidding? Yes, it’s okay. More than okay.”

You melt into his answer and his sweater. “Your sweater is ridiculously soft. Like, is it made of silk?”

“That’s what you’re thinking about? What material my sweater’s made of?”

“Oddly enough, Mr. Kim, I’m thinking of nothing. My brain is so absolutely, wonderfully dégagé. I blame the eggnog. And the blanket. I think the warmth has fried my brain waves.”

Seokjin laughs, and it’s muffled, but you feel it against your ear: the rumbling of his chest as he laughs. You hyperfocus on the rise and fall of his chest. How steady it is. How you can count the in and out of his breaths. Predictable. Reliable. Like a solvable equation.

One, two in. One, two out.

Seokjin brushes a stray lock out of your face with a tepid, gentle finger. The pad of his finger ghosts, just barely, against the tiny hairs on your cheek, and you tilt your head up to find his gaze fixed everywhere but on you. He tucks the lock behind your ear, and you threaten to collapse right on the spot.

He strokes your hair then, gentle lines up and down your scalp. You feel like quivering jelly beneath his soft, careful touch.

No one has ever touched you like this. Intimacy, freely given. Not sexual in nature. Just… a caring touch, as you’re huddled against his side.

He doesn’t stop, and your eyes close as he develops a steady rhythm. You listen to the less steady thumping of his heart, his soft and comforting breaths. Your grip loosens on his shirt, and you find yourself similarly loosening your grip on the here and now.

In, out. In, out.

You hear your name softly spoken, with the added shaking of your shoulder.

You blink your eyes open and find Seokjin’s pinched expression so close to yours.

“Oh — Shit!” You immediately scuttle backwards, out of his hold, and lose your balance, tangled in Seokjin’s stupid excess of blankets.

You immediately feel even shittier as hurt lampshades his expression. Dasom stirs. You look to your side, breathing coming back to normal, to see the credits rolling on the final movie and realizing with horror your reality: you’d fallen asleep on Seokjin.

You immediately struggle to your feet, heart thudding wildly in your chest. You start folding Seokjin’s throws, refusing to look at him.

“Come on, Dasom, let’s clean up and head home,” you whisper.

Sleepily, she nods and joins you. So does Seokjin, giving you pensive glances every once in a while while you burn with shame.

Once everything is packed up, aside from Taehyung and the picnic blanket he’s asleep on, Seokjin hesitates.

“I hate to wake him,” he says quietly.

With some hesitation, he bends down and shakes the boy awake. As soon as he does, you take the blanket Taehyung was on top of and fold it for him. Taehyung reaches out for his dad’s hand and rubs his eyes sleepily. Seokjin’s large palm encloses over his son’s.

Seokjin then bends down, and Taehyung, on instinct, perhaps, climbs onto his dad’s back. Seokjin adjusts him before rising to his feet, the boy on his back like a stubborn barnacle, hands clasped around his neck, head tucked into his neck.

“I’ll drive you home,” Seokjin says to you. “We’ll just need to stop at my place to grab my car.”

“Oh, there’s no — no need,” you say, swallowing. “Tae should be getting to bed.”

“Eh, he’s all right. He’ll sleep the whole way.”

You should tell him no. You really should.

But — You don’t want to.

So you nod in acquiescence, and follow Seokjin home.

——

After dropping Seokjin's blankets off on his porch steps, the four of you settle into his car.

Other than you pointing the way to your house on the hill to Seokjin — to which he informs you that the location of your house is common knowledge among the townsfolk — the drive is silent, especially since Taehyung and Dasom quickly fall asleep in the backseat.

You’re glad for silence.

You’re embarrassed. Beyond embarrassed: for your actions, for being so vulnerable.

You may not think yourself a monster, but you’ve always prided yourself on being logical, rational, and able to push down your pesky emotions to stay that way.

But Seokjin has this easy way of peeling back your layers to reveal the soft and squishy parts you once easily were able to stamp down.

And you hate it.

You find yourself watching him as he drives. His side profile is as handsome as the rest of him, his typically-gelled back hair mussed by the winter wind. His gaze is focused, intent.

Once, his eyes flicker to yours to find you staring. He only smiles and returns his eyes back to the road.

After a few minutes, he pulls into your driveway and puts the car into park, leaving the car running. “Here,” he whispers. “I’ll get Dasom, if that’s okay with you.”

“Oh — Uh. Sure.”

He nods, stepping out of the driver’s seat and moving to Dasom’s side. He carefully picks her up, and you shut the door softly behind him, so as not to wake Taehyung.

Then he walks with her in his arms, up the cobblestone pathway, up the steps to your porch where you’d first seen her, and you scramble to quietly unlock and open your front door.

“I can put her in bed,” he murmurs to you in the dark.

You nod, leading him up the stairs to her room, and peeling back her blankets for Seokjin to deposit her down on top of. You reach over and pull off her shoes, and then pull up the blanket, before slowly backing away. You both exit her room, you pulling the door shut, and he walks down the stairs to your foyer.

At your door, Seokjin turns to you, and you swallow, unsure what to say. What you could possibly say. You fell asleep on his chest, for God’s sake.

Fuck, you’re pathetic. Feeling all out of sorts and disjumbled just because Seokjin showed you an ounce of kindness.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim,” you say quietly, taking great care not to wake Dasom.

He furrows his brows. He says back, just as quiet, “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

You suddenly realize how dark it is here, in your living room. How alone you and Seokjin are, in your home, even if Dasom’s asleep upstairs and Taehyung’s in the car outside, it suddenly hits you how alone you both are. Your ears ring, static crackling between the too-small space between you, and you suddenly think —

Fucking shit, you want Kim Seokjin.

And that’s such a scary, ludicrous and wildly fantasy-laden thought that you try your best to suppress it right then and there, lest you fall victim to it and ruin whatever it is you and Seokjin have. If you have anything at all, especially after your pitiful display of embarrassment in the park.

“Then thank you,” is what you say, cautious and small. “For obliging me all day. For listening. For helping with Dasom. It’s…” You look away. “Thank you.”

“Y/N—”

“You should get home,” you say, voice deceptively steady as you stare into Seokjin’s eyes, unable to tear away your gaze. “Before I say or do something we’ll both regret.”

His eyes flash, and he leans forward. An inch or so. “While I’m insanely curious what you possibly think I would ever regret…” He grinds his jaw, his chin tensing. “I agree. Anything said or done is best done sober, and while I am, you are very much not.”

That takes you aback. You weren’t talking about —

You redden, feeling afire with all the things he could possibly mean.

“Good night, Ms. Y/N,” he says, softly. “I hope to see you soon.”

And with that, he turns and leaves out your front door, leaving you with more questions than answers.

Dread and December are typically two words that, for you, tie hand in hand.

Of course, rationally, you know that it’s not really the month you hate, nor do you despise Christmas. You’ve just never seen in Christmas what other people do, and for good reason. Christmas is a time for family, for love, for faith — none of which are things you’ve ever had. So, the lack of those things makes the month of December far more insufferable than any other month.

And yet… This December has gone by quick, and with minimal dread lining the marrow of your bones. Whether that’s because of Dasom, or Seokjin, or both combined, you’re unsure.

“Make sure you’re wearing mittens,” you call up the stairs to Dasom. “It’s colder today.”

“Okay!”

A second later, she races down the stairs, out of breath and grinning widely. She stops and beams at you before sliding her backpack on over her coat, and dipping over to pull on her boots. “I can’t believe you’re coming to my Christmas party today.”

“I can’t either,” you reply wryly, slipping into your own gloves.

“And you’re baking! Let Mr. Kim do the baking, though. I don’t think yours will taste that good.”

“I’ll make sure you get coal, while every other kid gets cookies,” you say plainly.

“No, you won’t,” Dasom says firmly, swinging open the front door and hopping down the steps. “I want it to snooow,” she whines.

Dasom’s becoming slowly more and more talkative, compared to three weeks ago when she’d showed up at your door, almost mute. You’re glad to see it. Not so glad to hear it.

(Okay, that’s a joke. You’re growing used to having a child around.)

“Don’t wish that,” you grouse as you both step outside and begin making the trek to her school. “Snow makes everything muddy and slick, and it looks even uglier after enough cars drive over it. Not worth it.”

“Nuh uh. Snow is pretty,” Dasom counters. “You’re just a grump.”

You laugh out loud. This kid.

Once you reach her school, Dasom races ahead of you, catching up with Sunhee in the playground outside her school. You trail behind her, much more slow-paced, an ox to her hare, and reach the large double-doors to her school, walking down the hallway to reach her classroom door.

She races into her classroom with Sunhee without a goodbye.

You do a look around the room — Taehyung’s not here, yet, and neither is Seokjin. Despite yourself, you feel a little disappointed.

A little. You’re going to see Seokjin soon, after all.

Jungkook looks up from a stack of papers on his desk, his bunny grin widening when he spots you. “Y/N!” He straightens, coming over to you as Dasom hangs up her coat and backpack in her cubby carefully. “Thank you again for volunteering for the Christmas party. The class truly appreciates it.”

“Ah, well….” You duck your head. “… You’re welcome?”

He beams, showcasing his bright, pretty grin, and you acknowledge that in his thin-wired frames and floof of thick brown hair, corded muscles and strong chest visible even from underneath his slightly baggy, long-sleeve shirt, Jungkook looks particularly handsome.

And yet, he doesn’t stir up things in you the way Seokjin does.

And it’s then you have to begrudgingly admit to yourself that — whatever way you feel for Seokjin, it isn’t just because he’s verifiably handsome.

Which makes everything so much worse.

Lust you can handle.

It’s the… other option that’s far less understandable or manageable.

“You know, Y/N, I think you and Jinnie make a great couple.”

You recoil. “Couple?” You scoff. “Jungkook, Mr. Kim and I are not a couple. And we won’t ever be one.”

Jungkook looks, oddly, unhappy to hear such a statement, lips settling into a pout. “And why not?”

You emit a hollowed laugh. “We’ll be here all morning if I start listing the reasons why.”

“But I saw you and him cuddling during the movies yesterday?”

“Anyway,” you say, pointedly, voice a tad bit high. “I’ll be back at 2 with the goods.”

“Okay. You two have fun,” Jungkook says with a wink.

“Goodbye, Jungkook.”

With that, you turn, and prepare to head toward your next destination: Seokjin’s house.

The belly of the beast.

—-

With great trepidation, even greater amounts of nervousness, and absolutely zero courage, you knock on Seokjin’s large, oaken double doors.

The house is ridiculous; ostentatious, even, and made doubly more so by the excessive Christmas lights and blow-up animated animals located on his sprawling lawn. The house itself looks like a mini castle and is located in the wealthier suburbs of town. Close enough to the desirable square to be walkable, but far enough to not be bothered by its noisiness. But, from what Seokjin’s told you about his parents, you’d be willing to bet that this house was once theirs before he gave them his ultimatum, and when his parents left, Seokjin kept the house.

Or perhaps the big house was always his, and he had bought such a large one with the plan to fill it with kids one day.

You swallow. Just one way in which you and Seokjin vastly differ - an irreconcilable difference that can’t be overcome by his humored witticisms or pretty hands, nor the way you feel unencumbered and free in his presence.

Yes, he’s a kind man, and you enjoy his company, but though you’ve been prone to having casual sex before… Even if Seokjin was interested, which you highly doubt, it’s not something you’d want with him. Not Seokjin, this prince among men.

