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effortandmore · 1 year

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worth all your while (ch.1) | knj x reader

summary: you know kim namjoon from your work, but running into him outside of seoul tips your relationship into new territory and your world upside down. eventually, you wonder how there can be a million ways to say "i love you," and namjoon, a literal genius, can't manage a single one when it comes to you. or: 5 times namjoon can't make himself say "i love you" but thinks you understand him anyway (you do not), and then the one time he gets it right

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: smut, fluff, light angst, au: famous, but not an idol

warnings: smut, swearing, alcohol, here are the specific smut tags for this chapter: kissing, penetrative sex, fingering, spanking, sex in an airport bathroom (do not recommend, fwiw)

word count: ~5.5k

a/n: idk what to say! i needed to write a fic for yoongi's birthday, but i can't for some reason, so i'm writing this. i hope you enjoy 💜 i'll update chapters probably weekly, maybe bi-weekly, isn't it fun when some things in life are mysteries? the title is from "static" by steve lacy - i love him. thank you as always to the cabal: @ugh-yoongi, @hot-soop, and @the-boy-meets-evil for putting your eyes on this for me. love you all. this is posted to ao3 here if you like to read fics there.

next chapter

Unpopular opinion: airports are magical places.

You didn’t always think that, but you’ve changed. Opinion swayed. All it took was one delay on a layover in London for you to start singing a different tune.

Seoul to anywhere feels like a long flight lately. You love it there, but getting out, back to where you’re from, takes literal days. The short break at Heathrow is welcome, a chance to move around a little before you get on another almost ten hour flight. It seems like a nothing thing, to wander through the concourses and shops after you’ve made it through the customs check. Each time you’re here is the same as the last. Until it’s not. You’ve done it a hundred times: sniff different scents at Jo Malone, look for a bag you shouldn’t spend the money on at Louis Vuitton, talk yourself out of buying duty-free scotch because you know you’d never drink it in front of your mother anyway… Maybe on the way home, you think (but you never do).

“Excuse me.” You’re staring at the Balvenie you can’t really afford, thoughts drifting, when someone startles you.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side.

There’s a man there, right there. He’s stepped up close so that your arms are practically touching. He’s tall, with dark hair under a beanie, an expensive jacket that’s made to look like it isn’t, and his face hidden under a mask that isn’t required here. There’s something about him, even though you can only see a stripe of his face, that looks familiar. For some reason, neither of you move; he keeps staring at the thousand-pound bottle of scotch, and you keep staring at him.

“You can’t drink it on the plane, you know?” You say it more than you ask it, and of course he knows. Everyone knows. But you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a little and you think he’s smiling under the mask. He finally turns to look at you.

“Was thinking I’d get it as a gift,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders.

“Nice gift,” you remark.

“Yeah…” he replies, turning his attention back to the bottle. “It’s pretentious, isn’t it?”

And at that, you smile. “Maybe a little. Depends on who it’s for.”

“No one special.”

“It’s none of my business,” you say, “but I wouldn’t buy ‘no one special’ a hundred-pound bottle of scotch, let alone a thousand-pound bottle.”

The man laughs, and you notice another guy walk up, right next to him. He’s bigger, older, and way too serious looking for your taste. They seem to have a silent conversation and then the would-be whisky buyer turns back to you. “Time for my flight,” he says. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Anytime,” you nod, still smiling even though you can’t tell anymore if he’s smiling back. Can’t hurt to be polite.

After he goes, you realize you aren’t going to buy the scotch, either, and it’s probably about time for your flight, too, so you start the scramble to your gate.

One of the bad things about flying all the time is that you feel like you see more than your fair share of delays. And this trip is no different. When you make it to the gate, you can sense the panic before you even see the notification. There’s a particular brand of hysteria that sets in with people when their flights are delayed, and it’s amplified with inter-continental flights in your experience. All of the things that make airports romantic and interesting are the same things that make people think they can behave any way they want and it won’t matter. It's like upon entering, people think they get carte blanche to be raging assholes to the poor airline counter guy who’s just trying to make sure everyone gets where they’re going and probably only makes enough to barely pay his rent.

