Work Text:
It was only to be expected that the job description entailed that things could get stressful, and that his entire life could and would frequently turn to a blazing pile of rotten garbage reeking to the high heavens and clinging to his clothes for days to comes. He very rarely, if ever, ran into press scandals of any venture — that was all Taehyung’s forte — but his problems were all a little more tangible, immediate.
Like his useless fucking finance department taking a steaming shit on itself and letting two supervisors go on vacation at the same time that new hires came in, apparently, and causing the quarterly reports to be finished incorrectly with almost no time to be redone correctly in time for the prospectus meeting that he had to attend for almost no reason at all by that point. And since nothing came of that meeting, everything else fell apart. Other meetings. People were scrambling. Higher-ups were running to his secretary, tails between their legs as they left messages of apologies and asking what the fuck they should do, potential investors and partners were on the phone looking for information that they simply didn’t have, even though they were supposed to except they didn’t because of the useless meetings, ergo Yoongi had to be the one to pick up the receiver and calmly, stolidly swim the deep and dark waters of the corporate River Styx as he lost at least three deals that day.
He couldn’t drink anymore coffee. He might burst into a spastic fit of nerves and rage, and then his doctor would never forgive him. Hoseok had sent him business cat memes in response, peppering it with legitimate advice (Mostly. “Yoongi, go to the gym and run for fifteen minutes.” He didn’t have time. “You need to stare at the wall and clear your head.” He still didn’t have time and he just wanted to punch a hole through it. “Have a meeting with your execs and sort out responsibility.” They were all already busy attempting to remedy the shitstorm that had borne itself today).
The last piece of advice he hadn’t even responded to:
“Why don’t you have your wife come in and help you?”
Yoongi had taken pause, mid-step in his office. His rampant pacing halted and his grip on his phone froze as his dark eyes read and reread that suggestion once, twice, three times, and his heart did a strange flip-flopping thing that it always did when you came up in conversation.
He had texted back instead, Sorry, I need to make a few calls, something came up.
Hoseok had replied instantly, dryly. Sure, sure thing. Consider what I said, stick in the mud.
The ugly part of it all was that he did consider it. In fact, through the next several phone calls and discussions he couldn’t get it out of his head. Every single employee that came his way was met with ice cold disdain and impatience; Yoongi had had it, he was at the end of his rope. He’d slept badly last night and the lack of anything to supplement the void coffee left in him was making it all a thousand times worse.
That was what worried him so much in the end — out of all the intelligent suggestions Hoseok had made, you had been not the good one, but the one he wanted. The prospect of you, in the office, either just sitting and keeping him company or helping or anything at all, summoned a short spark of… pleasantness in him. Something quiet and warm in the black sludge of his soul.
But that was an absolutely moronic idea and only good in fantasy, not even theory and not practice.
“Mr. Min, I’m sorry to interrupt again, but—”
His secretary’s concerned tone broke him from his reveries and he felt a chill go down his spine that reignited his foul mood.
Maybe he would have another coffee anyway.
—
It was becoming a habit that things only truly became out of the ordinary on your most normal days.
After the events of Valentine’s, things had entered a strange stasis, teetering back and forth on a fence that you couldn’t even see what was on the other side. When Yoongi was on, he was on — he’d even taken the time to have dinner with you twice over the course of the few weeks since then, and kept up conversation almost like he had on your… date.
Almost.
And then the other days he was a ghost in his own home. Or you were. Some mornings he woke up hours before you did, and was already primped and preened and dressed for work as you were stumbling into the kitchen for tea and waffles on a lazy Sunday. You’d been mortified to run into him in such a state, but he merely glanced at you before returning to his phone call without a smile or nod or greeting.
Then he’d gone to work, and you didn’t see him for four days. Minimum.
You tried not to count.