So, yes. There’s a pretty big unscalable wall re: you and Seokjin here, and it isn’t solely your proclivity for isolation and reputation as the town bitch that’s the cause.

“Coming!” he singsongs from behind the doors, his familiar voice lightly muffled.

One of the doors swings open, and when he sees you, he beams; gleaming teeth, pink lips pulled back, his eyes sparkling and dark hair pushed off his forehead. And an apron over his sweater.

Oh dear fucking God, why does Seokjin looks so hot in an apron? Even when the apron cornily reads Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’.

He is unfair. Incredibly, wholly, fully unfair.

“What is with your apron?” you ask, lips curled in amusement.

He looks down, suddenly appearing slightly bashful, but looks back up to you with an awkward grin. “It was…. A gift?”

You roll your eyes and step inside his house. No — Home. Even though all you can see from here is the foyer you’re in and the excessive living room, despite the ostentatiousness of the outside of the house, it seems that Seokjin has taken painstaking care in making this house a home.

Everything is clean (and you wouldn’t expect anything less from the excessively well-groomed man) but there are a few stray toys on the decorative area rug. There are piles of wood in the large fireplace, lit. Throw blankets cover all the couches and chairs — Seokjin really loves his throws — and other little sundries dot the walls and tables inside. Decorations, picture frames, magazines; it all seems so picturesque, mismatched and homey.

One thing in particular catches your eye: a picture of a woman placed front and center on the mantle.

The woman has short black hair, large brown eyes and even larger smile, holding what must be a toddler-aged Taehyung. The two are grinning ear to ear and holding sugary cones of ice cream; chocolate with sprinkles for Taehyung, strawberry for the woman.

Mihyun. It feels strange to put a face to the name.

Seokjin’s eyes follow yours, and his smile dulls just slightly when you see where your attention is.

Though you want to ask him more about her, talk about her, you don’t think you have the right.

So you look away from the fireplace, and your attention immediately zeroes in on a bookcase on the opposite side. It’s built-in, generously-sized (but nowhere near your accumulated personal library) but you can tell by the tattered spines of the books that every book that has a place on the white shelves is well-loved.

Drawn, you make your slow, purposeful way over to peruse and study his taste. You’ve always firmly believed you can tell a lot about someone by what’s in their bookcase. Not that you’ve had many chances to test this theory, but… You spot quite a lot of romance. A good few mystery books. Some classics.

Your books.

Small sticky notes are smattered throughout each of your novels, and something itches inside of you — Seokjin left notes on your novels. Your writing. Your blood, born from you.

You want to read them. See what he has to say, even if it’s dogging on your writing — shit, you want to see his opinion. Notes like that; they’re private, not meant for the author to see.

“Judging me?”

You startle at Seokjin being so close to you, heart racing. You’d been so focused on the books that you failed to notice him joining you. “I suppose. I should’ve guessed you’d like romance.”

He grins. “And you don’t,” he says, statement and not a question. “At all? Not even one romance book that piques your interest?”

You consider that. “I don’t hate romance, Mr. Kim, but if I do read it, it better have a damn good plot.” You browse his bookshelf, lips pursed. “I like plenty of books that have romance in it. But the one romance book that I’d throw my weight behind….” You beam when you see it. You pull it out and hold it, spine out, in your hand. “This one. Everything about it is positively perfect.”

Seokjin raises a brow at your choice. “Well, I love Lizzie and Mr. Darcy as much as the next reasonable book lover, but… Wow.”

“I think Lizzie is intelligent, and principled, and I like that she doesn’t do anything just because she’s told,” you say. “Especially in the regency era. And Mr. Darcy is leagues better than most male romance leads, at least, by my opinion. And the story itself being a parody of the time, all while not being pretentious and comedic? It’s a masterpiece.”

Seokjin smiles. “You know, I think the same thing.”

“Huh. Who’d have ever thought we’d agree on something?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Ms. Y/N. I think we agree on quite a lot.”

You lift a brow, gesturing around the two of you; to his home, but really you mean the impressions from it. A family home, for a family. A family man standing before you. You imagine it filled to the brim with children and a loving wife.

Shaking off those (oddly, unpleasant) thoughts, you internalize that it is just you and Seokjin here, in this otherwise empty house.

Seokjin glances around to where you gesture, brow lifted. “What? Not a fan of the decor?”

You stare. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

You shoulder past him, through his markedly large living room, past the dining room, and move into the open concept kitchen. You show yourself to the kitchen sink and scrub your hands fully and dutifully clean. Seokjin comes in behind you.

You turn off the sink water with your elbow and grab a paper towel to dry your hands — only to come face to face with an amused Seokjin.

“Go ahead and make yourself at home,” he says, mirthful, eyes twinkling.

You’re undeterred. “I’m here to bake, aren’t I? Can’t very well do that in the living room. Unless you want baking powder on your couches.”

“Of course. Silly me. Carry on.”

Seokjin follows your suit, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater and washing his hands.

Thankfully, it looks as if all the ingredients and materials the two of you will need to bake are already set out.

He begins to steadily prep the cookie dough, and you find yourself watching the way he hand mixes the sugar and baking powder and eggs intently, his delectable forearms pulling taught from use.

He catches you leering, and says, “Do you not like my home?”

Feeling slightly ashamed of being caught and the fact that you’re not helping, you remain silent, arching a pressing brow.

“You seem like you don’t like it here,” he explains.

“That’s not it,” you say, quickly. “I was trying to figure out why you live here.”

Seokjin raises a brow. “Because I’m not a fan of living on the streets?”

You sigh. “I mean, I’m curious — about whether this house is so big and showy because it was your parents’ or because you were planning on filling it.”

For a millisecond, a quiet zap of static in the air, Seokjin ceases in his mixing, but doesn’t look up, doesn’t move at all.

Your stomach sinks, with the feeling you had unwittingly said something out of line. “Did I say something rude?”

That’s all it takes to put Seokjin right, back to animation, and he sets his mixer on the edge of the bowl before looking up at you with glistening eyes that reflect his kitchen's lights and a dour expression. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “No. It’s both. Both of your assumptions are correct. This house did belong to my parents originally, and they passed it to me when they left town. I waffled for a while on whether or not I would sell it. It was just me for a few years, after all, and this house is much too big for a lone person.”

“And then you met Mihyun?” you prod.

He nods, taking the slab of dough out of the bowl and slapping it onto the wood cutting board. He grabs the myriad cookie cutters from his counter in various shapes; gingerbread men, stars, Santa Clause, and more. He extends a few choices to you. “Pick two for this batch,” he says, in a very not-smooth segue from your conversation.

Gingerly, you pick the sock and the mitten.

Seokjin looks at your choices, lips pulled up. “Nice picks.” His tone feels forced.

You shrug. “Clothes are universal.”

He smiles, and grabs the reindeer and angel cuts for himself. He pushes down into the dough with the reindeer and pulls the reindeer-shaped slab of dough out, putting it on the readied pan sitting on the stove, having to reach over in front of you to do so. You get a strong whiff of his cologne and feel weak-kneed as a result. Fuck, he smells good. Like vanilla and christmas.

You almost think he’s going to completely ignore your question, but then he pulls back to make another shape and says, “We did intend to fill this house. She wanted four kids. I never had a number in mind myself, I just knew that I wanted them, so that became our plan. Us. Four kids.”

“Christ,” you murmur, pressing down into the dough with your own sock cutter, ensuring everything about the cookie is perfect, not one piece of it out of whack. “That sounds like hell.”

Surprisingly, he laughs.

After a moment, while you carefully place your own cookie-to-be on the sheet, he sobers. “Well, you know as well as I do how sudden plans can change. You have an idea for your life and it just doesn’t work out.” He swallows, eyes downcast. “That’s life, I guess. Unpredictable and cruel.”

You’re not used to Seokjin seeming so — pessimistic.

You stare at the cookie sheet with your and Seokjin’s shapes laid on it. His are carefully cut and placed. He’s not unlike you in this regard — if you do something, you’re going to do it painstakingly well. You don’t accept anything less than the best.

Well, that’s something you and Seokjin surprisingly have in common. You can’t believe you never really noticed it before. Everything he does — from the way he dresses, raises Taehyung, plans charity events… He’s artfully planned and perfectionistic.

You decide to try your hand at optimism as a response to Seokjin. “Well, you’re still relatively young and particularly eligible. There’s time for marriage and additional children.”

Gut twisting, you swallow down the rising bile in your throat. You don’t want to acknowledge how unpleasant the prospect is of Seokjin marrying is. It’s irrational to be jealous.

Stupid and irrational.

“I don’t want more kids.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, his jaw tensed as he avoids your gaze. “You don’t?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love kids,” he adds. Which is obvious enough. “But… I’ve never felt dissatisfied with Tae. Truth be told, I like where we’re at right now. He’s in school, and you can converse with him…” He shrugs, a laugh that’s not a laugh escaping him. “I don’t know. I think I’m past the stage where I find a baby desirable. Of course, if it happened, I wouldn’t shirk my duties…”

“Of course not.” You can’t imagine Seokjin skipping out on fatherly responsibilities at all; not when he goes above and beyond always.

“But I’m happy. I don’t need or want more.” He looks to you, a reluctance in his look, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It feels weighted, heavy and loud despite the silence — like a blaring speaker beneath a layer of water.

Something broils inside you, begging you to scrape the surface of his words, dig down and reveal the fool’s good rested underneath.

You immediately tamp that instinct down.

“I’m selfish,” you say.

That seems to startle him, his shoulders tensing. “I don’t th—”

“I’ve never thought being selfish was a bad thing,” you cut in, continuing in your pursuit of making shapes of dough. You fill one pan and then immediately move to another, grateful for the excuse to add some space between you and Seokjin. “I think a lot of people are selfish, actually. They just refuse to accept it. But I think I’m more selfish than the average person: I guard my time, my resources, my words — everything. I spend my time thinking ahead so that I never have to rely on anyone. But I also don’t want anyone to rely on me.” Static rings in your ears. “It goes against every tenant of who I am, every facet of me. Yoongi is my only friend not just because we’re both asshole outcasts, but because he’s the only person who doesn’t expect me to give anything. I don’t expect him to give, either.”

You tilt your head to look at Seokjin. His expression is carefully empty, eyes limpid, but steady on you as he listens.

“I don’t think it’s wrong to expect something from a friend, or a lover. Relationships come with give and take wired into the contract of them, after all. Hence why I refuse to enter into said contracts.” You hesitate, staring down at your hands. Wretched that they are. “The thought of being obligated to give, it makes something churn in my stomach. It makes me feel weighed down, encumbered, chained.”

You laugh, wry.

“I’m self-aware enough to know this. To know that not only would I struggle in a parental role, but I would absolutely struggle in a relationship. Even if it went well for me, I know I’m so selfish that even if I realized I was taking more than I was giving, I wouldn’t leave, and I wouldn’t change. There is no one alive that deserves the misfortune of being with me.”

A thick tarp of silence encases the two of you inside at that; a suffocating, vacuous black hole kind of silence. One that’s frightening and undiscovered; something where you have no idea is coming next.

“Can I offer my opinion, Ms. Y/N?”

You grind your teeth. Nod.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Seokjin says, cautiously. “Not — I mean, I understand what you mean about the giving and taking and why you don’t want that, but I definitely don’t think you wouldn’t change. You’re not a heartless monster. I’ve had the fortune of seeing you change over the past few weeks. You’re here now, aren’t you?”