So, you know before you’re told that there’s a delay, and you can tell by the level ten panic around you that it’s probably a long one. It’s confirmed when you see the headlines across one of the large televisions at the gate. Big storm off the coast of the Eastern US. All flights are delayed from what you can tell. Yours looks to have a delay of about six hours, but you know from experience it could be more. You’ll just have to wait and see. You’re lucky, you want to get home, but there’s really not a huge rush on your end, so you can wait it out if you need to.

There’s a quiet spot at a gate with no pending flight, near yours and a few of the other gates with international flights scheduled to leave. You hate sitting, knowing you’ve done it for a half a day already and have another long flight (eventually) in front of you, but you don’t know what else to do and at least you have a couple books in your carry on.

Maybe thirty minutes passes of you reading when you look up, just to see how things are settling around you as people start to either (like you) become resigned to the fact that they’re not going anywhere for a while, or let their anger hit a fever pitch with the gate agent.

You see a familiar fancy jacket waiting near the ticket counter, his friend from earlier having an animated chat with a woman who doesn’t seem like she speaks enough Korean to be keeping up. Fancy Coat is watching, looking amused and not chiming in, even though you know firsthand he can speak English perfectly well, and could probably be a help to his travel companion.

Because you’re one of those people who can never do things as subtly as you think you do, you’re caught out—Nice Jacket turns his head and his eyes lock with yours before you can look away; he knows you’re watching. He tilts his head, eyes widening with what you hope is amusement and not terror that you were looking. Slowly, he brings his hand up and waves at you, then gives you a gesture like he wants you to wait for something before he leans in and says something to his friend.

You turn back to your book, embarrassed.

A considerable chunk of whatever willpower you have is used in Not Looking when you hear (and feel) someone plop into the chair next to you.

“Good book?” Nice Jacket asks.

“Mmhmm,” you murmur, trying not to make things any weirder than you’ve already made them by staring. It is, in fact, not a good book. But your colleague wrote it, and he’s the special kind of narcissist that will ask you what you thought of it every day you see him until you provide some sort of satisfactory feedback kissing his ass.

“That guy’s a jackass,” he comments.

And that gets your attention. You turn to him, a little surprised. “You know him?”

Nice Jacket nods, eyebrows raised. “Do you not remember me?” he asks.

“From the duty-free shop?”

He laughs, louder than he means to judging by how he stops himself and looks around self-consciously. “No… I think you’ve interviewed me before…”

Things begin to snap into place rapidly. Because now that he says it, he goes from looking vaguely familiar to being instantly recognizable. You don’t really keep up with him or his music, but you have interviewed him, when your asshole colleague had passed one of his assignments to your desk, assuming you’d “like that kind of thing.”

At the time, you’d tried not to let yourself assume the worst about what he meant, and you did the interview over Zoom with no protest to your coworker or your boss. It wasn’t the kind of thing your magazine usually wrote about, but the article was focused on his art collection, and it gave you a good opportunity to learn something you wouldn’t have in a gossip magazine, and a chance to look good for your boss. The whole thing hadn’t lasted more than eight minutes, professional and easier than most of your interviews. Since then, you’ve been in the same room as him a few times at events you’d covered, exchanged greetings and appreciations on both sides for the article, and obviously, you know who he is.

He’s famous, but not like… idol famous. Stage name RM, he’s a rapper and producer who works with a small collective. You see him in magazines and on TV, his popularity growing over the last few years less for his music and more for his work in art preservation.

“Oh my god…” you say, closing your book and dropping your voice to a whisper. “Kim Namjoon. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Good,” he says with a wink. “That’s the point.” He gestures vaguely to his beanie and his mask and the sunglasses he took off when he sat down next to you.

“How are you?” you ask, because it’s polite, and that’s what you should do, even though you’re not even sure why he’s sitting here speaking to you.

“Alright,” he says, but you notice he seems a little amused.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He raises his hands defensively.

“No, what? Why’s it funny to ask how you’re doing?”

Namjoon doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches you with his head cocked. “I guess no one ever really asks me that,” he says.

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

What’s more ridiculous is that you’re sitting in Heathrow having a conversation with this sort of famous person who you kind of know, but not in a “run into you in the airport and have a casual chat” kind of way. Or maybe it is like that, because that’s exactly what happens.