As it were, you were having a perfectly normal day when you wrapped up unpacking your new shipment of books and your phone buzzed impatiently in your pocket. You didn’t get phone calls often — especially when you were home — so you pulled it out with not a little confusion as you glanced at the screen and saw a name you had been wholly unprepared to see.
“…Hello?” you answered, unsure.
“Hello!”
You hadn’t heard the chipper tone of Hoseok in weeks, and it seemed time hadn’t dampered his perpetual good mood.
“Hoseok?” you exclaimed, “Hoseok! Hello, it’s been a while!”
“Much too long,” he frets from the other side of the line, full of cheesy sentiment that makes you giggle. “How have you been, Madam Min?”
As expected, he’s an excellent conversationalist. There are no odd pauses and awkward tangents, and he’s well-practiced in the art of talking comfortably without divulging too much personal information yet still remaining friendly and genuine. Once the pleasantries are out of the way, almost forgetting how totally surreal it was that he had phoned you to begin with, you began to ask just why he of all people was calling you. Surely he wasn’t just fancying a chat—
“Which reminds me,” he says suddenly, and you vaguely watch a butterfly pass by the bay window as you raptly listen to his every word, “your husband is having a late lunch today, at about three. I was just thinking it would be stupendous if you brought something and joined in! I’m sure you know how he can be about eating well when things get busy…”
The sensation that follows is like airtight earmuffs clamping over your head, vacuuming your skull in a stunned fashion as the world fizzles out into silence. You spend a few long seconds gaping in confusion, trying to grasp the prospect of just… bringing lunch to Yoongi and Hoseok, but he continues on merrily like he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on you.
“He’s holed up in his office at the moment, so he won’t be hard to find and all. Oh, sorry, I’m getting another call — listen, it was wonderful speaking to you again. I hope you have a lovely day and fingers crossed we’ll see each other soon. Bye!”
“Oh,” you croaked back, blinking, “yes, thank you, me too, bye?”
The line beeps to signal its silence, and you stare out the window slackjawed for another full minute like a ghoul.
Your stupor is interrupted the light footsteps, and when you instinctively turn to see a maid pop in with new air fresheners, you blurt out the words before you can help yourself.
“Excuse me, but do you happen to know what Mr. Min likes to eat?”
The last time you were in the kitchen was that morning, putting together hot chocolate as the cook finished preparing you an omelette. You had never in a million years anticipated your afternoon in the kitchen being like this.
After being directed to a few items, you cautiously pattered around the establishment to get together bread, condiments, and lunchmeat. Sandwiches are a safe bet, it turns out, and the kettle on the stovetop heats slowly — you were planning on bringing a vat of lemongrass tea to split amongst the three of you — while you, flustered, put together a semblance of a lunch. You didn’t make anything too overzealous or exciting; just sandwiches, hopefully light on the stomach but still filling, and with rich slices of lamb meat between the greens and cheese and mayo. Small toothpicks went through each one for presentation’s sake and were cut into dainty triangles before you packed them in a lunch box, and on second thought quartered some apples and cantaloupe as a side.
Confusion lingers in your nerves like a beehive though, no matter how hard you try to distract yourself with humming and whistling and dabbing at your temples with your handkerchief. Confusion, and nervousness, and just being completely frazzled that Hoseok had personally called you to ask you to do this and more insane still, the fact that you were actually going through with it. Had you hit your head? Was it a full moon? You would never know, in all fairness, and accepted that fact solemnly as you poured the boiling water in the large, unwieldy thermos.
“Well,” you sighed to yourself, “I guess this is happening.”
A peek at the clock signified 2:31. Perfect timing, if you were being honest.
You don’t have time to worry much about what you’re wearing today. The pretty blouse was tucked formally into the midlength, swishy skirt, and a light and comfy cardigan kept it casual and neat. It was on the more neutral side of pastel, but who cared; it suited spring, and wouldn’t stand out much in an office. If anything, you could probably pass as an employee if you kept your head down.
You hoped so.