That takes you aback. “Well — That’s because —”

“You’re trying to be a good guardian to Dasom. That doesn’t specifically entail baking for class parties at all, but you’re doing that. Does that really sound like a wholly selfish someone to you?”

“It’s just baking.”

“Stop underselling your efforts,” he says, eyes focused and dark. “Please. You think because you aren’t perfect, you’re not enough? You think because you’re a loner that you can’t have anyone at all? You really think that there aren’t people who would see you and love you still?”

“Well—”

“I think you’re scared,” Seokjin says, firmly. “More scared than the average person. Of other people. Of relationships. You’re scared of being left behind, so you prevent anyone from being able to put you in that position in the first place. I’m sure everything else you’ve said is also true, but it’s glaringly obvious to me that you’re scared.”

You take a step back from him, a ball expanding in your throat. “Mr. Kim…”

Scared?

You?

Your father, in the doorway. Saying his final goodbye. At least he bothered with a goodbye. Your mother, face red with anger, her screams of anguish. But as soon as the door had shut, the anger faded, and she sank to the floor, body wracked with violent sobs.

You, blankly watching this scene from the staircase, firmly deciding that if this is love…

If that’s what love is, then you have no interest in it.

You hadn’t cried, back then. Hadn’t done much of anything at all, really. This only pissed your mother off more. She’d called you a monster, then. For not crying.

But why should you cry? One minute, your father was your father, and your mother was your mother, and the next….

… The day you lost your father, you’d lost your mom, too.

You may as well have been an orphan at seven, too.

All because of this irrational, ugly thing called love.

You turn your head, ashamed at this wave of sorrow that falls over you.

“Do you really not remember?”

You look to Seokjin and his tear-filled eyes. It’s not quite pity that he looks at you with, but something deeper, fuller: concern and something indiscernible enclosed around it, seeping out of his pores and in the downturn of his lips and furrowing of his brows. It’s all over him, this unnamable thing.

“Remember what?”

“When we first met.”

Confused, you say, “We met when Dasom punched Tae and—”

“No. Before then.”

He looks like he really wants you to remember. You want to remember. But you simply don’t. Of course, Seokjin’s always looked vaguely familiar, was always a name and a face you couldn’t quite place, like a puzzle piece that you knew belonged, but was just unable to pinpoint where. And when he told you about his parents, you’d chalked it up to their infamy.

And yet, based on the desperate look in his eyes, this supposed first meeting wasn’t merely a simple meet-cute at a grocery store, both grabbing for the same milk.

Unsteady, inside and out, you say, “No. I don’t.”

And then Seokjin looks you firm in the eye, and says, “I met you. The day after your mother’s funeral.”

That’s when it all comes rushing in — you barely manage to pull in a full breath before the memory washes over you like a category 5 wave, choking you and cutting off your air supply.

Even though you remember, Seokjin refreshes your memory from his point of view.

Seokjin shouldn’t be here.

Taehyung’s safe with Namjoon, but he’s here. In the dead cold of winter, rain pouring its way down. It’s cold enough for the rain to make a chill settle in the hollow of his bones, but not cold enough to grant him the mercy of snow.

He kneels before Mihyun’s gravestone and — even two years from her death, he still feels this deep-seated ache, this all-controlling anger, this utter hopelessness that never leaves him.

He forgot to bring an umbrella, but what does it matter anyway?

At least for right now, Seokjin doesn’t have to put on a brave face. He doesn’t have to smile at strangers, or give a false laugh, and for just these few minutes, the onus of being a good dad, a good widow, a good man isn’t on his shoulders.

Today, Seokjin thinks it’s worsed to be loved than hated. Worse, because everyone wants him to feel better. They want him to be happy.

And worst of all, they want him to move on. To find someone else. But how could he? How could they be so callous? His wife didn’t divorce him; she was stolen from him. He’s not thinking about dating anyone else. He can’t even stomach the thought.

And tonight, he’s so tired. The weight of the world rests on his shoulders, and for just one small stretch of time in the grand scheme of life, he can be free to feel. To ache. To hurt.

The icy rain splatters on his coat, soaking his hair and the back of his neck and his boots, and he doesn’t care. If this is what it takes to get a moment alone with his wife — then this is what it takes.

He rests his forehead on Mihyun’s cold gravestone to feel as close to her as he can.

What he wouldn’t give to have her back.

But then the rain stops.

Except, it doesn’t. He hears the rain still pattering down around him. But it’s no longer smattering his entire body, or at all.

Cautiously, he looks up.

An umbrella. Black.

And you standing before him.

Your expression is blank, or grim; it’s dark and concealed, difficult to decipher as you look down at him. He instantly recognizes you. Of course he does. He’s heard loads about you, stemming from the first week he moved here as a child. He’s always rooted for you, from the outskirts, tbe sidelines.

When you left this town, he’d cheered for you.

He hoped you’d never come back — for your sake.

But… You’re here now. Your mother’s funeral was yesterday, so he’d heard. You hadn’t showed. It only made the townsfolk talk more negatively of you — talking about how cruel you were to forego your own mother’s funeral.

It seems you’re showing up now.

Seokjin’s too stunned to speak for a moment. He’d thought he’d been alone, after all, too enmeshed in his own pitiful grief to pay attention, and though you’re a legend in this town, you’re one he’s never been able to cross paths with. Not in all these years. All these years, it felt like you were a tall tale. A ghost that haunted the place. He’d wondered about you, felt you in the cracks of walls of places you’d just left, being the subject of gossip along the town.

You — Not a fictional tale.

You — Real. A person.

And now here you are.

Here you are.

“What are you, an idiot?“ you ask with a gravelly tone. “What kind of dumbass sits out in the sleet like this?”

He blinks, taken aback at your crassness. “Well, I—”

“Christ, you’ll be in this place with the rest of them soon if you’re this dumb.” You extend the umbrella to him. “Take it.” You fish in the pocket of your coat and hold out something else as well: a packet of tissues. “And take these, too. You look like absolute hell.”

He feels like absolute hell, so it suits. Then he fully realizes what you’re doing — and notices the rain dampening your own coat.

“There’s no need,” he says, quickly, waving you off, hoping he sounds as cheery as he possibly can.

“Just take it. I don’t live far and I’ll draw myself a hot bath. But you look miserable.”

“I’m sorry, really, I don’t mean to be so—”

You snort, stopping him mid-apology. “Don’t apologize to me. You’re obviously here for a reason. Death sucks. You can be upset about it. Just don’t kill yourself while you’re at it.”

Taken aback, feeling properly schooled, he reaches out with tepid fingers and… takes the umbrella and the tissues.

Then he directs his gaze to Mihyun's gravestone. He finds there’s so much he wants to say. He wants to thank you, first and foremost. Wants to insist you don’t give him your umbrella. Wants to talk to you, to tell you he’s always wanted to be your friend.

He can’t pick which thing he wants to say first, but his indecision renders it all useless, because when he looks back up to reply to you, he only finds your retreating, soaking back — and mentally kicks himself for it.

But then he realizes what you’ve just done for him.

That you’ve seen him at his lowest, and you didn’t care.

That you did more than a prayer or a condolence could ever do.

It’s not just the umbrella, either. It’s… Your words, too.

Death is so simple, he thinks. Everyone knows death sucks. But everyone tries to artfully skirt around the topic, ignore it, pretend it never happened. But not you.

And once you become nothing but a dot in the distance, Seokjin wonders if maybe, perhaps, Mihyun had sent him an angel.

“After that…” Seokjin says, his tone cautious and low, “I wanted to talk to you again. Everyone knows you live in that house on the hill, but I didn’t want to be a creep who just showed up at your door. So I hoped we’d meet again somehow, and I could talk to you again. But three years passed. I always — I always just missed you. That is… Until Dasom.”

Seokjin gives you a guarded look that tells you he’s done, and you, overwhelmed, struggle on how the hell you should respond to something like this.

“I’m—” You stumble on your words, your thoughts, your entire worldview. “I’m not an angel, I was just trying to…”

“To help me. To be nice, at the expense of yourself,” Seokjin cuts in. “You mean to tell me that that woman who did that for me, a total stranger, is this irredeemable monster who could only take and never give? You mean to tell me that you’re not someone deserving of love? I don’t get it, Y/N.” He steps forward, desperate now, eyes alight. “I don’t think there’s a world, timeline, or universe in which being with you would be a misfortune.”

“Mr. Kim,” you say, low and warning. “I urge you to stop here, before you say something that can’t be unsaid.”

Another step, he moves forward, bridging the gap between you. Suddenly the few inches between you is far too wide.

Dangerous. Kim Seokjin is dangerous. A wildfire, a category 5 hurricane, level 9 earthquake.

Seokjin has your full attention when he says, “Holding you, last weekend…” His eyes are dark and concentrated on you. “That’s one of the happiest moments I’ve had in the last five years.”

You redden, wanting him to stop and keep going, feeling mushy and confused and sublime and like you’re standing on the precarious ledge between old and new.

Close. He’s so close.

On impulse, you reach out to hold onto the torso of his sweater. You don’t know why you do that. It feels grounding, somehow, even though Seokjin is the cause of this slipperiness. He smiles when you do, and rests his hand over the back of yours, his thumb sliding over the underside of your palm. You release his shirt, and he weaves his fingers into yours, before clasping his palm to yours and squeezing gently.

A thrill chases its way up your spine.

He uses his free hand to reach out for your face, grab a lock of hair and brush it back with careful fingers, before rubbing his thumb above your browbone, comforting.

“Mr. Kim—” you say, but your voice cracks on his name, feeling an innumerable, overwhelming swell of feelings crescendo within you.

“Do you like it when I do this?” he asks you, tone low and serious.

Without much thought, you nod.

He moves, bridging the too-chasmic gap between you, eyes like a low, contained fire. Burning bright, but not wild. His hand slowly moves down from your forehead, ghosting lightly over your skin, down, down, before he lightly cups the back of your neck, thumb rubbing on your cheek.

His face moves closer now, slowly, watchfully.

You almost think he’s going to kiss you. You’re not sure how to react. You know your body wants it, but your brain is not so easily persuaded against rationality.

Seokjin drops his hand from your neck, and moves back, his presence not merely so delightfully suffocating. “I know you’re not a fan of spontaneity. And you like to plan. So… I’d like it if you thought about this. About us. And whether you want the same things I do.”

You choke, eyes dilating comically. “What — us? What do you mean us?” You decide to stop skirting around and ask him point blank: “What is it that you want from me?”

He swallows, brows knitting together confusedly. “A… relationship?” At your thudding heart and disbelieving look, he says, “I mean, if you want. That’s —“ He lifts up his hands, looking helpless and confused himself. “I didn’t want to kiss you unless you knew what you wanted. I think… I think we’re both physically attracted to each other, yeah? But what I need to know is something else beyond that.”

“You’re physically attracted to me?” you squeak out.

Seokjin opens his mouth, and then closes it. Tilts his head as if running back through every interaction you two have ever shared, and then he releases a noise that’s a laugh, fond and wry. His eyes fall on you, sparkling in amusement. “Are you really so oblivious?”

“Oh my God.” You turn, unable to look at him any longer, leaning your back against Seokjin’s kitchen counter and rubbing your temple. “Fuck. This is a lot to take in all at once.”

“Is it?”

“Yes! I never thought you’d see me in that way,” you say, feeling frantic and like everything’s been overturned and you’re losing your footing.

“Well, then how did you think I saw you?”

“Your pet project of the month,” you toss back before you can stop yourself. You wince at your wording.