You talk about how he’s doing (pretty well but tired from traveling and ready to be settled in his hotel). Then you talk about your asshole coworker and his not-very-good book. You laugh at a story he tells you about said coworker, and you feel your face heat up when he says how relieved he was that you interviewed them instead of anyone else from your magazine, and how much he’d liked talking to you that day. He’s bluntly honest with you about his preference for doing interviews with Korean-language publications, which you completely understand. He tells you that he didn’t mind doing an interview for your small English-language one because you at least greeted him in Korean and tried out a couple questions in the language.

“It’s my job to make people feel comfortable,” you say flippantly. It’s true, it is your job, and you talk to a lot of sort-of-famous people and their people, so you know that at the end of the day, they’re just people. You get better results and better interviews when you treat them as such. When you tell Namjoon that, you can see him grinning under his mask, you can tell for sure this time by the way the corners of his eyes pinch.

“That’s a nice way to think of it,” he finally says. “It’s good to be treated like Namjoon and not RM sometimes.”

“Happy to be of service,” you say.

Before you can say more, you’re interrupted by his friend, who you now understand isn’t exactly a friend but a manager or a bodyguard or some combination of both. He explains that it’ll be a few hours, that there aren’t any other flight options, and that he and Namjoon can go make themselves a little more comfortable in the airport lounge. It’s spoken like a suggestion, but the way he side-eyes you as he speaks makes you certain it’s more of a directive. Namjoon nods along until his manager tells him, in hushed Korean, that he can’t just sit out in the open talking to strangers.

“She’s not a stranger,” he says, clearly pleased with himself.

After a brief explanation that you’re an acquaintance (which is how Namjoon puts it and is a little more generous than you would have been), his manager lightens up, and even keeps his mouth shut when Namjoon invites you to come with them to the lounge. He does, however, insist on walking alongside you when you agree to go with them, making Namjoon walk a little ways in front of you both. Better safe than sorry, you suppose, even though no one seems to be paying any attention to the three of you.

At the lounge, his manager has a brief conversation with the airline employee at the desk, and then the three of you are whisked through the entrance, past the service desk and the bar, and into a small, private room at the back of the lounge. Namjoon puts his bag down and moves to the coffee machine, pausing to ask if you want anything as he fumbles with the stack of cups there. Cute. The professional in you hates that you even had that thought pass through your mind, but the rest of you doesn’t mind. He is cute, he gets paid to be cute (at least partially), he knows he’s cute. You have eyes, so obviously you see it, too.

His manager unceremoniously pulls an eye mask and headphones out of his bag, seats himself in the corner, and announces he’s going to try and sleep and to wake him up if anything interesting happens, leaving the two of you essentially on your own.

When you have your drinks, you pull your masks off, settle into loungers in the opposite corner of the room, and start talking again. It comes easily between the two of you—you’re used to asking questions and he’s used to answering them. He’s going to New York for a “personal schedule,” and you don’t ask for more details because you know he wouldn’t give them to you anyway. His whole face lights up when he tells you about an exhibit at the Whitney he’s hoping to catch, about how he’s willing to suffer through the jet lag for a glimpse at a certain Hockney that he probably won’t ever see in Korea.

Eventually, the tables turn a little, and he starts asking you about your own life. It’s less interesting (in your opinion) than his, but he’s a good listener, and asks good questions. He seems really excited (and remembers, to your surprise) that you’re an arts reporter, asks what you’re writing about lately, asks if you’ve seen anything new that caught your eye, even asks you for gallery recommendations around Seoul. You have a few, and he actually jots down notes in his literal notebook while you speak, claiming he’ll forget which you recommended if he doesn’t write it down. Cute again.

Hours pass, and you’d swear it’s only been a few minutes. It’s been a long time since you talked with someone like this—leisurely, candidly (or as candid as he can be, anyway). You get food brought to you by an airline employee, and you know it’s an upgrade from what’s being served in the rest of the lounge, but Namjoon isn’t phased at all. You suppose this is his normal, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary for him.

“I can’t believe you get special food,” you say when you’ve finished.

“Special food?”

“Well yeah, they’re not serving anything other than soup and crackers out there. Maybe carrot sticks.”

“Oh…” he says quietly, brow furrowed, like he’s really thinking about it. “Do you think I should ask them to bring barbeque to everyone else?” You actually think he means it. So fucking cute, you think.

After you talk him out of wielding his influence, mostly using the argument that it would be an immense amount of work for the airline staff, you settle in again. He produces a blanket from a cabinet against one of the walls of the room, and it’s an obvious sign this whole experience is totally typical for him. When he hands you the blanket, you can’t help it, you smile at him and probably look a little smitten. You might just be.