Awkwardly pulling out your phone, you touched speed dial and cupped it to your ear tentatively.
“Hello? This is ____, I was wondering if I might head to the office?”
After traffic and anxiously spacing out, constantly smoothing your unwrinkled skirt and checking your oversized picnic bag for napkins and utensils and anything you could possibly be missing that would give you an excuse to back out, you winced when you looked up and realized you were in the heart of the city and surrounded by intimidating skyscrapers. People outside were rushing along the sidewalks on their phones, many of them in suits, and none of them paying you any mind as you tittered a small thank you to the driver and stepped out with your lunch in hand.
The walk to the front doors felt like an eternity.
Once inside, you focused very hard on walking straight ahead and not letting your apprehension show on your face. The building was huge, utterly huge to the point where it feels unnecessary, but you remain steadfast as you approach the front desk and are signed in with a muted flicker of surprise on the secretary’s face. You notice a few heads tilt instinctively in your direction as you murmur your last name Min, but keep breathing, clinging to your polite, neutral expression.
You’ve only been here once, and it’s still just as hard as ever to smile at employees and struggle not to appear overwhelmed as you begin your trek to the top level. You take the elevator up as far as you can before getting out and traversing the floor to the other side where his office is, passing cubicles and busy workers who, more frequently than you’d like, stop to catch a glimpse of you. Some of them immediately whisper to their coworkers variations of oh my god that’s the CEO’s wife, you’re sure, and force yourself not to dwell on your appearance out of nervous judgment. Despite all of your training, you were built to function under pressure with elegance and grace and fortitude — not relish when it meant you were the center of attention.
A secretary on that floor glanced up when she saw you, and waved briefly. More people halted mid-work despite the chatter of conversation and phones ringing and printers going, and you were politely directed further down to the personal elevator that led to where Yoongi’s ultra-private office resided.
This time, a faint dizziness crept up on you in the elevator. You had been musing over all the different ways this could go horribly, atrociously wrong, but nothing had quite settled in your head until that very moment, and you wondered if the mortification of turning around and walking right back out would be worth it to escape potential humiliation and a stain on your personal life forever.
You reminded yourself again, firmly, that Hoseok had invited you — you would not be alone. You were not coming out of some misguided assumption.
The elevator dings, and your stomach flips unpleasantly.
Right out of the doors is a different world; the floor is perfectly quiet, a faraway land from the well-oiled machine that seemed to be flourishing on the dozens of floors below your feet. The secretary at the sweeping desk is sharp and sleek and at least fifteen years older than you, almost like some sort of terrifying librarian, but her smile is real and appreciative when she catches your gaze.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Min,” she greets with perfect clarity. Her phone voice must have been award-winning, you imagined, and remembered to smile back quickly as you bowed your head. “It’s wonderful to see you. Thank you so much for coming in like this — he’s been having such a rough day. I do apologize if he’s busy right now, but feel free to go in.”
You’re so bewildered by everything so suddenly and heavily coming to a peak, finally being here and mere feet away from your husband, that you can only nod and respond with some non-committal noise of gratitude and understanding. Hardly anything processes as you turn the corner and approach the pristine wooden doors, so dark and polished than you can see your skittish reflection in them clear as day.
The next thing you know, you’re swallowing down the dryness in your mouth and your hand is raised tentatively as you rap on the door a few times, then wait.
You don’t wait for long.
“Come in,” you hear faintly from the other side, unable to make out much tone or emotion. Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, you set your jaw and straighten up as you reach for the knob and turn it, swinging the heavy door open to be greeted with Min Yoongi’s private office.
The windows stretch around the entire room, outwardly tinted and giving a spectacular view of what feels like the entire world and city immediately around it. The sky is a startlingly beautiful shade of blue and it’s bright with sunshine and massive clouds dappling against it, and it illuminates the minimal and monochrome office with a touch that only the best interior designer could have come up with. His elegant work desk is situated in the far center of the room with a single expensive office chair stationed behind it, and it’s unsurprisingly laden with papers and electronics and supplies.