“My pet pr—” Seokjin scoffs, stepping back and shaking his head further.

“What? You seem to have a thing for misfits.”

Seokjin rests his palms on the kitchen counter, tilting his head forward and taking a deep, measured breath. You allow him a moment to calm down. You tend to have this effect on people: unwittingly pissing them off. Although you’re not sure if that wasn’t intended on your end.

Maybe you’re freaking out hardcore. And, in your typical coward’s way, you think pissing Seokjin off is the best way to deal with this.

But, just like in everything else, Seokjin doesn’t seem to allow you to be a coward.

He turns and fixes you with a serious, yet somehow still warm gaze. “I would appreciate it, Y/N, if you took my feelings into serious consideration. If you acknowledged that I do like you, that I do want to pursue a relationship with you. I’d like it if you accepted my feelings, and then thought about what you want.” His eyes are somewhat dimmed. You hate that. “And if you don’t want the same things, then that’s fine. But before you tell me yes or no, I’d appreciate it if you took some time to mull it over.” His eyes flit up to yours. “I know it takes you time to adjust, so — take that time and consider if you could see me in your future plans. Please.”

You’re taken aback, everything so much, so everything all at once. It’s like the past month rushes up to you in violent waves, and everything you’d been trying to ignore, to rationalize, to completely rewrite — Seokjin’s not allowing you to do that anymore.

He’s just told you that he wants you leaving no more room for ambiguity or guessing games.

The ball’s now in your court.

When you look up to Seokjin, you realize you do want him to be part of your life. Long after Dasom’s service, long after this Christmas. You’re not sure how you’d handle an indefinite separation.

But could you be a good enough girlfriend? Could you be what Seokjin deserves?

You don’t think the answer is yes.

In any case, you nod, fiddling nervously with your fingers. Seokjin deserves that much, right? After everything?

“I’ll think about it,” you say dilatorily.

Seokjin smiles then, a soft and wispish one that turns your insides in the most alarming and delightful of ways, and nods. “Okay. Then I’ll finish up the baking.”

You blink, mentally recoiling. Is he kicking you out? He would be fully within his rights to do so, but you’re still not enthused at the idea. “But I haven’t done much of anything, and I agreed to help you bake.”

He shrugs. “I love baking, and I’m sure you’d rather work than cook, right?”

You’re taken aback at that. Yes, you love writing; it’s your life blood, the thing that feeds your veins (and with royalties, your belly) but…

You’re also enjoying being with Seokjin. Writing can be done anywhere, most anytime. Hanging out with Seokjin… That’s a far more limited option. Especially with the conversation you’d just had now hanging over your head like a stubborn, cartoonish rain cloud.

If you decline Seokjin… It may be a soon-to-be-void option. Your stomach churns at the thought. Selfishly, you wish Seokjin didn’t (for some insane reason that you can’t figure out) think you were a viable romantic choice. Selfishly, you wish you could continue to have Seokjin in the limited way you do now.

But that’s you taking without giving.

Fuck. You’re all out of sorts right now. Maybe you do need to write — to escape reality for a bit, calm this internal storm inside you, bite down your negative feelings and the sudden feeling that everything you’ve built with Seokjin over the past three weeks will come collapsing down.

“Yeah,” you say, small.

He doesn’t seem at all upset at your answer. In fact, he says, “You can sit in the living room. I promise to not bother you.”

You immediately perk up at that — he isn’t kicking you out?

You must be visibly confused, for Seokjin smiles reassuringly at you. “It’s okay, you know. To need some time to think about things. But…” He tilts his head. “I do like having you here. And it would be needless for you to go home only to come back in a few hours. So… Stay. Please. If you’d like.”

“… Okay.”

Seokjin beams. “Great. Do make yourself at home.”

With some reluctance, you do. You exit his kitchen and slowly make your way over to your bag and retrieve your notebook and pen — always kept at your side. No one ever claimed you weren’t a stereotypical author.

You quickly glance over Seokjin’s large living room and decide the sunken sectional looks the coziest, so you curl up in the middle part, tucking your legs beside you and setting your notebook on your lap. You give one last look over at Seokjin in the kitchen, who works steadily on the cookies. You eye his soft hair, rolled up sleeves, the way he is exact in his movements and focused in his gaze.

You tear your gaze away and turn your focus to your writing.

Writing comes to you easily, truly. Once you sit down and put pen to paper, you can easily craft scene after scene. Writer’s block isn’t really a thing you experience, it’s more a matter of sitting down and actually putting in the work to physically do it. Even if you’re not happy with the end result, you can typically at least jot something down.

So you sink into your fictional world, delighting in having some control again. Writing appeals to you for many reasons, but one in particular is the amount of control it grants you. When you’re an author, you exhibit control over your characters and your worlds. When you feel like your control is slipping in the real world, you turn to the pen to grasp a semblance of it back.

And so you do.

Seokjin stays true to his word. While you sink into your work, he continues his. After a while, he moves through the living room, tidying up. He’s only distracting because it’s Seokjin, though, and every-so-often you look up to study him.

Time passes.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” comes Seokjin’s smooth voice, a voice you’ve come to like and covet. “But I’ll be showering upstairs. I need to get this excess of baking powder off of me.”

You nod, unanswering otherwise, only vaguely registering his words.

Until he comes down some time later.

He takes a seat on the couch, on the opposite side from you, and you look up from your writing to find him with damp hair that clings lightly to his forehead and a half-read book in hand — The House on Mango Street. He’d traded his sweater and jeans for a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants; oozing comfort in his own home.

You find yourself gripping your journal far too tight, a pleasant curling in your stomach. Something about the novelty of Seokjin so dressed down, his hair undone, revealing to you this side of him… Holy shit. The way his shirt hugs his broad shoulders, revealing the full width of them is toe-curling. His expertly shaped neck, with his strong Adam's apple and protruding collar bones is mind-numbingly well-sculpted. You study his wonderful forearms and beautiful hands and you don’t dare let yourself look down any further than that because he’s wearing gray sweatpants and you’re going to die.

Seokjin looks up from his book to meet your gaze. “What?” he asks, amusement in his tone.

“You’re hot,” you blurt, and immediately regret it when he raises a brow first, then smiles and laughs.

“And you’re beautiful,” he tosses out casually, zero hesitation. “Glad we’ve established the obvious.”

“Oh, shut up,” you say, cheeks burning red. “You’re ridiculous. And self-obsessed.”

His grin widens, and he leans over the pesky couch cushion that separates you toward you and ruffles your hair with his patent squeaky laugh. His laugh paired with his touch rattles your skull and makes something swell in your airway, and you can only stare at him with pathetically wide eyes, heated cheeks and tips of your ears, and words that you find yourself unable to say. “I’m only kidding,” he says, before pulling back and away — you immediately finding yourself wanting to chase his touch. Get it back. “You’re like a cat, you know.”

“A cat?”

“Yeah. Violent and grouchy, liable to swipe at me at any moment, but easily undone by a little head rub.”

“Oh my god,” you say, turning. “You’re an ass.”

Laughter rings through the apartment, but you realize: it’s both his and yours, a swelling cacophony inside his home, bouncing off the walls and thrumming in your bones.

Seokjin returns to reading his book, and though you try to return to your writing, and your character’s problems: you end up thinking about your own.

Out of the corner of your eye, you study Seokjin. Sitting on the couch with you, submerged in quiet. Not attempting to pull you out of your writing, but deciding to exist alongside you. The two of you, quietly doing your own things, just together.

Briefly, you wonder if you said yes to Seokjin, if you truly considered his proposal and decided to take a stab at it — if this is what your days could look like. You imagine a scene like this; you working, Seokjin going about his own duties. And then… Maybe you could curl into Seokjin’s side on the couch and write. It could be the two of you, during the day, and then you’d get Taehyung and Dasom from school, and then it would be the four of you.

And then you think of all the other kinds of things you and Seokjin could do while the kids are at school, and immediately shake your head free of said dangerously horny thoughts like an 8 ball, as oddly intriguing as they are.

You shake off thoughts of Seokjin’s imposition, possible romance, and the way your life has changed immeasurably in the past month, and you do what you do best in an attempt to recenter yourself:

You write.

“No. When Hell freezes over, I’ll consider wearing that monstrosity.”

“Luckily for us, Hell recently had a frost. In the spirit of Christmas and all.”

You scowl at the thing Seokjin dangles in front of you. You refuse to refer to it as an article of clothing. It may vaguely look like one, but you think coming with bulging cotton eyes and a lolling cotton tongue stemming from a sewn in smile should immediately negate its status as a sweater. “That is horrendous.”

“That’s what makes it so great!” Seokjin says with a grin. “I even have a pair of antlers for you to match. You’ll be everyone’s favorite reindeer.”

“I think Rudolph has a firm grip on that title.”

Seokjin only extends the sweater further with pouty eyes. You’ve never seen him be so pouty before.

You think Seokjin and his dark, chocolatey brown eyes looking at you so eagerly like that must be your kryptonite, for though you scowl, you grab at the sweater and grumble, “Fine. I’ll wear the damn sweater.”

“And the antlers?” he pleads, grinning smarmily — he knows he’s won. What a dick.

“Were you dropped on your head as a kid?”

“It’s very likely. So? Antlers? They complete the look.”

You stare him down, feeling your resolve crumbling. “Fine,” you say, snatching the extended antlers from his hand.

“It’s for the kids,” he says, faux-softly, attempting to hide his mirth and very clearly failing.

“I don’t like you.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

With a resigned sigh, you turn and head into the bathroom to quickly swap one sweater — warm, normal, black — for the monstrosity of another. As you stare at yourself in the mirror: your eyes, your scowling face, your pores and the familiar dips and valleys of your own facial structure… You find that even though the outfit is hideous…

You like the you that looks back.

Antlers still gripped in the palm of your hand, your original sweater in your arms, you step back out of the bathroom to find Seokjin missing. Except it only takes a good minute or so for him to step out of his room in jeans and a similarly horrendous sweater. The same design, but swapping reindeer for Santa Clause, the red cap characteristic of the beloved myth on his gelled back hair.

What the fuck. How does he even look good like this?

Unfair. He’s unfair.

“Well,” he says, beaming when he sees you. “Are you ready to party with seven year olds?”

“I look ridiculous, Mr. Kim.”

He shrugs, stepping forward and starting down the stairs. “I think you look gorgeous.”

You swallow. Gorgeous. Beautiful. You’ve never considered yourself ugly, but there’s something patently warming about having Seokjin call you such terms. He says them so casually — like they’re just things that are. It almost makes you breeze past his compliments the same way he does.

You follow down the stairs behind to find him slipping into loafers and shrugging on a coat.

You do the same, but then Seokjin gestures to the antlers in your hand. “Go on now,” he says with a cheesy grin.

“I think they can wait until we’re in the presence of children.”

“Oh, come on. You’ll look cute.”

“Now I doubly don’t want to wear them.”

He reaches out, grabbing them. “May I?” You release them quickly and his smile softens as he comes forward, closer. “Can I put them on you?”

“Oh — Uh. I mean.” You redden, but nod.

So he does. He slides them down gently behind your ears, and then — he comes even closer, his soft, gentle fingers gently fixing your hair to satisfaction.

At this point, Seokjin could ask you to wear a sign with dancing monkeys on it, if it means he — he does this. His pink, soft lips are so close, his broad shoulders so eclipsing and large.

“There,” he says, stepping back with a twinkling eye. “Now I need to commemorate this moment with a picture.”