You offer him part of the blanket, and he accepts, pulling it over his lap and asking you if he took too much. (He didn’t). You talk more, and you feel relaxed with him—it’s so easy to forget he’s who he is and you’re who you are. It’s just like getting to know any other casual acquaintance better except he’s stupid good-looking and you start to notice that your faces are a lot closer together than they started out as you talk about Marci Kwon and the interesting work that the Asian American Art Initiative is doing. It was the last article you’d written, and you’re surprised to hear he’s read it.

You’re saying something about non-hierarchical modes of presenting research in art when you realize he’s not listening anymore, just staring at you intently. You’ve been talking a lot. For a while… Maybe talking too much; maybe he’s bothered.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

His eyes widen like he’s the one who’s been caught-out this time. “I’m really good,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself.

It makes you beam. “Good,” you say. “I’ve liked talking to you.”

He nods. “I’ve liked talking to you, too. You have a lot to say.”

The fact that you can feel his breath on your face when he speaks makes you certain that you’re sitting too close, that something is happening that probably shouldn’t be. It makes you forget that “you have a lot to say” isn’t always a good thing. You think that everything might sound good when it comes from his mouth, that even the worst insult would trickle out like honey. Your heart rate has picked up, you now notice, and you both keep just staring at each other—you don’t know why you don’t move or look away, it’s like you can’t even though you know you should.

Namjoon’s eyes flick up behind you to where his manager is, and you can hear the man snoring, so you know he’s not aware at all of what’s happening right in front of him.

“They don’t have cameras in here,” Namjoon says. “It’s why we come here.”

You nod, nothing to say to that—you’re not even sure why he said it unless…

“Can I kiss you?”

That is the exact moment when every coherent and rational thought you have ever had rushes out of your brain like a waterfall. You’re not even sure how you manage to respond, but this very cute, very smart, very interesting person has just expressed interest in you of all people, and you’d be an idiot not to say yes.

“Oh my god, please,” you say all in one hurried breath.

And before you’re even finished, his lips are on yours. It’s soft, more chaste than you’d expected, but it doesn’t stay that way when he nips at your bottom lip and licks into your mouth. One of his hands comes to the back of your neck, fingers teasing at your hair and pulling you closer as you practically melt into him. It’s a good kiss, a fantastic kiss, and all you can think is more, more, more as the two of you try and do your best to be as close as you can over the armrests of the stupid lounge chairs.

When you part, his eyes are a little wild, and you think yours must be, too.

“I have to wake him up soon,” he says, looking past you. “It’s almost time for our flight.”

You glance over your shoulder at his manager who’s still totally unaware of what’s happening around him, and then stand, offering a hand to Namjoon, too.

It’s a rare moment of boldness, but something’s come over you, and you’re acting with very little thought as to what you’re doing and how stupid it probably is. “Come on,” you say, tugging him up. When he’s standing right in front of you, you put your hands on his chest and raise up on your tiptoes to whisper, “Let’s get out of here for a minute.”

He wipes across his bottom lip with his thumb, pausing probably to think about what you’re implying, and then he bends to kiss you quickly before he agrees. “Okay, yeah, let’s go.”

It’s not your fault that you know where the ‘family restroom’ is—you passed by it on the way to the back of the lounge and you notice things, you remember things.

You hope he doesn’t think you do this kind of thing all the time, or ever, although you don’t know why you care what he thinks since you’re also willfully oblivious to any looks you might be getting from any passersby who see you tug him into the room behind you.

It’s sheer luck that your go-to travel outfit is a fairly basic knit dress. It takes him no time to have you pinned up against the door, lips on your neck, hand rucking up the front of your dress so that he can get a hand under your tights. God, it feels good. He feels good, large and solid and his fingers… fuck. They’re long and nimble and he’s clearly not new to this, but neither are you, so you roll your hips forward and moan at the contact when he slips his hand under your tights.

“You’re already wet,” he says, surprised, pulling his head back so he can look at you properly, his fingertips skimming between your legs.

You nod and pull him back in to kiss you again—you only know a few things about Kim Namjoon, but you already know you like talking to him, and now you know you like his lips on yours even more than that.

