Archive of Our Own ^beta

Power button.

Music app.

Headphones.

Playlist.

Shuffle.

The morning bustle of the city hums around Namjoon. Pedestrians roam sidewalks, cars speed down streets, dogs run around yards. Music filters into ears. Namjoon’s ears. He watches the movie of the city play around him as he walks.

Work is only a couple of blocks from Namjoon’s small apartment. Not far enough to have to drive or commute, but the perfect distance to walk. He’s been walking this route twice a day, five days a week, for over a year. It’s the same walk every time. Same streets, same turns. And yet it changes every day. Different people, different cars, different pets, different weather.

Namjoon turns to avoid a dog pulling their owner down the sidewalk. He smiles as the clumsy thing speeds away with its tail wagging a mile a minute, owner stumbling behind. Everyone is in a rush to get somewhere, despite the early hour.

Bright signs and loud voices beckon from every store. They boast sales and surprises, knicks and knacks. Namjoon can’t hear any of the voices through the music, but he can see the way the people wave their signs and their arms, garnering for attention. He remembers when he first started walking to work, without music. It had been nice to hear everything, all the little noises. Friends asking about each others day, strangers exchanging gossip, shop owners announcing free samples. The small things were always nice to hear, but Namjoon found after only a few walks that there were some things he would prefer not to hear.

Putting music on with his walks made them better. No having to hear people yelling or the revving of engines. Just music. He likes hearing what the city has to say, but he likes keeps that separate from his walks. Sometimes—sometimes—he’ll take out his bike and ride through the streets, through parks. Those never need music. The wind that hums as he gathers speed down hills and around curves is its own music.

He turns onto another street. Down near the end is his workplace, cooped between a bookstore and a sex shop. The whole block is mostly locally owned, and Namjoon had applied at nearly all of them at some point or another. Even Beyond Bondage.

The first snows of the day begin to fall as he nears Mellow Macchiato. The winds are only nearing cold, at a sweet in between. The snowflakes bring with them the slightest bit more chill. They reflect the city’s lights, then hit sidewalks and streets and skin and melt into nothing.

In between the bright colors of Book Stop and the low-profile monochrome of Beyond Bondage, Mellow Macchiato seems almost plain. Homely brown and beige colors, a few plants and lights in the windows. Even though it’s a bit simple between the two most popular shops for millenials, Namjoon likes working there.

He frowns a bit. Comes to a stop outside the café. Tilts his head to the side. The snows are beginning to fall a bit thicker, a bit heavier. A stranger lingers just outside the doors. Bundled up against the cold in layers of sweatshirts that are accented by the basketball shorts that do nothing to warm his legs.  

The stranger seems to be a busker, amplifier at his feet and microphone in his hand. A cap rests upside down in front of the amp for change.

Even with his headphones in, Namjoon feels like he can hear the busker’s voice. He sways on his feet as he sings, feels the music with more than his vocal chords. Eyes closed and lashes catching the falling snow. Namjoon fumbles to pause his music and take out his earbuds. The lines of the stranger’s body move and curve with the song he sings, so interconnected between body and music that Namjoon swears he can hear the song despite what’s playing through his ears.

He pauses his music, and then listens to the stranger’s.

The busker sings like he’s on a stage. A few people gather around him alongside Namjoon, but he doesn’t pay attention to them. He ignores them. Listens. The busker’s voice is high and breathy. Beautiful. He sings a song that Namjoon knows he has heard before on the café speakers. A slow, quiet thing that sounds better when this stranger sings it than when it plays during work.

Namjoon clenches his hands tight around his phone, earbuds already tangled where they hang from his palms. The busker’s voice makes him feel energetic and lethargic all at once. He wants to move and sleep at the same time.

He feels like he should close his eyes too. But he can’t bring himself to. He can’t stop looking at the busker as he sings. A beanie is pulled over his hair and ears, but Namjoon can see their face. Round eyes, round nose, sharp chin. He’s pretty, just like his voice. Namjoon doesn’t know which he likes more.

Namjoon blinks, sucks in a breath of cold air. The time that his phone shows is much later than it should. Much later than when his shift is supposed to start. His eyes flit between the busker and the store. All he wants to do is stay and listen, or at the very least leave a bit of change in the singer’s cap.

He grits his teeth and speeds into the café, wondering how he will be able to make up for being late. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind.

“Hi,” he nods to his coworkers and hurries to rush around the counter. “I’m sorry I’m late! Just give me like, one second, please.”

The cafe is bustling with customers. Everything inside is warm and homey and familiar. Namjoon pulls something from the pastry display.

“Give me just a second and I’ll pay,” he calls to Yoongi and Jimin over his shoulder as he rushes back outside.

The busker is still singing when Namjoon bursts out of the doors, probably in more of a hurry than he should be. Namjoon blushes when the busker turns to look at him. He’s even prettier with his eyes open, and he still sings as he looks at Namjoon.

Namjoon can feel his face grow warm despite the cold. He lifts the small wrapped songpyeon in his hands.

“A tip?” His words sound much more like a question than he would like.

The busker smiles as he sings, slips out a small thank you between lyrics. Namjoon hurries to put the cake in the cap and speeds back inside. He can feel how red his cheeks and ears are. He tries to convince himself that it’s mostly because of the cold. Even though a scarf is wrapped around his neck. Even though a beanie is tucked  over his ears. Even though he knows better.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he spots his boss at the counter, another employee beside him.