You lift a brow. “A picture?” Hell — You can’t even remember the last time you took a picture or had one taken of you.

He says nothing, darting away for a second, fumbling in something or other, then coming back with a polaroid in hand. “Smile!” he says, cheerily and assholishly. You scowl. He takes a picture, laughing fondly as it slowly comes out of the camera, and he pulls it out to shake it. “I think I’m keeping this forever.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, you got your picture. Now can we go?”

“One more,” he says, before leaning over, arm extended, but he suddenly seems cautious, like he didn’t fully think it through.

You rest against his side, hoping to put his worry to rest, and he rests his arm around your shoulder, tilting his head. He snaps a picture.

Once it’s developed, he hands it to you. “That one,” he says, “is for you.”

You take the picture from his pretty, crooked fingers and survey it. You’re taken aback. In it, Seokjin looks at you with soft, warm eyes — immortalized. You look at the camera, a waxed smile on your face, a dust of pink on your cheeks and —

You look content. Relaxed.

Happy.

Seokjin makes you happy, something you previously thought impossible for yourself.

You look up from the picture, feeling internally very unstable.

Seokjin is catalytic in more ways than one.

“Well,” he says, oblivious to your revelations. “Let’s go party.”

——

You try your best to fit in here, but it certainly isn’t easy: you’re a fish out of water when it comes to parties. Especially a party that consists primarily of seven year old children, some of their parents, and Jungkook.

The kids run around the classroom, screaming and laughing and playing with one another. It’s easy to spot Dasom’s notably more reserved nature, but she does still play with Sunhee and Taehyung, and she doesn’t seem like she hates it here, thankfully.

The classroom is wonderfully decorated, likely the doing of Jungkook himself, whose doe eyes glitter when the Christmas lights reflect off the shiny ornaments he’d placed on his mini tree. Tables had been moved together in order to host the assortments of desserts and snacks; cinnamon rolls that ooze glaze, melt-in-your-mouth brownies, and the cookies Seokjin had baked, the tray already almost completely depleted.

You stand off to the side, in the background, nibbling on one of Seokjin’s cookies — this one, a Santa, red and green, and no you did not choose the Santa cookie because Seokjin is dressed as Santa.

You observe the other parents, Jungkook and the kids as they mingle and play with one another. Some of the parents, Sunhee’s included, have come and properly introduced themselves to you, others steer clear of you. But it’s fine, one way or the other. You’re content to be on the sidelines, watching Seokjin turn on his affable persona like a switch, regaling parents and kids alike.

He glances over at you from his place standing in a circle of parents. He winks when he catches your eye, and you turn your head, not liking the way him doing so makes you feel alight.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

You look to your side to see Kim Namjoon, all broad, angular lines and muscles straining against his tight clothes. He stands beside you, a suspicious glass of liquid in his hand. But it can’t be alcohol — he’s on-duty, after all.

(You think it’s alcohol.)

“I’m not not enjoying myself.”

“Just what every host wants to hear.” Namjoon slides his free hand into the pocket of his slacks. “You’re wearing antlers, Y/N.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

Namjoon grins, his pupils trained on the class. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“On the antlers?”

“On Dasom completing her service. Seokjin just informed me not long ago. Her record is squeaky clean.”

You’re taken aback at that, brow lifting. But you, thankfully, immediately catch on. Dasom’s only completed five hours of her service, but Seokjin must have waived the requirement prematurely.

Probably because his intended goal has already been finished, and knowing Seokjin, he’d probably say something about how he wants Dasom to start the new semester on a clean slate.

You feel something swell inside your chest; grow a size or two too big.

“Well, she did work hard,” you say. Which isn’t exactly a lie. She may not have labored, but you’ve seen the effort Dasom’s put in. Into being a kid again, unweighed down by her past. And seeing as she and Taehyung are attached at the hip, he isn’t holding any grudges.

Your lips lift in the beginnings of a smile over your cookie.

“Listen,” Namjoon says, cutting into your reverie. “My wife and I are hosting a party on Christmas Eve. We’d like it if you and Dasom would join us.”

You choke on the cookie. “H—Huh? You have a wife?”

Namjoon sighs. “And toddler twins. But I guess you didn’t know that, either.”

“I don’t get out much, Namjoon.”

“Well, can’t say that now. I’m glad you and Seokjin worked out. It’s about damn time. I was tired of being pestered by him about you.”

Your eyes dart to Namjoon’s, alarmed. “He — What? No, I mean. We’re not dating. He asked about me?”

“You’re not?” Namjoon looks surprised. “But the sweater.”

You look down at the ugly sweater, feeling a stone settle in your stomach. Matching sweaters is a coupley thing, even you know that. Baking cookies and riding to the school together in his car certainly doesn’t help the impression, either.

Still.

“Let me guess,” Namjoon says, voice far flatter now, a hint of disappointment laced in it. “You’re being you about it.”

You lift up your chin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that you’re being all misanthropic, all nihilistic and pessimistic about it.”

At your blank stare, he blows out a sigh.

“Man up, Y/N. Date the guy.”

You scowl. “Don’t you have some unsuspecting parents to bother? Some pretentious poetry to recite or something?”

Namjoon only laughs. “It’s great to have you back. I like having you around,” he says, clasping your shoulder. “Just think, though. You’re obviously whipped. You wouldn’t wear the antlers for just anyone, would you?”

With that, he departs from you, and you cautiously reach up to mess with the antlers. Yes, you’re aware the antlers are far more than just an ugly Christmas headband.

You’re aware you’re whipped for Seokjin, as Namjoon had put it.

But is that enough of a reason to put yourself in a position where you may steer your and Seokjin’s friendship right into the ground?

Being willing to wear a sweater or antlers doesn’t somehow automatically make you a better person, or a good girlfriend.

While you remain enmeshed in your anxieties, only amplifying each one, the party wears on. You’re sometimes pulled into the fray, but you mainly stay quiet, observant. You think Seokjin catches on quite quickly for he doesn’t press you to speak. One-on-one conversation is just so much more desirable for you; far more navigable and less overwhelming.

Especially desirable when it’s with Seokjin. Even when he throws you for a loop, dialogue with him is easy.

At one point, Dasom has you sit at a table and color with her and Taehyung, before their attention is pulled elsewhere.

All in all, the party passes easily and uneventfully. Though you don't hate being there, you definitely breathe a sigh of relief once you’ve stepped out of the school. Dasom walks ahead of you with Sunhee, the more talkative girl chattering excitedly with Dasom interjecting once in a while.

“Would you and Dasom like to join us for dinner?”

It’s Sunhee’s mother; Nari, an infant hugged to her chest as she smiles warmly at you. Nari speaks in a soft, tinkling lilt. Like a lullaby that stems from a carefully constructed music box, pink and white and pretty as the woman herself.

“Oh, um…” You shift, and, unwittingly, your eyes glance to Seokjin, exiting the school with a woman. One who’s textbook beautiful and textbook sunny; a woman with a bounce in the balls of her feet, gorgeous and polished and friendly.

You have to look away, feeling dizzy.

Nari’s eyes sparkle in false knowing. “Or just Dasom can. I know how difficult it is to get special time with the little ones around.”

You cough, eyes widening. “No, I… We’re not…”

“So, Dasom?”

You open your mouth and close it like a gutted fish. Why would Nari be in support of you and Seokjin? Why should Namjoon, for that matter? Shouldn’t these people who love Seokjin want better for him than you? You, the misanthrope who is equally hated by humanity?

Regardless, though… you think it’d be good for Dasom to spend time with a friend. Especially one that isn’t Taehyung. With the way things are going… You want Dasom to have a friend that isn’t Seokjin’s son.

You have a lot racing through your mind, and you think the party, being surrounded by people and noise and too many sensory activities has only exacerbated your worries. The fresh air isn’t enough, and maybe some additional time without needing to care for Dasom will do you good.

Swallowing, you nod in acquiescence.

Nari departs, telling Dasom about how her night will go. You watch Dasom nod excitedly, and then she turns to run to you — to hug you.

“Thank you, Auntie! I’m gonna have so much fun.”

“I’m sure,” you say, awkwardly.

Then Dasom leaves with Sunhee, Nari and her husband, and you watch them with an unpleasantness churning in your stomach, gnawing at the matter of you, threatening to eat you from the inside out.

Especially when Taehyung chases after them, calling, “Wait for meeee!”

You realize now that you were hoping to have Taehyung with you as some sort of shield from the hard stuff. Because Seokjin wouldn’t expect any sort of answer from you with Taehyung there as a buffer.

You refuse to look at Seokjin when he comes up beside you, but you feel his presence engulfing you in his signature warmth.

“Nari had already invited over Tae for dinner,” Seokjin explains with amusement. “Now Dasom, too? She really loves kids.”

“Mhm,” you say, noncommittally.

“Shall we head back to my place?” Seokjin asks, slightly cautious, looking at you with concern. He must see something in the lines of your face, for he amends, “Or… Not. We can go wherever you’d like.”

“A walk,” you worble out, feeling overwhelmed and stuffy and in need of — release.

“A walk,” Seokjin repeats. “You’re sure? With me? I can—”

You reach out and grab the hem of his sweater, turning your head so you don’t have to meet his sweet brown eyes. “Walk.”

It only takes Seokjin a few stolid seconds to grab onto your hand, weaving his fingers through yours. “Okay. Let’s walk.”

You walk ahead of him, despite being connected to him by his large, warm hand — and this invisible thread that threads through your arteries and veins.

Seokjin wordlessly follows you, but he does come up beside you, slowing you down so you both walk at a pace that matches each other. Minutes pass, as you walk through town, veering towards its outskirts. Ten minutes. Twenty, until you’re in an area with low foot traffic. Surrounded by evergreen trees, and decayed brown grass.

He squeezes your hand. “Can we please talk?”

You stop but remain silent, thoughts racing over one another and rendering you effectively mute.

“Could you tell me what’s wrong?”

You drop his hand and turn to face him head-on. He watches you; careful and cautious and concerned.

“My answer can’t be yes.”

It doesn’t take Seokjin long to catch onto your meaning. His eyes settle, soft in all the worst ways, his shoulders hunching forward infinitesimally. “I see.”

You choke down the ball in your throat, fists clenched at your side. You don’t want to make Seokjin sad, for Christ’s sake. You never wanted this responsibility on your shoulders. Not the responsibility of caring for Dasom. Not the responsibility of not hurting Seokjin.

You want to hole yourself in your castle and forget about the world and other people altogether. It’s…

It’s unfair. It’s all so fucking unfair.

“I like you, Mr. Kim,” you say. “Not just as a friend.”

“But…?”

Your eyes lift to his.

“The but was implied. I’d like to hear it,” Seokjin says, his once-amiable tone tight. Not disparaging, or rude, or angry, but something concealed in the barely there tremble of his words.

You look down at your boots. “Logically, I know I’m not an inhuman monster. But even the most rational of beings would find it hard to undo such life-long thinking. My father despised me. My own mother told me she just couldn’t force herself to love an odd kid like me. The townsfolk either ignored me or openly derided me. I know I’m not a monster, but…” You lower your head, allowing your hair to conceal your face. “I felt like one. The only thing I could do to keep my sanity was keep my head high. I was never cheery, or friendly even without all this hatred directed at me, but I never wanted to be hated. No one wants to be universally hated. But I decided that if the world was going to hate me, I was going to hate it back.”