“Come here,” you say, and slide away from the door, pulling him with you so that you can bend over the small vanity where you can see yourselves in the mirror above it. He’s been polite, almost too nice for what you’re in the mood for, and you don’t know if he’ll take the initiative, so you lock eyes with him in the mirror and slide your tights down from under your dress, stepping out of them one leg at a time.

In the mirror, you watch as he tentatively sticks a hand out to feel you again, groaning when his fingertips slide against you so easily. One, then quickly two fingers enter you, slowly moving in and out, and he studies your reflection, like he’s trying to learn what you like. It’s a lot of effort for a one-night stand in a Heathrow airline lounge. He pulls his joggers down; he’s already hard, feels big against your ass and the back of your thigh.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he sighs. It’s apparently not lost on him how you watch him in the mirror, pupils blown, because then he asks, “You want to watch me fuck you?” He winds the fingers of his free hand around a handful of your hair and tentatively pulls your head up so he can look you in the eye through the mirror.

You watch him focus on you nodding and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth; he drops your hair as he stares. He has to know already how much you want it, but he makes you say it anyway.

“Tell me you want to see me make you come,” he whispers into the back of your neck, breath hot against the shell of your ear. Behind you, he’s rolling on a condom that seems to have appeared out of nowhere—you wonder if he had one in his pocket ‘just in case.’

You smirk, widen your eyes, and nod again. “Please? Will you fuck me? I want—” You pause to turn your head over your shoulder and kiss him again. “I want to watch you make me come.”

Holding onto your hip, he pushes his cock, thick and flushed, into you quickly; you don’t have much more time before his flight.

He groans as he starts thrusting, pulling almost all the way out slowly before snapping back into you.

“Oh shit…” you whisper each of the first few times he pushes into you.

Your head falls as he fucks you—It’s so good, he’s deep deep deep, and you feel so full, and you might cry it’s been so long since someone’s fucked you like this… But he wants your attention, so he brings a hand up and slaps you lightly along the back of your thigh to get you to look up.

It wasn’t hard, but you’re barely acquaintances, so he seems to hesitate, looking to your reflection for reassurance. In return, you look him straight in the eye and let out a moan.

“You wanted to watch, so watch,” he whispers.

“Do it again... please,” you plead softly as you raise your head and push your hips back against him.

He lifts the other hand and strikes the swell of your ass this time, harder than the first slap, making you suck in a breath. White knuckles grip the sides of the sink as your skin turns pink, but you’re still smirking and soaking wet, asking for more as he grips your hips to fuck you harder.

“Harder… I need you… feels so good,” you pant.

You move to lean on an elbow and bring your other hand down to your clit. His hand follows yours and moves it out of the way as he leans forward to whisper, “I thought you wanted me to make you come.”

“Then do it.”

Namjoon slows the movements of his hips to focus on you, rubbing circles over your clit with his fingertips and sucking on your neck, right against your pulse point, sending shivers along the length of your spine.

He rolls his hips into her as you grind against him, whimpering quietly, “Fuck, Joon… yes… oh, fuck…” You trail off, not able to focus on anything except his hands and his cock. You don’t even care that you’re already using nicknames with him.

“Finally got you to stop talking so much,” he teases as he works you nearer to orgasm.

You’d laugh, okay with being teased, except you’re practically shaking now, close to release, so he puts more pressure on your clit and moves his cock in you a little less deep, hitting you exactly where you need him each time.

God, you look good together. There’s a sweat sheen on your foreheads, his cheeks are painted with a rose blush, and your eyes are wide, watching yourself with curiosity in the mirror as you start to come.

You’re close, so close, tightening on his cock as he lets go of your hip and puts a hand over your mouth just in time to muffle the loud cry you make when your orgasm hits.

Your cunt pulses around him and he drags his hands slowly away from it and your mouth, back to your hips.

“You ready?” he whispers.

“Good girl,” he affirms as you nod, and that absolutely shouldn’t have you ready to come on his cock again, but maybe you have a praise kink you didn’t know about. You whimper when he starts fucking into you again, resuming his previous faster pace.

It doesn’t take long for Namjoon to come after that, with you babbling nonsense about how good his cock is and begging for him to come inside you. He thrusts into you one last time and releases into the condom, watching in the mirror as you give him a satisfied grin and roll your hips with his.