“Hi,” he gives Jung Hoseok a weak smile. “I’m sorry I’m late I just got distracted.”

Hoseok sighs before giving his employee a fond look, round eyes peeking over a long, sharp nose. Namjoon knows that Hoseok is his good friend first and lenient boss second, but the disappointed look that Hoseok shoots him hurts nonetheless. “Well, you’ve never been late before and it was only by a few minutes. You’re fine, just don’t get distracted next time alright?”

“I won’t, I promise!” Namjoon leans his long limbs against the counter. “I’m sorry, again.”

“It’s alright,” Hoseok assures, smiling in a way that uses his whole face, from lips to brows. He turns to go back into the kitchen. “If you apologize to anyone, apologize to Yoongi-hyung. He’s the shift you are taking over.”

Namjoon winces and turns to his coworker,Yoongi, “I’m really sorry, hyung.”

Yoongi stands behind the counter, and shakes his pink-haired head as he unties his apron, “It’s fine, Namjoon-ah. I have something to do, but the other person was fine with waiting a bit. Besides,” he smiles slyly, “I could see you were in a hurry. What was that about?”

Namjoon scoffs and splutters, “That was—! It was nothing. I just had to do… something really quick. It won’t happen again! How about you go to your—your thing?”

Yoongi shakes his head. Hangs his apron on the rack by the kitchen door. He’s shorter than Namjoon, but his presence is much, much bigger. Comforting and intimidating all at once. Like the wise, sage masters from every 90’s karate movie.

“My ‘thing’ is here, actually. Tutoring for one of my required classes I put off. But , more importantly, I also could see you through the window. You sure were distracted,” he teases.

Namjoon presses the tips of his fingers to his burning cheeks, “Shut up! Go learn things or something.”

“Ah, what’s this?” Jimin perks up and tries to pull Namjoon’s hands from his cheeks, “Are you blushing?”

“No,” Namjoon scoffs, ducks away from Jimin.

“Yes, you are!” Jimin grins, all pink lips pulled over straight teeth, and Yoongi sniggers as he leaves to change out of his uniform. “What has you blushing?”

“Nothing,” Namjoon looks around to make sure Yoongi is gone so that he has one less person pestering him. He huffs and sticks up his chin at Jimin, “I have to change, I’ll be right back.”

Jimin wiggles his eyebrows as Namjoon walks away, “I’ll find out!”

Namjoon changes in the employee bathrooms just as Yoongi has finished. He buttons up his white shirt, squeezes into too-short black slacks, double knots his apron strings in a bow, and pins on his nametag.

It’s a Monday. Things are never too busy on Mondays, but a small crowd still churns through the shop as Namjoon clocks in. No matter the day, when the sun is highest it seems like everyone is drawn to this tiny place. He’s hyperaware, like always, of how his ankles peek out from his pants. They’re the longest uniform pair that Hoseok has, and yet they still can’t cover Namjoon’s long legs.

He takes his position behind the counter and begins making drinks. Wrapping pastries. Calling names. Jimin and Namjoon work in tandem behind the register. Jimin takes each customer’s order, passes it to Namjoon. Namjoon fills drinks and gets into the rhythm of it, calls for the people named on the cups.

Occasionally Hoseok pops out of the kitchen to press a kiss to the top of Jimin’s head. Jimin only recently cut his hair short to a length to match his boyfriend’s. Before it trailed down to his collarbones. Namjoon loves how happy Jimin get each time he takes a step closer to where he wants to be. Hoseok, too. He beams as though he feels Jimin’s joy three times over.

Namjoon peeks at Yoongi from the corner of his eye. Yoongi stands near one of the corner tables, greeting someone that must be his tutor. Namjoon pours steamed milk into a small cup for a flat white. Double takes.

“Fuck me,” he groans as he turns to fully look at Yoongi and his tutor.

Yoongi’s tutor is all too familiar.

Round eyes. Round nose. Sharp chin.

Namjoon can hear his voice all the way across the room as he greets Yoongi. Even when he’s only talking his voice is pretty and melodic. He has taken off a couple of his hoodies, and is still in those ridiculous shorts despite the winter.

Namjoon knows that Yoongi is a bit embarrassed by how much older he is than his peers. He went to college late. Waited until he could afford it. Refused to take out debilitating loans. He still has a hard time asking for help, Namjoon knows that. So he’s glad that Yoongi was able to work past his stubbornness and ask for help with a class.

Namjoon whips his head back to the espresso machine before the busker can catch him staring. He can already feel his ears warming.

“What the fuck…” he laughs weakly at himself as he puts a lid on the flat white. “Flat white for Moonbin!”

❆

Almost every time Yoongi has a shift, the busker is there to tutor him once he clocks out. Either before or after he tutors Yoongi, he stands at the sidewalk and croons into his microphone. Namjoon listens when he can. Makes sure not to be late again.

He wishes he could take the busker’s voice and put it in the espresso machine. Pour it into a mug and keep it with him all day to stay warm.

Every time he sees the busker he’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts, no matter how cold it is. It’s questionable, but Namjoon finds it endearing at the same time. He chides himself for being endeared by a stranger’s weird dress habits.