“Y/N…”

You clutch your arm tight to your side for comfort. “I don’t want to entirely blame others. I certainly had my own hand in making myself hated, and I know that I had a choice. Unlike you, I made the wrong one. I steeped myself in this hatred. You clawed your way out of its depths, and I dug the hole deeper.”

You look up to face Seokjin to find him wordless, eyes glistening with tears.

It only turns your stomach. You don’t want anyone to cry for you, let alone Seokjin.

“I’m not a good person,” you continue, inflection drifting in and out as you try to keep yourself composed. “Not a monster, but close enough. But even if I allowed myself to fantasize about being good, about being good enough for a man like you…” You close your eyes, fingernails digging crescent marks into the fleshy part of your palm. “I’m afraid of fucking up. Of hurting you. Rationally and irrationally, these little voices in the back of my mind will always remind me that you deserve better.” You open your eyes, feeling a tear sliding down your cheek.

It stuns you.

When was the last time you cried?

Years, and years, and years ago.

“I’m selfish,” you say, wispy. “I wish you had never asked me to give you an answer. I could have lived the rest of my life the way we were, and I would have done it happily. But what you want — what you need. I can’t give you that. And I know I will forever regret this on my end, because losing you will cut deep. But I care about you too much to lead you on. So… My answer can’t be yes.”

You take in a deep, shaky breath as you watch Seokjin: the tick to his jaw, his averted gaze. Anger hides in the lines of his face, but there’s also a telling despondence. And you hate it.

“All right,” he says, tone clipped. “I understand. I asked my question, you gave your answer, and I won’t press you about it.”

Silence hangs.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” you murmur.

Seokjin swallows, before his cold eyes look to you. “You already have.”

Another tear falls, and you reach up to rub it away. “Well… Okay, then,” you say, on the verge of a breakdown. The kind of breakdown you haven’t had since you were seven years old, freshly abandoned. “I guess… Where do we go from here?”

“From here?”

“I don’t know,” you say, choking on a sob. “Usually in the books, when this kind of scene happens, one of them storms away. Is it supposed to be me or you? I don’t have a script for this.”

A beat of silence passes.

And then you feel arms wrap around you — ensconcing you in their familiar warmth, Seokjin’s familiar scent, and you easily, on impulse, rest your head on his shirt as he holds you tight to his chest. You grab his sweater with your hands, making fists, and one of his hands rests on the small of your back, the other on the nape of your neck, perfectly firm and not one bit suffocating.

“Don’t you dare run from me,” he whispers into your ear. “Please. Neither of us needs to storm away.”

“Okay,” you say, hollow.

His hold on you tightens, and you dig your head into the comfort of his neck.

“You’re breaking my heart, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry,” you warble.

“I meant it’s breaking for you.”

You only press in tighter to Seokjin, like he’s a lifeline. Selfishly, you don’t want him to let go.

Even if you know you made the rational and the right choice… Why does it feel so wrong?

If you’re oil and Seokjin’s water, then why does it feel so right in his arms?

For a few doleful, precious moments — he doesn’t let go, you clinging to him like a frightened child.

In a way, you think you are one.

Then he releases you, slowly, and gives you warmed eyes. “I’m not storming away, but I need some time. To process. To…” He swallows, but doesn’t finish his sentence. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Would you like me to walk you home?”

“No,” you say, voice cracking and wispy. “I need some time, too.”

Seokjin nods, seeming more ready to accept that than he normally would be. “All right. Then… You have a good night, Y/N.”

And then he turns, broad shoulders fallen, pace slow as he walks away, leaving you, alone.

As soon as he’s out of eyesight, you stand still, numb, a statue in the chill, and you wish that you were better.

If you were better, you wouldn’t be losing now.

December is now familiar in its dreariness.

The days have been getting colder, more appropriate for winter, and with the clouds spanning the width of the entire horizon visible through your wall-to-wall office windows, you’re sure the townsfolk are hopeful for the first snow of the season.

It’s Christmas Eve, and as the sun drifts towards setting, you find yourself staring blankly at your writing for the fourth day in a row.

One day of writer’s block is rare enough that you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve experienced it. Four days in a row is so astronomically novel that it would be laughable, if it weren’t for this pit of despair that’s seeded itself into the lining of your intestines, making your stare blank and writing abilities useless.

It’s this peculiar, particular kind of poison. The kind of poison that doesn’t come on the tip of a blade, or in a silver-rimmed chalice. A poison you’ve never had before. The kind of poison people have written about for centuries, a poison that eats at you and erodes you:

Heartbreak.

With a sigh, you shut your journal and toss it onto your desk. The motion reveals, under a stack of ripped out papers you’d merely scribbled fruitlessly all over, a photograph.

The one Seokjin had taken of the two of you. Where you’re smiling and Seokjin — he stares at you like you’d strung up the stars.

Carefully, you back away from your desk before you’re inundated with emotion again. Leaving your suffocating office behind, you go into the kitchen. You make blank-minded work of a quick dinner, unable to muster up anything fancy what with your dull mental state.

Honestly, you’re not sure you’d even have it in you to eat if it weren’t for Dasom.

The past four days have been this on repeat. A circular unending mess of wallowing in self-pity, numbness, and writer’s block.

After dinner’s made — simple heated canned soup and bread with butter — you wash your hands, set the table for the both of you, and call for Dasom.

She doesn’t answer.

Furrowing your brows, you walk to the bottom of the stairs and call her name again. Her door’s open, and you don’t hear a stereo playing, so she should be able to hear you. Still, no answer, so you walk up the stairs and peek into her room. She’s not here.

Okay, maybe one of the bathrooms then. Except, as you walk down the hallway, you realize that Dasom is in none of them.

Frantic, your heart picks up its pace in the beginnings of panic. You call Dasom’s name, over and over. You open every door to every room and search for the small girl, but find no trace of her.

She’s just… Not here.

Oh no. Oh no.

You race back down the stairs and immediately pick up your kitchen phone.

You almost dial Seokjin’s number.

Thankfully, you tap that irrational impulse down. For many reasons. You two haven’t spoken since Friday night, and also — he’s likely at Namjoon’s Christmas party. The same one you’re tactlessly avoiding.

No — you call who you know you can count on.

“Hello?”

“Dasom’s not here,” you say, level despite the storm of anxiety brewing inside of you.

“Okay?”

“Yoongi. I mean that she isn’t here, and I can’t find her.”

“Oh.” Yoongi’s voice picks up an octave. “Shit, okay. I’ll be right there.”

Without another word (and you know Yoongi understands), you hang up, and race over to the front door, sliding into your boots and grabbing your coat from the coat closet before running out the door.

Darting down your patio stairs and over your cobblestone pathway, you cup your palms over your mouth and belt, “Dasom! Cho Dasom!”

No response.

Shit. Where in the hell could she be?

You realize…

Losing Dasom terrifies you. She may have came into your life and tore everything asunder, pulled you forcibly from solitude and forced you to change, and a month ago you may have regretted her barging in to your previously peaceful life, but…

You can no longer imagine life without Dasom.

Fear abates every other feeling you’ve steeped yourself in the past few days, and now your only goal is finding her.

But then it hits you.

Hope threading through your veins, you keep running, down over the hill.

You stop when you see her, relief flooding every vein and artery and orifice in your body. She’s but a dot in the distance, but she’s there. Safe. There she is, back to you, staring down at the view of the entire town down below. With the waning sunlight, the Christmas lights are beginning to make a stark backdrop to the darkening sky.

“Dasom!” you yell, trying to still your beating heart, jogging down the steep hill to come closer to her.

Thank fucking God she’s all right.

“What are you doing out here? You should have told me you were leaving. You scared me.”

Dasom doesn’t respond, shoulders hunched, head low; back racked with movement.

She’s crying.

Stunned, you find your gut twisting uncomfortably.

“You don’t like to see me cry,” Dasom says, her voice wobbly. “So I came here so you wouldn’t hear.”

That confession thwarts your movement like a well-placed bag of bricks to the chest.

This whole time, you thought Dasom was doing exceptionally well. Getting better. But now you see yourself for what you are — a complete, emotionally stunted, self-involved idiot. Of course she’s still hurting. She’s lost everyone she ever knew and loved and was yoked to your little town and stuck with you. You, who can hardly take care of a child, let alone a grieving one.

You walk carefully forward, until you’re standing beside her, and you fall to a squat so you’re at nearly equal height. You stare out at the sparkling town and not Dasom as you say, “You can cry around me, Dasom.”

Dasom’s beady eyes fall on you, and she sniffles. “But—”

“I wasn’t built to be a parent,” you say, small. “I don’t have the emotional tools. I’m learning, but… It’s not like I had very good role models to emulate.”

She ducks her chin into the collar of her coat. “Yeah,” she says. “Grandpa was a dick.”

You’re taken aback, too emotionally dulled to find the humor in that. “Dasom… I don’t think you should be talking like that.”

“Dad always said we should call a spade a spade. That’s how he described Grandpa.”

“Was your Grandpa nice to you, at least?” You turn your head to the side to survey her, curious about her answer.

Dasom slowly nods, eyes wan and watery.

You hate yourself for the sprout of jealousy that bursts in your gut. It’s unfair to be jealous of Dasom, of her receiving something you never had — your father’s love. But still. Unfair as it is, you still feel envious.

“It’s okay to be mad,” Dasom says, somehow fortuitously. At your alarmed look — how is she able to read minds ? — she explains, “When I found your books on dad’s bookshelf, I asked about them. Dad didn’t really like reading. He preferred to do stuff with his hands. So I was curious about the books he did have.”

Taken aback, you shift on your feet, looking away from Dasom.

Your brother. She’s talking about your brother.

“He told me about you then,” she says. “And about how Grandpa left because you weren’t a boy. Dad was told about you when he turned 18, and so he researched you.”

“Researched me,” you echo.

“He wanted to reach out to you,” Dasom says, her tone wobbly and sad. “He showed me all the letters he’d written you. But he didn’t think you’d want to hear from him. He told me he was scared of how you’d react if you found out about his existence. So he never ended up sending any of them. He called himself a coward.”

A coward.

“Guess cowardice runs in the family,” you say flatly.

Then again, how would you have reacted? You would probably have thrown the letters out, or told him to cease and desist.

But—you tilt your head, piecing this information together. “Do you know how old your dad was when he died?”

Dasom’s eyes flutter. “26.”

The timeline doesn’t suit. Your dad left when you were seven. If Dasom’s dad — Daehyun — is only four years your junior… Then your dad was a piece of shit in an additional way. A cheater.

You release a hollow, empty laugh. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

You wonder if your mother knew.

It’s then you realize what the hell you’re doing; being selfish, self-involved, only caring about your own wounds while Dasom’s hurting.

You look to her, serious. “Dasom. My past with my own parents is no excuse for my behavior towards you. I made the choice to adopt you, and from now on, I am also going to make the continuous choice to be better. I’ll — I don’t know, pick up parenting books, ask for help, reach out to Mr. Jung, get us both enrolled in some therapy…”

“And we can talk about dad?” Dasom’s tone is small, hopeful yet…

Your eyes widen. “Do you want to talk about your dad?”

She nods. “I want to show you his letters.”

You muster up a weak smile. “And I’ll be happy to read them. Why don’t we go home, eat dinner, and then we can read them together?”

Dasom’s eyes light up. “You mean it?”

You nod, knuckling her cheek. “I mean it, Dasom. I’m going to start putting you first.”

The girl smiles softly.

“There you are, Y/N, Dasom. Fucking Christ, you had me worried sick.”