All of these little details, from the priceless original abstract paintings on the walls to the few small plants climbing around the corners of the windows, come second to what stands in the very middle of the room. It’s their owner that catches your attention first and foremost.
Yoongi’s shadowy silhouette is hard to see with the sunlight blanketing around him, but when your vision adjusts you notice everything, and all at once. The usual pale, smooth skin is offset by how flushed he is around the collar — which is unbuttoned, and his black silk tie is pulled slightly loose. His platinum hair, even, is a touch undone from its usual sleek coif, and it all culminates in his head snapping towards the door with his phone cradled between his head and shoulder as you see his reserved and embittered expression.
To say that Yoongi was unprepared was an understatement. Yoongi was about as ready for you as he was a meteor crashing into his skull.
Rationally, he knows you are you and he is him and you are simply, for some reason, in his office. Less rationally, all the colours in the room seem to turn brighter, more vibrant and beautiful when he sees you — an angel in heels and a pretty skirt and cardigan, picnic sack in hand. Yoongi’s mind goes blank as he swallows thickly, expression flitting unknowingly between horror and surprise, stoicism and unsureness, before he manages to stomach it all down and get out the words, “…What… are you doing… here?”
He doesn’t even blink as he lowers his phone, ending the call without looking because it can wait.
You, however, truly believe that you’re going to die of embarrassment.
“Oh, um,” your voice cracks under the weight of your dismay, “lunch?” Frantic, you glance around the room and see Jung Hoseok nowhere in sight, and a steadily building panic laces into your words as you ask oddly, “H-Hoseok?”
Things click into place slowly. Yoongi puts two and two together before you do, and silently reminds himself to block Hoseok’s number from his phone and yours at his earliest convenience. But that can wait, because even he can see the way your eyes are a little too wide with surprise and how your knuckles are white when the apologies start bubbling up.
“I’m so sorry,” you say somehow, smiling with effortless manners, bowing your head in submission. You’re calculating if you can make it downstairs and to a car before traitorous, self-conscious eye watering kicks in. With some luck, you can manage it, and both of you can pretend this never, ever, ever happened at all. “I’m so very sorry. I’ll just be going, I-I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“No.”
Yoongi’s voice echoes across the room, jumpstarting your fluttering heart into missing a beat and your voice to abandon you. Lips parted in silence, you blink, dumbly staring as you try to regain your senses, but Yoongi is quicker on the uptake. He’s already composed and certain, eyes focused on you steadily as he repeats, “No. Stay. Let’s have lunch. This is perfect timing, actually.”
As it turns out, Jung Hoseok is nowhere in sight because he’s not there at all.
Yoongi doesn’t mention this tidbit, though; he just clears off his desk, calm and measured, putting leaflets into neat stacks and moving things into drawers, pressing a button on his desk phone that rings once before he requests an extra chair be brought in for you. His secretary is more than happy to oblige — she gives you an encouraging look when his back is turned, leaving you wondering what in god’s name you had gotten yourself into as you clutch onto your picnic lunch still — and in the span on a few short minutes, you’re left timidly preparing the napkins and cups for your meal.
You’re wholly ready to take your seat on the other side of his desk when you realize, however, that he’s placed your chair next to his. Heat floods your chest and neck, creeping up your cheeks, but you can’t say anything about that without looking like a fool, so you just accept your fate and gingerly sit on the soft, plush leather with your plate full.
“It looks good,” Yoongi comments after a moment, and you can’t tell if he’s forcing it out of politeness or if he really means it. Oh well. Smiling back, you thank him, and busy yourself with pouring tea.
“Lemongrass okay?” you prompt gently. Yoongi nods, distracted by plucking out a few sandwiches and spooning some fruit on the side.
Moment of truth.