When he catches the tutor busking he makes sure to leave a small pastry in his upside down cap. Namjoon wonders, sometimes, if the busker even likes the things he leaves for him. Sometimes he wonders if he should leave some change—a dollar or something—instead. But giving him something that he made with his own hands seems more genuine a tip for being able to listen to him sing. Namjoon wonders, sometimes, why he goes out of his way to bring something to this person he doesn’t know. But he knows his voice by now, and he knows what it’s like to create something. To want other people to see it, hear it, taste it. Namjoon’s breath seems to come easier after he tips, in his own way.

Hwajeon , sweet rice cakes with edible flowers; hotteok , sweet, flat bread filled with brown sugar syrup; patbingsu , shaved ice topped with fresh fruit; chapssal donuts, sweet and unhealthy and amazing…. For some reason he can remember all the things he’s given to the busker. Most of the time, the busker keeps the sweets in his bag, tucked away. Namjoon tries not to linger on that, just tells himself that the busker is probably saving everything for later. He doesn’t need to worry over whether people like his baking.

They’ve only talked a handful of times, the busker giving thank you’ s for pastries and sleepy coffee orders before tutoring sessions. Namjoon never worked up the courage to ask him for his name. Or anything else besides what he’d like to order.

He finally builds up the courage to ask.

Well, ask Yoongi.

Namjoon gives in and approaches him for the busker’s name after a little over two weeks. Two weeks of tipping in sweets and sneaking glances whenever he works the counter.

Only a few people are in the café. The sun is still low in the sky, slow as it begins to wake. Everyone inside is sleepy and quiet. The winter snows and cold can’t reach inside the shop. Inside there’s only comforting warmth and soft music and good food and steaming drinks. It lulls even Namjoon into a groggy stupor, though he spends most of his days here. Though he should be used to it.

“Hyung,” he murmurs between sips of coffee as business slows. He bumps Yoongi’s shoulder with his own, “hyung.”

Yoongi hums in acknowledgement, eyes sleepy and heavy as well. His eyes are normally catlike, but even more so when he’s tired. He looks like a pink kitten. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a favor?” Namjoon holds his cup in both hands and pulls it up towards his chin. Gives his best puppy dog eyes.

Yoongi squints at him, suspicious for a moment. But he sighs and his expression quickly becomes one of fondness. He scrunches up his small nose in the way that Namjoon knows means that he’s won.

“Of course. What d’you need?”

“Oh,” Namjoon averts his gaze to his now lukewarm latte. His cheeks warm a bit with the thought of having to actually ask. He hadn’t thought that far. Hadn’t let himself, really. “Well….”

“‘Well’ what?” Yoongi asks. Leans against the counter near the register. The store’s customers are slowly dwindling away. None are in line to order, so Yoongi and Namjoon let themselves relax.

Namjoon looks up to the ceiling. Blinks. “Uh. Could you possibly, maybe, tellmethenameofyourtutorbecauseheisreallycute ?”

Namjoon cringes at how he’s rushed all his words together, but doesn’t lower his eyes from the ceiling. Yoongi blinks at him and raises his eyebrows.

“Could I what?”

Namjoon groans, embarrassed. Whispers, “Could you tell me what your tutor’s name is because he’s really cute?”

When he finally looks down, Yoongi isn’t smiling. He isn’t smiling, but—Namjoon can tell that he’s trying his hardest to hold back a massive grin, teeth clenched down on his lip.

Namjoon shrinks as his ears start to burn, “Nevermind. Please forget I said anything, thank you!”

A tiny laugh escapes despite Yoongi’s effort, “No, no! It’s fine, you’re fine. I was just waiting for you to ask.”

Namjoon frowns. He knows he has been obvious, but he didn’t think he was predictable as well.

He takes a small sip of his drink. Makes a note to himself to warm it.

“So… his name?”

Yoongi can’t hold his grin back this time, “His name’s Jeon Jeongguk. He’s a sophomore. Smart, talented, sweet. A good guy.”

Namjoon lets himself smile back, just a bit.

“Thanks, hyung.”

All Namjoon wants to do is reheat his drink and daydream scenarios of actually talking to the busker— Jeongguk —maybe even think up new recipes. Maybe he’ll give the finished products to Jeongguk.

“So,” Yoongi starts as Namjoon turns to walk away, “you think he’s cute?”

Namjoon stares deadpan at the back wall, full of coffee grinders and espresso machines and toppings. Feels his neck tingle with the force of Yoongi’s teasing gaze. He turns on his heel and glares at Yoongi.

“That’s what I said. I won’t say it again!” He whisper-shouts, flustered.

Yoongi smiles so big that his eyes close with the force of it. His lips part to show his gummy grin.

“Namjoon-ah, you’re so embarrassed. It’s okay to have a crush. You’re, like, an adult, you know?”

“I know,” Namjoon sighs, “but it’s hard to not be embarrassed when you tease me so much.”

“Psh,” Yoongi waves his hand in dismissal. “You do the exact same thing to me if I look at a customer for more than two seconds. I think I get to tease you a bit. It’s my obligation as your friend and hyung.”

“Touché,” Namjoon sighs as he moves once more to heat his coffee. He thinks as he navigates through the machines at the back. He knows all of the buttons and knobs by heart. He thinks as he heats his drink in the microwave they keep for staff use. Thinks. Thinks about what sort of pastry Jeongguk would like.

He seems bright, but soft. Lemon, orange. Lavender, vanilla. Yeah. Namjoon’s only seen and spoken to Jeongguk a few times and he’s all too endeared. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but Jeongguk reminds him of something distinct and mellow and soft.