You and Dasom turn around to find Yoongi stumbling down the hill, thumb jammed in the ring of his car keys, relief adorned in his expression.

“Yup. Found her,” you say, rising to your feet to greet him. “I appreciate you coming to help. You can head back—”

“Not so fast,” Yoongi says, slightly breathless as he rounds his way down before you and Dasom. “What are you doing here?”

You arch a querulous brow. “I thought Dasom and I would have a picnic,” you deadpan.

“No. What are you doing here?” He says it so pointedly, disappointment wrapping around the question.

It hits you, then, what he means. “Well, I’m not going to be at Namjoon’s Christmas party, that’s for damn sure.”

Yoongi purses his lips. “And why not?”

“Because Mr. Kim—”

“Okay, first of all,” Yoongi says, cutting you off. “I’m tired of this whole runaround you’re doing. One, it’s not fair to Dasom to make her stay home just because things aren’t peachy with Seokjin.”

Your eyes widen, and you stare down at Dasom in surprise. She doesn’t meet your eye. You hadn’t even considered that — that it’s selfish to make Dasom spend her Christmas Eve by herself. She may be introverted, but she isn’t you.

“And two, you’re being a big, fat idiot.”

Your gaze flickers to Yoongi. “Is that anything new?”

He sighs. “Let me guess. Seokjin told you he had feelings for you, and you, being you, ran away.”

Dasom seems to perk up at that, and she turns to watch you intently.

“Well…” You furrow your brows. “I didn’t exactly run away. I turned him down, and he was understanding but asked for space. I’m giving him space.”

Yoongi tosses his head back in exasperation. “Oh my God,” he says, flatly. “You’re the World’s Biggest Idiot.”

“Have a medal made for me,” you retort, but it tapers off, because —

Well, yeah. You’re an idiot. An idiot and a coward.

“You’re deflecting,” he says. “Why don’t you boss up and go tell him how you feel?”

“The long-term implications of dating just don’t—”

“No one’s saying you have to marry the guy, Jesus,” Yoongi interrupts, piercing eyes dark.

“I am,” says Dasom.

“No rational adult is saying you have to marry him,” Yoongi smoothly corrects. “Why can’t you just try?”

“What if I fuck up? What if I hurt him?” you try, eyes searching Yoongi wildly.

“Right. That’d suck ass. But what if you didn’t?”

And there it is — this feeling, swelling to a crescendo inside you, lifting you up and setting you alight.

Hope.

“Everyone has to play the numbers game in relationships,” Yoongi says. “We all have to weigh the odds and try to best them. It’s not just you, Y/N. That’s just the nature of love.”

You swallow, straightening, feeling on edge, like a dove about to take flight towards warmer weather. But you look at Dasom and resign yourself — you have other, more important matters first. “Well. When the kids go back from break, I’ll talk to him.”

“Go now, you big idiot.” Yoongi pins you with a disbelieving stare. “Do you really want to make you both wait?”

“I promised Dasom that we’d do something,” you say. “I can wait.”

Dasom gives you a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. We can look at dad’s letters later.”

You look between Yoongi and Dasom, feeling unsure and cemented and watery all at once.

“C’mon,” Yoongi says, holding up the keys to his car. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but we’ve got a Christmas party to get to. Willingly.”

“The horror,” you toss, but it doesn’t come off so much wry as it does afraid and trembling. You turn to Dasom. “You’re positive? I just told you I want to put you first.”

Dasom gives you a thumbs up. “I like Mr. Kim. So if you marry him, then it’s good for me, too.”

You give a disbelieving snort. This kid is a little shit when she wants to be. “Okay. Fine.” You exhale, feeling jittery and out of sorts. “I’ll promise to try. But I can’t promise that Mr. Kim will like what I have to say, or be willing to give me another chance.”

“Only one way to find out,” says Yoongi with a shrug, heading towards his car.

Yeah. Only one way to find out.

——

You fight the odd urge to jump out of the car as soon as Yoongi puts it into park on Namjoon’s car-packed street.

Instead, you turn to face him, and swallow in nervousness. “Thank you, Yoongi. For helping me. I don’t know how I can ever pay you back.”

Yoongi only smiles, a gummy one. “Maybe by going to therapy?”

The soft moment effectively broken, you snort, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Yeah yeah. I’m calling after the holidays.” You put your hand on the car’s door handle, but Yoongi grabs your wrist to stop you.

You turn to find his eyes dark and serious. “I’ll keep an eye on Dasom so you can do your thing. Good luck, Y/N.”

You give Yoongi a small, unsure smile. His support means the world — and you’re just now realizing he’s always been giving support to you.

It’s about damn time you start giving back.

Later. Right now, you need to get to Seokjin.

“Good luck, Auntie!” Dasom crows from the backseat.

You step out of the car, the nippy winter wind lashing at your senses — almost beating sense into you. You resist the urge to re-open Yoongi’s car door and step back inside and demand he take you back home.

You can’t retreat into isolation.

You can’t be a coward.

Not anymore.

With bravery that’s more faux and imagined than real, you walk up the street to find Namjoon’s pathway, up to the front door and — you ring the doorbell and wait.

It’s not Namjoon who opens the door, but Jeon Jungkook. He beams when he sees you — dimples indented into his cheeks, eyes wide and sparkling. “Y/N!” he says, overtly cheery, reaching over the threshold to give you a one-armed hug. You stiffen, uncomfortable with the touch, but allow it. “I’m glad you came. We were starting to think you wouldn’t.”

“Ah, well.” You shift, swallowing. “I’m here now.”

“Yeah. Come in, come in,” Jungkook says, ushering you inside. Then he looks behind you, pupils widening in delight. “Dasom! You’re here, too.”

Before you can be diverted from your directive with more useless greetings and social niceties, you skirt your way around Jungkook, eyes scanning the living room for Seokjin.

He isn’t here. At least, not that you can see through the crowd of people. If he were here, he’d be easily pinpointed, after all. Those ridiculously broad shoulders aren’t exactly easily hidden.

Internally deflating, you take a calm, uninterrupted moment to gather your bearings as you block out Yoongi, Dasom and Jungkook conversing behind you. Steadying yourself, you mentally prepare to make your way through the crowd and search for Seokjin.

You’re going to ignore how crowded it is here. How it smells like too many colognes and too many sweets mixed together, how it feels as though the walls are closing in around you.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

You can do this. You’ve been doing it — for Dasom. For Seokjin.

So you take a step forward. And another.

A female voice calls your name through the crowd — Nari, sans infant, as she grabs you by the wrist to grab your attention, giving it a friendly squeeze, a red solo cup of alcohol in hand. “Merry Christmas! I can’t believe you showed.”

Are you going to have to bear this conversation a dozen times? You keep your eyes on the crowd — you have an objective set in mind, and refuse to let anyone deter you. “I’m looking for Mr. Kim,” you tell her. “Have you seen him?”

“Mr. Kim? You mean Seokjin?” Her smile grows. “Matter of fact, he was in the kitchen getting some cocoa for Taehyung just a minute ago.”

“Thank you,” you say, moving to leave.

Nari’s grip tightens. You turn to see her giving you fierce eyes, the former amiability gone. “I don’t know what you plan on saying to him, but if it isn’t anything kind, I ask that you wait until after the holidays and do it in private. Seokjin’s already hurt enough. You don’t need to add public humiliation on top of it.”

Your eyes widen as you stare at her. “Wh — You know? He told you?”

She releases your arm, a sly look in the curvature of her gaze. “Well, I had my suspicions, but you just confirmed them. Seokjin hasn’t been himself lately, and you’ve been suspiciously absent, so I figured there had to be a correlation there.”

You look down at your boots, feeling so very ashamed and like you immediately want to turn on your heel and take flight. Then you look up and meet her eye. “I want to make amends, not hurt him. I—”

She lifts a hand, palm facing outward to stop you. “That’s all I need to hear. The rest is your and Seokjin’s business. Good luck.”

Then she releases your wrist and steps away. You shake your head, shaking off this unsurety that lines the width of your shoulders, weighs you down.

You move forward, weaving through the crowd, eyes peeled. You step through the doorframe and into Namjoon’s ridiculously large kitchen. You’ve actually never been in Namjoon’s house, despite knowing him since you were toddlers. It feels weird to be an invited guest in the house of your childhood rival.

“Nice of you to show.”

You blow out a sigh and turn to find Sofia by the special juice stand, the strong lines of her face carefully blank, not giving anything away. “I know, I know. You were expecting me not to show, don’t hurt him. Got it.”

“What?” The older woman lifts a brow, takes a sip of her drink. “I did expect you to show, actually.”

What? “You did?”

“Seokjin doesn’t bring casual acquaintances through the back door,” she says — a repeat of what she told you back when you’d met. “But, according to your reputation, you don’t allow yourself to be led through back doors by just anyone.” She grins — a tight one, all teeth. “I knew you’d come. If you weren’t stupid, anyway. Which I don’t think you are.”

You blink, more than taken aback. “Thank you?”

“He was just in the dining room a few minutes ago, cutting off a slice of cake for Tae.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Um, really, thank you. Your help means a lot.”

She shrugs. “You can thank me by coming to the restaurant more often. Bring Dasom, too.”

You nod, finding that arrangement agreeable enough, and Sofia gestures you on, so you soldier forward in your quest. Your objective. Your goal.

Stepping into the dining room, you quickly realize that Seokjin isn’t here either. But you immediately catch Namjoon’s eye, who pins you with a stare that freezes you in place as he maneuvers through the townsfolk seeking to pile their plates high with dessert.

“Namjoon,” you say, levelly. “Have you seen Mr. K— your cousin?”

Namjoon’s stern eyes are penetrating as he crowds around your space. “I have. But I’m not sure I should let you.”

“That’s completely fair,” you say, despite the raising of your hackles. “I’m aware I hurt him. But don’t you think it should be his say as to whether he’ll see me?”

“Jin’s way too damn nice,” Namjoon answers smoothly, taking a sip of the wine from his flute. “I’ve always had to protect him from people like you.”

“Oh, come on. He’s nice, but he isn’t helpless. He’s certainly not an idiot.”

Namjoon only raises a judging brow.

You sigh. “Look, Namjoon, I want to talk to him. To apologize.”

He crosses his arms, his biceps unfairly bulging in his sweater. “Really?”

“Are you going to make me debase myself in order to acquire his location?”

Namjoon tilts his head to the side, as if considering whether he would really make you do such a thing.

“Namjoon.”

“Fine. But—” He lifts a finger and points at you — as if attempting to evoke some sense of menace, to scare some sense into you. “I swear to God, if you hurt him—”

“You’ll kick my ass. Got it.”

“If only that were socially acceptable,” he says. Then he gestures with his head toward the back door. “He’s outside, by the pool. Said he needed some fresh air.”

“The pool?” You raise a disbelieving brow. “You own a pool?”

“Do you really want to make fun of me for owning a pool, or do you want to talk to Seokjin?”

Oh. Yeah. “Right. I’ll make fun of you later.”

“Always promising.”

You shoulder past him, belatedly realizing that there were several pairs of eyes on you and Namjoon during your brief exchange, and now those pairs of eyes are following you out the back door.

You open the door and immediately pinpoint Seokjin and his wind-whipped dark hair and tellingly broad back, draped in a wool tartan coat. Seated on the edge of on of Namjoon’s pool tables, his back to you as he stares at the pool, unmoving.

The dark, heavy clouds overhead obscure the sunlight forebodingly, but you could not care less about the impending sleet.