He leans back in his seat, and sinks his teeth into the first wedge, chewing thoughtfully with his mouth closed. You’re so absorbed in studying his expression to see if it passes the unspoken test that you almost spill the tea all over his desk, but catch yourself by some small miracle and count your blessings as you shrink back into your own chair, trying to get comfortable.
The air is only a little awkward; stiff, more than anything, because you don’t know how to act around him and he’s probably been in a foul mood since five in the morning. But his profile softens, you think — hope — and after he swallows the first bite, nods approvingly. The weight of a small country is lifted off of your shoulders and is replaced with glowing, warm pride.
“Where’d you find all this?” he asks, and you have to keep your face arranged in muted pleasure rather than an overwhelmingly happy grin. You weren’t sure if that would be unbecoming.
“Ah, Mr. Kim in the kitchen said he makes the bread himself, but I didn’t get to ask about the rest since he was heading out for his break. Is it alright? Nothing too much?”
Yoongi’s about to take his second bite when he pauses, eyes honing in on you, dark and penetrating. The tic of his eyebrows makes you worry for a split second before he blurts, “Wait, you made this?”
The accusation isn’t meant to be hurtful or insulting — it’s just pure, honest surprise on his part. Your tongue tangles to match your heartbeat for a moment before you find your voice again and answer bashfully, “Yes?”
He blinks in response, staring at the sandwich like he’s never seen one before. This time, when he eats it, he chews slowly, thoughtfully, his cheeks lifting faintly in the corners.
“It’s really good,” he murmurs. “Really, really good. You did a good job.”
The compliment itself is underwhelming — it’s the tone that he uses when he says it that makes a shiver roll down your spine and send the tiny hairs on the back of your arms and neck on-end. He says it like he means it. He says it like he cares, and like he truly wants you to know how much he does.
Forcibly tearing your gaze away from him and immersing yourself in fanciful conjecture, you nibble on your own sandwich instead, savouring the taste and wondering what he liked so much about it.
“Did you use la—”
“I heard you liked lamb—”
Both of you stumble over your sentences at the same time and descend into stifled laughter, covering your mouth as he averts his sultry gaze out the window safely instead. Yoongi’s self-conscious that he’s staring at you too much, part of him quenched as he drinks up your demure figure in his office, of all places, just as much as the rest of him relishes the homecooked meal.
“Yes, it’s lamb,” you settle on finally, much less awkward than before, and Yoongi gives you a genuine, easy smile that you’re afraid will be burned into your eyelids for months to come.
Yoongi, sometimes, is like walking into a rose garden. His exterior is always well-cared for and presentable, manicured to perfect and kept in a precise, specific way. It’s only as you go deeper that become aware of the thorns and prickly things, but also small things — special things. Blooms that only open at certain times of day. Odd, peculiar bushes that aren’t recognizable right away. Fenced-off areas you think you might never get into, but also fountains that bubble over with the soft, cool music of water, and beautiful things even in the most secret shadows and faraway corners.
As you both eat, he remembers how to talk like a normal person; like a man might talk to his wife on his lunch break in any ordinary situation. He gets better at complimenting your food and drinks the tea deeply, appreciatively, not forgetting to pop fruit in his mouth in-between. You get the feeling that he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, but keep quiet — you’re just glad to see him eating now, and so zealously.
A small thought in your head begins cultivating ideas as to what else he might like to eat, later on, but you shove that away and squeeze your palms in your lap. Nope, nope, nope — not going to get ahead of yourself now.
The other thing you notice is how often his phone lights up. He’d turned it on silent before he properly sat down, and he already had a dozen missed calls, texts, and email notifications over the course of your nearly half an hour lunch break.
Eventually, he can’t put it off anymore, and his quiet voice breaks the comfortable silence that had grown between you.
“I should probably be getting back to work.”