Lemon, orange.

Lavender, vanilla.

❆

The front of Mellow Macchiato is warm and cozy, feeling more like a home than a store. But it’s still meant for customers, and that purpose still bleeds through just a bit. The back of the store, the kitchen, is somehow so similar yet so, so different to the rest of the place.

The kitchen is Namjoon’s favorite place in the whole world, he thinks.

Just like the public section of the store, the kitchen is homely. Soft lights that aren’t too bright, only warm. Fluffy towels and rags and oven mitts. Ladles and whisks and tins and pans. Many that Hoseok chose when he opened the store, but more that Namjoon hand-picked or even brought in from home. Maybe to feel a bit more like the kitchen is his, maybe just because he bakes better with when he knows the tools better. When he’s familiar.  

Namjoon smiles when he’s in the kitchen. The store isn’t opened quite yet. He’s opening with Jimin, who’s in the front letting all the machines heat. Namjoon is almost finished baking the last few things to start off the day. He smiles when he walks in. When he chooses what to make. When he pulls a cake from the oven. His lips thin out and purse when he focuses to decorate or measure ingredients, but the kitchen never fails to make him smile at least some.

The kitchen is Namjoon’s favorite place in the whole world, he knows.

He pulls a makgeolli sool bbang from the steamer with a mitt-clad hand. He hums along to the radio as he plates and ices and measures. Dances just a bit, since he’s sure no one can see him.

He piles a few trays high with loaves of bread, balances them precariously along his arm, and carries them out to set in the baskets in front. When he kicks the door open and moves to call for Jimin he falters in place.

Time passes differently when Namjoon is baking. He could’ve sworn he wasn’t back there for too long, just enough to prepare some and then help open. Only an hour, tops.

But—tired business people and college students and early birds move about Mellow Macchiato. Couples and friends chat at the tables, others order at the register. All in a sort of lull with the blanket of early morning calm that drapes over everything. It’s almost like magic, how different everything is before the sun fully wakes.

Namjoon hurries to fill the baskets behind the counter with their respective breads. Hurries over to where Jimin mans the register.

“Jimin-ah,” he whispers, trying not to bother the customers, “fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Jimin shrugs and laughs, “You do this all the time, it’s okay. Really. I don’t mind. It’s not like you’re slacking off, you’re still working.”

Namjoon ducks his head, “Still. I wanted to help you open, I feel bad.”

“No, no,” Jimin waves him off. Namjoon looks at Jimin and Jimin only. Tries to shoot all of his apologies into the younger by staring at him. He’s a nice balance of sharpness and softness. Round eyes, cheeks, lips. Sharp jaw, neck, form.

“How about,” Namjoon sees Jimin smirk and his eyes flicker somewhere past Namjoon, “to make up for it you work the register for a bit?”

“Yeah, of course,” Namjoon nods rapidly. Looks away from Jimin.

He purses his lips for a split second and wonders if he can escape back to the kitchen. Make a nice batch of macarons. Run away. The wonder doesn’t last for long. Jimin taps him on the butt and dashes away to start making drinks.

“Have fun!” Jimin giggles.

Namjoon sighs through his nose. Slaps on his best customer service smile that is just a little bit more than customer service.

“Welcome to Mellow Macchiato, how may I help you?”

Jeon Jeongguk smiles back, small. Corners of his lips weighed down with a sleepiness that also pulls at his eyelids until they droop, tired. Cute.

Namjoon’s customer service smile turns into more than just a little bit more.

“Can I get a, like, really big hazelnut latte?” Jeongguk asks. Squints at the menu behind Namjoon. “And I don’t know if there’s espresso in that, but I really hope there is.”

Namjoon suppresses a smile, nods as he types the order into the register. Jeongguk is the only customer in line, so Namjoon lets himself leave the counter to make the drink. Jeongguk sits at one of the barstools at the counter, slumped over and half asleep. Jimin raises an eyebrow as Namjoon nudges him away so that he can make Jeongguk’s drink himself. Namjoon shoos him away.

Jimin smirks at him knowingly, but moves out of the way nonetheless. Before he takes his post at the machines he grabs Namjoon’s attention and gestures at his own head. Namjoon flusters.

His bangs are pulled up in a small clip, as he always does when he bakes. He forgets the clip often, but for some reason it’s much more embarrassing when Jeongguk is there to see it.

He removes the clip from his hair and tries to make it look somewhat presentable. Sticks the clip into the pocket of his apron.

He’s still red, but trudges on to grind the coffee beans. He presses them into a handle, locks it into the espresso machine, watches the coffee pour into a large cup. He goes through the motions without having to put hardly any thought into them. But even though his mind wanders as he does the same thing he does every day, a part of his thoughts stays focused on making sure that the coffee is better than normal.

He hums a bit as he pours frothed milk into the espresso. Steam curls from it, bringing the bitter smell of the coffee and sweetness of the milk and hazelnut syrup to Namjoon’s nose. Whipped cream, toffee sprinkled atop it. The whole thing is sweet, yet balanced with the bitter espresso. Namjoon thinks it’s fitting for Jeongguk.

He grabs a small package and passes both it and the latte over the counter to Jeongguk.

“One ‘like, really big’ hazelnut latte,” Namjoon sing-songs, quiet so as to not disturb the lull of everything in the cafe. Tries not to go red as he sets the paper-wrapped box of dasik , tea cookies, beside the coffee.