Right now, all you care about is Seokjin.

Despite the blocks of concrete that encase your feet and weigh you down, make your steps sluggish and unsure, with each careful step toward him, they become less heavy — transitioning into ice, and when the ice melts, it feels like there are burning coals beneath your feet urging you doggedly forward, determination thrumming in your veins.

Suddenly there is no other objective in the world than reaching Seokjin, and you can’t do it quickly enough.

You reach him, restless and afraid.

“Mr. Kim,” you say, only loud enough for him to hear.

A quick glance behind you tells you what you already knew; you have voyeurs. Nosy townsfolk, curiously standing at Namjoon’s sliding glass patio doors and watching you and Seokjin both.

Seokjin doesn’t respond, doesn’t even give you the dignity of turning around to face you, but you can tell by the tense tightening of his shoulders that he did hear you.

“Seokjin,” you whisper, wobbly, digging your fingers into your palm.

His name feels odd and malformed in your mouth, like it’s a privilege you haven’t earned the right to say, but…

That’s what manages to grab his full attention.

He turns to look at you, and you — oh, you don’t like this feeling that settles in the lining of your marrow, this despondence that weighs you down at the sight of him. Telling purple rings line the underside of his chestnut eyes, his lengthy, dark eyelashes fluttering against them like a bird’s wings beating off oily rain. Every other part of him is just as polished and put-together as always; crisp, wrinkle-free clothes and gelled back hair, but the great poets have always claimed the eyes to be a window to the soul, and you feel like you’ve just peeped past the blinds to reveal the darkness inside the dollhouse.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, fixating you with a resigned look.

Suddenly, everything in the world falls away — even the words that you’d been formulating inside. You lose all sense of time and place and sense and all you want is to cross the distance and throw yourself into Seokjin’s arms.

You can’t do that.

“I came,” you say stupidly, voice small.

Seokjin nods, looks away. “I see that,” he says, almost sounding disinterested.

You realize you’re clenching your fingers against your palm so tightly it’s painful. With great effort, you try to relax your fingers, your muscles, yourself.

“You were right,” you say, your voice a distant song. “I am a coward.”

Seokjin seems to be taken aback at that, sitting up straighter, eyes widening. “I never called you a coward.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say. “You were close enough, anyway. You were right. I am scared. Scared of other people. Scared of putting myself out there just to be rejected. I’m scared of living. So I retreat, because I’d rather live and die alone than risk being hurt. I protect myself. In putting up my walls, in erecting this tower, I’ve succeeded in protecting myself — but I also succeeded in shutting everyone else out.”

You’re suddenly keenly aware of all the people behind you, their eyes boring into your back. It’s pin-drop quiet, dark and foreboding. But you ignore everyone else. All that matters right now is Seokjin.

“And you…” You say, voice softening, sorrow crawling up your throat. “You’re the greatest man I’ve ever met. The greatest person I’ve ever met for that matter. You’re kind, and intelligent, and funny, and talking to you comes so easy. Being with you comes so easy. You’re so attentive, and genuine, and you allow me my space while still pulling me towards better. But when I’m with you, I’m so afraid. Afraid of these feelings I’ve never felt or understood overwhelming me, afraid of how you’d react if you knew. Afraid of losing you, your friendship, over this pesky thing. Afraid of hurting you.”

Seokjin’s eyes widen, and his lack of negativity or disgust at your confession gives you the courage to keep going.

“Because I hate myself,” you whisper — the first time you’ve ever admitted such a thing out loud. “And when you hate yourself, it’s hard to accept that someone else wouldn’t. I still don’t understand what it is you see in me, why it is you would even consider being with me. I don’t see myself as being good for you in any capacity. You’re… You’re good for me. You helped me and Dasom. You make me a better person. But I still wonder — could I ever be good enough for you?”

“Y/N…” Seokjin murmurs, eyes glistening.

You look down at your boots, noting the sparse cold sprinkles of rain that come down from above and begin to dampen your hair and hands and clothes.

“I don’t want to be a reclusive coward anymore,” you say. “I want to continue to be better. To stop shutting the world out. I want to learn how to be a better guardian for Dasom, I want to learn how to be a better friend, I want to attend therapy and become a better person. I want to live. And…” You look up to meet his buttery brown eyes, resisting the urge to sink into their closed-off depths. “I want you, Seokjin. The good, the bad, the difficult parts. I want to try. I want to try to be good for you. A good friend and a good girlfriend. Because I really, really like you. So…” You swallow, trying not to cry. “If your offer is still valid, I’d like to… I don’t know… Take a stab at it?” You laugh, wry, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “God, that was such a stupid way to put it. So much for being a world-renowned author, huh, if I can’t even confess correctly?”

Seokjin sits, unmoving and still, expression guarded.

You almost want to rescind every stupid thing you had just said, feeling your skin crawl in shame.

Well. You did it. You gathered the courage to make a move, and you were (rightfully) rejected. You have to learn to accept rejection.

You swallow, stepping back a step. “Right. That’s all then. I’ll let you get back to…” You look at him, solitary and alone in the rain. “… Your party.”

Desolation settles in the wiring of your bones, a feeling you’re not sure you’ll be able to shake for quite a while.

“Wait.”

You stop in your tracks, heart racing as Seokjin rises to his feet to face you. He comes one step closer. “You really mean all that?”

With zero reluctance, you nod. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

And that’s when everything changes; your world growing several shades brighter to the tune of Seokjin’s budding, pretty smile. “Well, then… I see no reason we can’t… How was it you put it? ‘Take a stab at it’?”

You groan, laughing softly despite yourself — but you’re not the only one. You hear a wave of laughter pass through the crowd behind you. You’d almost forgotten they were there to bear witness.

And then it hits you what Seokjin had just said. He’d said it so casually, in his typically amused tone, that you’d almost breezed right past his agreement to your proposition.

“Wh—What?” you squeak out. “Just like that? Weren’t you just pissed two seconds ago?”

Seokjin’s grin grows, but his eyes tell all: despite his easy going nature, he was hurt. “I was never pissed at you, Y/N. But that doesn’t really matter now, does it? Why would I waste even more time not being yours? Haven’t we waited long enough?”

Your cheeks redden, eyes widening comically. “I—Mine?”

“Yay!!! You can kiss now!”

You turn to the side to find quite the sight: Taehyung, bundled in a coat, standing on Namjoon’s poolside table and dangling a stick with mistletoe attached at the end over you and Seokjin.

Dasom stands behind him, feet planted on the ground, watching the two of you. The townsfolk watch along with her with quiet, vested interest. You think about telling them to grab some popcorn since they want to make a show of this, but words don’t come.

Kiss?

You and Seokjin?

Now?

You’re normally forward-thinking, fortuitous, planned and chess-like, but somehow, in all your anxieties and worries and plans you’d seemed to miss this as a possibility.

Kissing Kim Seokjin.

Seokjin eyes you, his dimple indented into his right cheek as he gives you a soft, understanding smile. “While I’d love that, I understand this isn’t your scene.” He turns to ruffle Taehyung’s hair. “You got that, Tae? Let’s leave Ms. Y/N al—”

“I want to,” you say, firm and loud; voice ringing throughout Namjoon’s backyard.

Seokjin’s eyes dart to you in sheer surprise. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to kiss me just because of some mistletoe.”

You eye the mistletoe that Taehyung hangs determinedly over his father, watch the boy’s eager, anticipatory grin. Sure, mistletoe has never meant to you what it means to other people. But…

“The mistletoe isn’t an obligation, Mr. Kim,” you say. “It’s an excuse.”

It’s slow; a sprouting flower of a thing, the way Seokjin beams at that — bright, dazzlingly and spectacularly beautiful.

You step forward, bridging the gap between you and Seokjin, and grab his sweater between your grasp, tugging him closer. He laughs at your eagerness, dark eyes fixed on you, pretty, pink lips open in breathlessness. You smile. You really are an idiot — how could you have ever thought Seokjin didn’t want you? He’s as whipped as you are.

“I want you to be mine,” you admit, softly, staring directly into his eyes. “And I want you to make me yours. So maybe stop playing coy and kiss me?”

Seokjin laughs, tipping forward, so his lips are but a centimeter from yours. So, so close. “I can definitely do that.”

And then his lips find yours.

His bright, sunny and full world crashes into your solitary, dark one, shedding light on it, on you. His kiss sends pleasured sensations like lightning up the length of your spine, catching them with his warm, long fingers that cup the nape of your neck, transferring them with his thumb to the line of your jaw. You press closer, grabbing onto his sweater for dear life, afraid to lose this explosion of pleasure, this happiness that dots across your dermis in blooms of joy. You inhale him, every bit of him, wanting more, more, more—

It’s a mind-blowing, world-upturning kiss.

Huh. So they do exist.

(And now you can’t wait for Seokjin to show you what else exists that you’ve spent your life thinking was solely fictional.)

Seokjin pulls back, kisses presses his lips teasingly to your jaw before whispering into your ear on a breath of laughter, slightly chastising, “We shouldn’t kiss like this. Not when we have voyeurs.”

Grinning, you whisper back, “Who gives a shit?”

He laughs, unbounded, and dips forward to kiss you again.

“Dad! Dad! It’s snowing!”

At Taehyung’s eager piece of information, you and Seokjin break apart to look up to find that, indeed — It’s no longer raining. Snowflakes slowly cascade down, resting in Seokjin’s dampened hair and brushing against his long eyelashes.

Your eyes find Dasom to find her with her head tilted back in wonder as she stares up at the sky.

“You don’t like snow,” says Seokjin. “Should we go inside?”

Silently, you watch the way Dasom and Taehyung stare in wonder at the snow, and the townsfolk slowly leave Namjoon’s house to come out and enjoy the first snow of the year kissing their skin. There’s Jungkook and his doe eyes, wide in childlike excitement, Namjoon and his pensive expression, a woman on his arm and a kid in another. Mrs. Han and her son, Jimin walk out, too, Jimin’s arm looped through his mother’s, the two chatting. Sofia and Mateo even come out to enjoy the snow, the woman giving you a proud look. And Yoongi and the person who must be his elusive partner, hugging each other tight. Yoongi winks at you when he catches your eye.

“You know,” you say, smiling. “… I think it’s maybe not so bad.”

Seokjin presses his forehead to yours, letting out a light laugh. “You’re not so bad, either, Y/N.”

You smile, but you don’t think that needs a verbal response, so you press forward to give him a soft kiss.

Then you pull back, brows furrowed. “Wait — The logistics. We need to figure out what to do about—”

“Hey, hey,” he says, calmingly, rubbing your arm with his free hand, thumbing your cheek. “We can figure it all out later. There are only two plans we really need to make right at this moment.”

“Yeah? And those are?”

“Well, I would like to be able to kiss you on Christmas and New Year’s too. Think you could get me scheduled for that?”

 That makes your smile only widen considerably. “I’m sure I could find time to pencil you in.”

Then Seokjin’s mouth is back on yours, as desperately contained as possible.

And you agree. There’s time for logistics and contingency planning later.

Right now, you’re going to kiss Seokjin, and look forward to the future, as you always have, but this time, there’s a major difference:

This is the first time in your life you’re looking forward to tomorrow.

thanks for reading i love jin bye <3

#seokjin x reader #seokjin x oc #jin x oc #jin x reader #jin fluff #jin angst #seokjin fanfic #bts fic #bts fanfic #ksj #seokjin #2mis #misanthropy and mistletoe

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