You hardly dare acknowledge the note of disappointment in the declaration. He’s dabbing at his face with a folded napkin, and you’re quick to begin putting things away, though there’s a few sandwiches left. On second thought, maybe you could leave them with him, just in case he got hungry later and didn’t have the time or inclination to get dinner. You had the feeling he wouldn’t be home in time for it, anyway.
“I’ll… leave the rest here for you, okay?” you ventured, careful not to sound too earnest or unsure. Play it safe, silly.
Yoongi gave you a soft look you hadn’t seen in what felt like a century, and your insides knotted in a spectacularly embarrassing display that felt like butterflies in a whirlwind.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, flashing a vague smile, if it could be called that. It was that brief, lips-turning-up thing he did that just barely reached his eyes, so quick that you’d miss it if you blinked or weren’t paying attention.
“Really, it wasn’t any trouble. I’m just glad you got to eat and it was acceptable.” Needing something to do with your hands, as the lunch is already repacked and garbage tossed, you begin tidying up his desk cautiously — stacking papers in neat piles and leaving them on the glossy wood where your meals had just been.
Yoongi didn’t reply for a long minute; you could sense him watching you surreptitiously as he began reorganizing his desk, and felt the way he was thoughtfully going over something in his head you’d never know. You wished more than ever that you could just read minds, just this once — just to know how he thought of you in this silly little moment.
“It was… much more than acceptable,” he finally says after his desk resembles what it did when you walked in, though neater than before. “It was generous, and appreciated. Especially after nothing but bread and water. Whenever you’re ready to be locked up permanently, let me know. I think you’d make a great prisoner.”
It takes you a second to recall what he’s referencing — the absurd conversation you’d had on your “date” for Valentine’s Day — but when you do, you’re sputtering unattractively as laughter falls from your lips, hiding behind a manilla folder and giggling.
“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Min,” you manage to reply smoothly, putting on your best fake-intern voice. “May I help you with anything else while I’m at your disposal?”
You catch him rolling his eyes, but by some small miracle he’s still smiling, sort of. As much of a smile as you can get out of Min Yoongi. To your pleasant surprise, he actually takes your offer seriously, and after mulling on it suggests, “If you’d like to, maybe go through this cash reconciliation stack with me. It’s just comparing the attached pages and matching up the corresponding expenses, and put anything aside if it’s off.”
You were wary of how simple it sounded, but Yoongi tacked on with a blithe smile, “I ordinarily wouldn’t be doing this, but I don’t trust anyone today.”
Your immediate logic was does that mean he trusts me? but you shake that off in order to sit yourself beside him again gingerly, proffering your hands for the stack of papers in question.
“Of course, Mr. Min. As long as you’re okay with me handling it.”
The leaflet was handed to you gently, and your heart jumped in your throat — his hand patted yours in passing, drifting over your knuckles in a reassuring gesture.
“You’ll do just fine,” he murmurs, and you are more than thankful to have the welcome distraction of the paperwork.
What’s more distracting, however, is the fact that you get to watch him work.
Yoongi hunches over his desk, brow automatically furrowing in a centimeter as his shoulders go stiff. You use the flyaways from your hair to hide behind, to watch him in secrecy and look back at your own assignment when you see his gaze check on you. But there’s no mistaking the tension that radiates off him in waves.
The way his knuckles wrap around his fountain pen, signing off documents that seem to frustrate him piece by piece. Your progress is slowed by your preoccupation with him and steadily growing worry.
Your job isn’t hard, but his looks to be like the end of the world.
Papers get turned with more harshness and vigor until you wince with every shuffle of them, afraid this one will be the one that rips. Something in his jaw tics as he clenches it, a tendon flexed tight in his neck as his steeled eyes glide over the print outs. He breathes out hard through his nose, sweeping back his hair roughly and mussing it just a little bit more each time.