“Oh! Oh. Thank you, Namjoon-ssi,” Jeongguk ducks his head a bit, both a small bow and like he’s trying to hide his face.

Namjoon gapes at Jeongguk’s back as he walks away, wondering how he knows his name before he remembers the name tag he has pinned to his apron.

“Oh, you’re whipped,” Jimin claps as he laughs.

Namjoon doesn’t deny it.

❆

Eventually, when the days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months (though only a couple) Namjoon comes to find himself talking to Jeongguk like they’re friends rather than customer and barista. They start using each other’s names and even nicknames.

Namjoon starts taking his breaks before and after Yoongi’s tutoring sessions. Before, to just listen as Jeongguk sings. After, to simply sit and talk about nothing over a cup of oolong tea and a hazelnut latte.

Namjoon’s not really sure how it happened. It feels like he just woke up one day and went from gawking to actually being something resembling friends. It was sudden yet took time, and Namjoon enjoys every bit of it.

“Why do you sing?” Namjoon had asked once.

Jeongguk’s eyebrows rose then furrowed, “Why do I sing…?”

Namjoon nodded, eager to listen. Jeongguk’s voice gets a slight lilt to it when he talks about things he loves, almost like he’s singing.

“It’s hard to put into words, I think,” Jeongguk started and his voice slowly took on a dream-like quality. Hazy and soft and warm. “When I sing I feel like I can do more than just be a person, y’know? I can leave a song with a person. They can hear my voice and they might not remember me, but they might just remember my voice and it might even make them feel something. So… I think that’s why. Yeah. To be more than human, for just a little.”

Namjoon didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sure what answer he expected, but all that Jeongguk gave him was much more than whatever it was he did expect.

Jeongguk had ducked his head, a small habit Namjoon had begun to notice. Rubbed the palm of one hand with his other.

“Sorry, that was kind of a lot,” he laughed small and embarrassed.

Namjoon shook his head, “No, no. It’s really nice to hear someone love something so much.”

Jeongguk somehow managed to duck his head further, until he was hidden completely by his light brown bangs. He lifted his head just a bit to let his big round eyes peek out from between strands of hair.

“Why do you bake, hyung?”

That question took him aback. Why does he bake? He thinks about it all the time. Thinks about what he’ll make next time he’s in a kitchen, whether or not people will like it. He loves it. Puts so much into it. But he’d never asked himself why. Why does he do it? Just because he likes it? Is that reason to do something?

“I… I don’t know,” he had settled with that answer. “Just because I love it.”

He smiled. Hoped Jeongguk didn’t ask any more. Jeongguk gave him a small, soft look. In that moment Namjoon felt like Jeongguk could hear all of the confusion roiling in his mind.

Jeongguk didn’t ask more. Just smiled, sipped his coffee. Talked. Somehow, he knew.

❆

Namjoon has come to find that Jeongguk is both loud and quiet. Quiet in how he thinks and worries and feels. Loud in how he laughs and talks and wonders. He’s a magnificent ball of energy, always bubbling over with something to say. And yet beneath all of that he is still so calm. Quiet.

Jeongguk’s apartment is the same way. Quiet in its decoration, yet so, so loud in everything else. The first time Namjoon had to go to the apartment, it was to give him back a binder he had left in the cafe, at the same table he always tutors Yoongi. He’d gotten Jeongguk’s number through Yoongi, who had refused to take the binder back himself or let Namjoon wait until the next day to return it.

He only met Jeongguk at the door that first time after getting his address over text. A few hesitant knocks. A sleepy Jeongguk had opened the door, for once wearing something other than shorts. Namjoon had stumbled over his words. Jeongguk had been quiet, but thankful. Welcoming.

After that it was like Jeongguk fell into a habit of forgetting his things.

And somehow, each and every time, Namjoon found himself at Jeongguk’s door. Arms full of physics homework. And somehow, Namjoon has found himself in Jeongguk’s apartment rather than turning tail as soon as possible. It happened just as naturally as how they began to talk.

Going inside to escape the cold for a moment. Going in for a cup of water. Going in to just talk. And then, listening to Jeongguk sing along under his breath the soundtrack of every Ghibli movie they marathon. Listening to Jeongguk praise Yoongi’s improvement in his required credit. Listening to Jeongguk’s soft breathing after he falls asleep on the couch when they stay up too late playing awful computer games. Listening to Jeongguk read his schoolwork aloud like a mantra, trying so hard to make it perfect.

There are lots of things that Namjoon has realized, as well.

He has realized that maybe, possibly, this little thing that he feels for Jeongguk is much much more than a little thing. Because when he looks at Jeongguk he can feel his muscles relax. Because when he hears Jeongguk’s laugh he can feel himself smile without thinking. Because Jeongguk is bright bright bright and Namjoon is in awe of him.

He has realized that maybe, possibly, people that develop crushes on their customers don’t begin to see them more at each other’s homes than at the customer-employee workplace. But Namjoon doesn’t linger on that. He doesn’t mind. Because seeing Jeongguk in his own element is even better, brighter than seeing Jeongguk at Mellow Macchiato. Namjoon knows that he, himself, is brightest in a kitchen or at home or a park. And he thinks that maybe, possibly, Jeongguk might be in awe of Namjoon’s brightness just as Namjoon is of his.