When he pulls out of you, he drops to his knees and kisses you where he’d left a handprint on your ass. It makes your breath hitch, feels too intimate for people barely know one another and who’ve just fucked in an airport bathroom. But then he pulls you up to standing, smoothing your dress around your legs. He grabs a bundle of toilet paper and hands it to you to wipe up.

“Look at you,” you tease, “what a gentleman.”

He pulls his joggers up and watches you flush the tissue while he discards the condom. You fiddle around for your tights and slide them on under your dress.

When you’re finished, you lean against the sink and watch him—he’s cute like this: face still flushed, hair mussed, and most of all, he looks as nervous as you’re starting to feel.

“I don’t do this kind of thing,” you say. Your voice is a little wobbly, and you wonder where any of the self-assurance you’d had earlier when you dragged him into the room has gone to.

Namjoon laughs, bright and dimpled, before he replies. “Fuck, me either. I mean… people sometimes… know who I am and I have to be careful.” The last words come out in a rush.

“Careful how?”

He looks fully embarrassed now. “LIke my manager is going to kick my ass when we walk out of here and… well, people back home would have a field day with this if someone saw.”

You’re not even sure what to say to that. Because of course you know who he is, you get that he’s famous, but the thought of talking about this with anyone just seems… It’s not like it makes you look very good either, so you’d never. It would be professional suicide; you’d never be taken seriously again. You spit out the next words mindlessly, just trying to make it less awkward. “You think this was the ‘something interesting’ we were supposed to wake him up for?” Namjoon just looks at you like you’re nuts before you both burst into laughter.

When you catch your breath again, you get a little more serious, your voice softer. “I’ll sign something. Whatever we should have done before, we can do it now, you can email me or whatever. God, this is crazy…” You trail off, consequences of what you’ve done starting to sink in.

“Okay… Thank you,” he says. “I hate how awkward this is. I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling a lot more vulnerable than you can ever remember feeling. Is he sorry that you did this together or is he sorry that it’s awkward? You don’t really know. Maybe it’s both.

“This was a mistake,” you say without thinking, and his face falls.

“You think that?” he asks quietly, stepping into your space and reaching out to stroke your arms gently. “Because I really don’t. I know things are complicated with me? But… I liked you when I met you for the interview, I liked you today, and I’d like to see you again. I really wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think anything would come of it. I’m not that kind of guy.”

“Aren’t all guys that kind of guy?” you ask, wondering if he’s even for real.

“No,” he says. And you think he’s sincere. “Really. I’ve never done something like this before.”

You nod, uncrossing your arms and letting your hands slide into his. “So, we should go though… You have a flight to catch, and I guess I have an NDA to sign.” You’re trying to tease, but you think you probably just sound fucking terrified.

“Can I have your number?” he asks.

“For the NDA,” you affirm, taking the phone he’s sticking out to you and typing in your contact info.

“And for a date, maybe?” he says. And when you look up at him, he looks bashful, nervous even, as if you could ever say no to this man with a big brain and a dick to match who has just made you feel at least twelve new things in the last few hours.

“I’ll be back in Seoul in two weeks,” you say, handing him his phone back.

He smiles wide at that, and leans in to kiss your cheek. Cute again.

“I’ll call you,” he says eagerly. “And someone will be in touch about the paperwork… Sorry again.”

“Not your fault.” You shrug. “But you should head out first so it looks less weird, probably. I’ll freshen up for a minute and then be out in a bit.”

“Right,” he agrees. “Okay. So… I’ll see you in Seoul?”

You can’t help but be endeared to him; the fact that he seems to think you might actually not want to see him again makes you go all squishy inside. “It’s a date,” you confirm.

“Great! Okay… I’m gonna just… go now.” He points at the door, fumbling behind himself for the latch, like he doesn’t want to break eye contact with you.

“Okay, Namjoon… It was good to run into you and…” You hate that you can’t say anything coherent, your sentence just ending in, “stuff.”

He laughs and pulls his mask back on. “It was good to run into you and stuff, too.”

Finally, he’s got the door unlocked, and before he slips back into the lounge he says, “I’m really going to call you, okay?”

You aren’t sure why, but you believe him when he says it even though you know better, and all the weird feelings you’ve been having about him come together in a bright firework feeling in your chest. Something like hope, maybe.

“Talk to you soon,” you say quietly.

And then he’s gone, and you’re left breathless, wondering what you’ve just done.

next chapter

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