You try your best to focus long enough to keep working, but you always end up right back where you started: privately staring at him with a mixture of concern and heart-fluttering nerves from your proximity and just how handsome his profile can be even when he’s this upset.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and you can visibly see him freeze as he realizes he swore in front of you, and his head whips to you to check your reaction. You don’t move fast enough, and are caught in the middle of staring openly at your husband who looks weary and irate and in desperate, desperate need of a reprieve that you don’t know how to offer him. He looks like he needed it years ago.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, tinged with disappointment in himself. You flounder, blinking and at a loss for words before waving him off placatingly.
“Yoongi, don’t worry — you’re stressed. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” you end with a small laugh to emphasize how not a big deal it is. But his gaze is still dark and cold and your compassion outweighs your sensibility all at once.
“Yoongi, I… Is there anyway you can take a break?” The moment the words are out you regret them. The carefully drawn line in the invisible sand between you is there, just as it has always been, and you are deadly sure that you’ve crossed it. As it goes with your husband, your etiquette filter, built on years of precise training and practise, crumbles to dust and ashes under the weight of his unyielding, unreadable stare and the numbing effect that his presence and close proximity has had on you. You’ll find time to be ashamed of yourself later. Right now, all you can do is try to do damage control.
Except even that doesn’t work.
“I-I mean,” you stammer, and you almost never stammer — you’re better than that. “I’m… I don’t know your schedule or, or particulars — I only… I meant… I mean, I’m not trying to interject into your life, Yoongi, I—”
“You’re my wife,” he interrupts in what barely constitutes as a whisper, no volume behind the hushed words. “You’re fully allowed to do such a thing.”
Blush creeps up your neck and into your face like a rash, and your heartbeat is doing some sort of tumbling car accident rhythm as it leaps into your throat. It’s all you can do to barely enunciate as you finish weakly, “Why don’t you take a day off? Or two? Sometime?”
Your voice gives out after that, hands folded tightly in your lap as you mouth the words ‘I’m sorry’ without a sound. You can’t move a muscle or look at his face — you only force yourself to breathe and stare with dread and panic and horror at how much you’ve just ruined everything in one fell swoop.
There’s a long stretch where you can only hear your blood pounding in your head and the faintest whirr of the ventilation in the room, the muffled movement of you shifting in your chair. You itch to wipe away a speck of dust from a drawer, but don’t dare lift a finger. No amount of time you can guess at passes before you catch Yoongi stretching his fingers out, tips resting tentatively on the edge of his desk before he speaks up.
His tone is low and rumbling, too much of a mumble to make out, and he’s staring pointedly at the paperclip he thumbs at. You think you make out the word “honey”, but that doesn’t make any sense so you’re left to summon the dregs of your composure and venture a feeble, “What was that?”
Yoongi doesn’t look up this time, but his voice comes out clearly. “We… never really took a honeymoon.”
He’s still deeply contemplating that lone paperclip, and his phone is still lighting up with voice mail. But he pays it no mind whatsoever, and his body shifts just so in his chair to face you a fraction more, and he asks with casual, sudden nonchalance: “Is there somewhere you’d like to go?”
Part of you is waiting for the camera crew, for the “just kidding”, for the hidden lens tucked away in his lapel or laptop. You’re afraid, petrified to speak, because you are positive once you do you’ll be exposed as part of the prank.
Yoongi doesn’t budge, though; he just waits, silent and enigmatic, and you allow yourself a single, fleeting millisecond of trickling hope and excitement that he isn’t trying to undermine something in you. In that pause, Yoongi ticks down the list in his head of all the places he’d looked at before — that stupid little island in Europe, Hawaii, France, Malaysia, Italy… — and is fairly breathless as he mulls on the consequences on whatever the fuck he’s doing right now.
It’s been a very, very long day. But your nervous form beside him softens all the sharp edges in his heart, and helps him find his composure and a semblance of a smile.
He’s a professional, after all, and it is with perfect manners and gentleness that he takes your shaky hand in his, and offers you a slight squeeze and his eyes flicker up to yours.
“I would really like to take you on a honeymoon.”