He has realized that, yes, definitely, Jeongguk is bright orange zest and sweet soft vanilla. And he has realized that there is just so much to bake when he has someone like Jeongguk to think about.

❆

The very last of winter’s snows have melted away. Winter always has a strange, tranquil surrealness to it, and with the snows gone and weather warming it’s almost like waking from a dream. A dream filled with the new year and fireplaces and the type of warmth that summer doesn’t have. The type of warmth that comes from making the warmth yourself when everything else is cold cold cold.

Orders at Mellow Macchiato slowly, slowly begin to include iced drinks. Light coffees, fruit teas, herbal things. Yuzu, ginseng, plum, and buckwheat teas. Namjoon always likes the café best in winter, when the place itself begins to feel like a dream. But the leaves begin to return and with the subtle spring also comes so many new things to bake.

Namjoon’s brow furrows as he thinks.

“Do you like what I bake for you?” He asks Jeongguk after a half hour watching an old harem anime. The raspberry cream-filled lemon cupcake Namjoon had made special still sits untouched on the coffee table. Something more American. Western desserts have piqued his interests lately. So many flavors and so much sweetness. So much, all at once.

When Namjoon really thinks about it, he only sees Jeongguk eat the pastries on ever so rare occasions.

“Mm?” Jeongguk startles a bit at the sudden words, looks up at Namjoon with big eyes. “Huh?”

“Do you…” Namjoon suddenly feels embarrassed, “Do you like what I bake for you?”

Jeongguk blinks slow, tired. Namjoon can almost see him thinking. The clock reads 3:00 P.M but with the blinds pulled closed and blankets tucked in and quiet show playing everything feels much later. Sleepier.

“Oh, of course I do!” Jeongguk whisper-shouts as Namjoon’s question registers. “You’re so, so good at what you do. Everything is amazing, of course I like it.”

“Oh,” Namjoon ducks his head. Doesn’t know what to say.

“Why?” Jeongguk asks.

“Oh,” Namjoon repeats. “Um, I just. I never really see you eat anything I make, so I was just wondering. Not—Not that you have to eat anything, like, you don’t! I was just… I don’t know?”

Jeongguk eyes widen and he stumbles over his words for a moment. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he looks panicked and Namjoon regrets bringing it up. “I just… forget sometimes.”

Namjoon shakes his head, “No, it’s fine. Don’t say sorry. It doesn’t matter, y’know?”

“No, no, I feel bad,” Jeongguk laughs. Scratches the back of his neck. He looks around for a moment, cheeks flushed. Namjoon picks at the skin around his nails. He wishes he’d never brought any of this up.

“Here!” Jeongguk picks the cupcake up from the table. Takes a comically large bite of it.

“See!” He says through a mouthful of lemon and raspberry, “It’s good!”

Namjoon just looks at him for a moment. Hair all sorts of mussed from doing nothing all day, cheeks puffed around too much cupcake and flushed with… something . And Namjoon just throws his head back and laughs .

Jeongguk sticks out his bottom lip and pouts . The smile on Namjoon’s face stretches so wide that it just might fall off. His dimples are sore from the force of it.

“What’s so funny?” Jeongguk asks after swallowing his mouthful of cupcake.

“Nothing,” Namjoon shakes his head. Can’t quite wipe away his smile. “Nothing. You’re just…” something , brilliant , amazing , “cute.”

Jeongguk tips his chin down close to his chest and hides behind his hair. In this dim light, with soft music from somewhere far-off, the sweet scent of Jeongguk’s place, and the hum of just a little bit of something else , everything feels like magic. Namjoon can see the tips of Jeongguk’s ears blush pink in the low light.

“I’m no—” Jeongguk starts, “Thank you….” He’s quiet. Timid.

Namjoon wonders if he should regret being so obvious.

He wonders.

He doesn’t regret it at all.

❆

Two days. Two days fall after that day. Monday, Tuesday. Tutoring days. Days Jeongguk always, always comes to the cafe.

Jeongguk doesn’t come on those days for the first time since they had met. It’s only two days. It shouldn’t matter. Right?

Namjoon wonders if he said something wrong.

He starts to regret.

❆

Beyond Bondage is quaint. Monochrome and inconspicuous, despite its name.

Namjoon sits on a stool behind the counter, slumped over the granite top with his forehead pressed to the cold stone. His stomach hurts, in that tight, aching way that worry brings. As though his stomach is holding its breath, just as upset as he is.

The owner of the store pokes him in the arm.

“I’m not gonna throw you a pity party in a sex shop, Namjoon-ah.” Seokjin says as he readies everything to open shop. Seokjin is Namjoon’s best friend, all shoulders and eyebrows, pouty lips and strong chin.

Namjoon looks up from the counter to glare at Seokjin, “I bet your pity parties suck, anyway.”

“My pity parties are fantastic, and I know you want one.” He attaches a sticker to a kegel ball set with a pricing gun.

Namjoon lets his forehead make its way back to the cold granite. “Yeah,” he agrees. Changes his mind. “Well I don’t want, like, pity from everyone. I just… I guess I just want to know if I did something wrong.”

He starts rambling. And he can tell when he starts to ramble, his face warms and he emphasizes each word with his hands. But he can’t stop.

“And I shouldn’t even be worried about if I did something, hyung! Jeongguk is allowed to not come to a fucking coffee shop slash bakery for a couple of days without me making it about myself.” Namjoon tries to make his voice sound light. Joking, over exaggerating. But his stomach still hurts, in a way that’s different than sickness or hunger. And he is worried. “And even beyond me wondering if I fucked up, I hope he’s alright.”

Seokjin rests a hand between Namjoon’s shoulder blades the way they always do when one of them is anxious. “Hey, stupid. It’s okay to be worried about someone you,” he gestures with the pricing gun, “ like like. And it doesn’t even sound like you’re making it about yourself, not really. It’s okay to feel like that. I know you wouldn’t grab Jeongguk by the shoulders and yell at him for your own worries, right?”

“Of course not,” Namjoon shakes his head.

“Exactly. You’re worried about him because this is the first time he’s missed a tutoring session, especially because you are whipped at this point. And again, because you like him and because you want to hug him and because you’re, well, you , you’re scared that you made a mistake.”

Namjoon nods slow, thankful for his friend.

“What did you do to make yourself so worried?” Seokjin asks, voice soft.

Namjoon blushes and turns his face away from Seokjin, “I, uh, told him he’s cute.”

He can feel Seokjin’s incredulous look through the back of his head. The sound of the pricing gun ceases.

“That’s all?” Seokjin asks. “No smooches, embraces? No… No canoodling , even?”

Namjoon turns to face Seokjin, cheeks burning, “No! Just… just the cute thing.”

“Don’t worry so much about that.” Those words don’t come from Seokjin. Namjoon turns his head, startled.

One of the owners of the other store that brackets Mellow Macchiato makes his way to the counter.

“Fuck, Taehyung, you scared me,” Namjoon breathes. “I always forget you leave the doors unlocked when you’re in, Seokjin-hyung.”

“Me too,” Seokjin agrees.

Namjoon furrows his brows at Taehyung, “What do you mean don’t worry?”

Taehyung joins them behind the counter and rolls to a stop beside Namjoon. He’s less shoulders than Seokjin, but a bit more eyebrows.  

“You were talking about Jeongguk, right?” Taehyung asks as he watches Seokjin apply price tags.

Seokjin nods, dark hair bobbing.

Namjoon has visited the store to the right of the cafe many times. Working right next door and constantly visiting, he came to know Taehyung easily. And yet he never thought that Taehyung and Jeongguk knew each other.

“You’re friends?” Namjoon cocks his head, curious. Blushes when he realizes what Taehyung heard.

“I was his roommate for a bit before I graduated, and we’ve been close since. And what I mean was don’t worry because Jeongguk definitely didn’t mind you telling him that he’s cute.”

He and Seokjin snicker in tandem as Namjoon frowns.

“You two talked about it?” He isn’t sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed.

“Just a bit, like you and hyung,” he scratches through his dark brown hair, then drums his palms against his thighs. “Not looking forward to it warming up anymore. The heat is a bitch on the GBS.”

“Winter is the best season,” Namjoon hums. He shifts a bit in his seat, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “I know you told me not to worry about what I said, but can I still worry about why Jeongguk hasn’t been coming in the Mellow at all? Or is that weird?”

Taehyung sniffs, thinks. “No, not weird. Endearing, I’d say,” he shoots a look at Seokjin. “Right?”

Seokjin nods, tucks the tagger away in a drawer, “Definitely.”

“Is he alright?” Namjoon can’t help himself. He wants to be quiet, stop asking questions, act normal. Stop being so obvious. Because even though Taehyung said not to worry, his stomach still burns with regret. And being so obvious to even his friends just curdles the feeling further. He wishes he could stuff his words back in his mouth. All of them. Wishes he could be back on the sofa with Jeongguk, watching-not-watching shitty TV shows.

Taehyung’s mouth twists at Namjoon’s question. “He’s… alright.” Hesitates. “Sick. He’s sick. It’s nothing bad, not in comparison, but it’s still hard on him.”

Deep down in his stomach everything burns, with something else. It burns so hot that it melts away the regret, leaving only a thick layer of concern simmering.

“Sick? Fuck, I can’t believe I immediately tried to make it about me. Is he really okay?”

Taehyung nods, “Jeongguk-ah has Celiac disease, hyung. He has stomach pains often because of accidental gluten or asshole waiters, but he’s pretty good about what he eats.”

Namjoon blanches.

“He doesn’t have the super big reactions much anymore, not like he used to, but he still gets to where he has to stay in bed and take a few days off, sometimes.”

“That damned cupcake,” Namjoon groans.

“Cupcake? What?” Seokjin asks.

“I baked for Jeongguk, and while I was over I asked him why sometimes he doesn’t eat anything I make. I just wanted to know if it was, like, gross, y’know? And he got all worried and ate the cupcake I made. Which… definitely had gluten. Fuck, why did I do that?” Namjoon runs  his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into fists.

“Hey,” Taehyung rests a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know, and something like gluten isn’t anything people that don’t have Celiac think of. He didn’t tell you, you couldn’t have known.”

“I know,” Namjoon leans into his friend’s touch. “I know that I couldn’t have known. I still feel bad. I… don’t want him to be sick.”

“Has he not had any other of the pastries with gluten?” Seokjin questions.

“I think so. I… well I gave him a lot, but he didn’t eat all of them. Maybe the ones that he did just—just didn’t have enough in them to make him sick?”

“I told him to tell you,” Taehyung groans. “That way he could still eat your pastries without getting sick, but he just kept telling me it would be fine.”

Namjoon tucks his face in his hands and shakes his head, “He’s okay, right?”

“Of course, of course. He’s sick, but he’ll be better. He doesn’t blame you, and it isn’t your fault either.”

Seokjin chimes in, “Hey. I know you’re worried. You’re you, and you care about him. You care about everyone and everything, and that’s amazing and I love you for it. Just don’t feel too bad about this. Okay? You can care about him without beating yourself up.”

“I just don’t want him to be sick.”

Seokjin sets down the tagging gun and leans into Namjoon. Taehyung wheels around to Namjoon’s other side A not-quite hug. Strange little shoulder touches, and yet they make Namjoon feel so much better.

“Hey,” he leans his head against Taehyung's, “is rice flour gluten free?”

❆

Thin paper crinkles beneath Namjoon’s fingers. The sun glares through the windows of the bus, at that strange position between noon and horizon. In one hand Namjoon holds a paper bag, and in the other he grips a bus pole. The bus itself sways lightly as it makes its way through traffic, and Namjoon bobs along with it.

Public transportation is awkward, over-crowded, and uncomfortably warm, and yet. Namjoon has always kind of enjoyed it. For some reason, despite the obligatory uncomfortable-ness it makes him feel… comforted. The little bit of knowing that he’s doing—just a little bit— for the planet. He’s not the best driver, either. And for some reason being on the subway or a bus always feels a bit like an adventure.

His heart is racing, and his palms are damp with nerves. That only adds to the feeling of adventure, he thinks.

Seoul is a blur through the windows. The buildings melts into one big painting. Streaks of color that fly past. Namjoon can feel the bus pass over potholes beneath his feet. Can feel himself swaying side to side with it. Knows he’s getting closer and closer to Jeongguk’s home. And yet, it feels as though he’s completely still, and the painting of the city is what’s moving around him.

He adjusts his grip on the bag when the bus rolls to a stop at a red light. Makes sure the contents are safe and haven’t been jostled around too much. The buildings that pass grow more and more familiar, and he gets ready to pull the cord to exit the bus.

The bus trundles to a stop and Namjoon walks through the doors and out of his adventure.

Jeongguk’s neighborhood is small, like Namjoon’s. Stuffed with apartments and shops. It’s homely though, despite the manufactured-ness. He admires everything for a second, all of the little dogs and plants and people, then hunts down the right apartment building. The building rests on the corner of the block, just past where the bus had stopped. The thing whips by Namjoon as he buzzes himself in, carrying the adventure away with it. Jeongguk’s voice is hoarse over the intercom, and Namjoon frowns.

Jeongguk’s place is on the middle floor, sandwiched between a couple other layers of housing. The passcode to the apartment is almost muscle memory now. All of the hours that they’ve spent on the sofa, arguing over 90’s anime. Hours they’ve spent at the kitchen table, Namjoon rambling about what seasoning go best together. Hours they’ve spent at Jeongguk’s desk as he tries to explain his multivariable calculus homework with bright eyes.  

Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if he’s doing all of that because he’s trying to procrastinate seeing Jeongguk again. Which. Doesn’t make all that much sense to him. He types in the wrong number at the end of the code and shakes his head before trying again. He misses—and has missed—Jeongguk in the days he hasn’t gotten to see him. It’s all kind of pathetic and piney, but true. And now he feels damp all over and jittery with nerves and still, in some strange pit between his stomach and his heart: guilty.

The second time Namjoon presses all the right numbers.

He lets himself in, like Jeongguk told him to, and. Jeongguk is right there. Halfway to the door, arm stretched out for the handle.

Jeongguk takes his hand back sheepishly, and pulls the blanket he has tucked around himself closer.

“I heard the door do the buzz for the wrong code and I didn’t know who it was.” He ducks his head and laughs at himself, “I didn’t know you were coming.”

The corners of of Namjoon’s lips turn up with fondness, while his cheeks warm just the slightest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything, I just—I just wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay? I should have called first.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jeongguk waves his hand about nonchalantly. And yet the rest of him still fidgets nervously. “I’m… glad to see you. Really.” He laughs, cheeks pink. “And I’m glad you aren’t a burglar.”

Inside the apartment, the lighting is dim. Lamps are off, and only the sun that shines through the windows lights the rooms. Soft light over soft cream colored walls and soft green plants.

He toes his sneakers off and follows Jeongguk to the living room, bag held tight in his hand.

He’s used to seeing other places that are much more a home than his, but it’s still a shock to see just how… Jeongguk that the apartment is. Even after seeing it so many times before. But it’s still warm and fuzzy, homely. A little piece of Jeongguk. One that brings a small smile to his lips.

Everything is warm. Warm with pillows and blankets, and bursting with color. Art lines the walls, plants cover the windowsills. Textbooks and papers are sprawled everywhere.

Jeongguk strikes a match. Presses the flame to the wicks of each candle that lines the table. The candles spark to life and Jeongguk blows the match out. Everything becomes a little brighter. A little warmer.

They both curl up onto the couch. In the spots they always take. Namjoon draws his knees up under his chin. Shuffles around, nervous.

He clears his throat and tucks his hair behind his ears. “How have you been?”

Jeongguk looks up at him, eyes wide. His hair is messy, eyes tired, and skin sallow. Sick. He looks sick. “I’ve been good, what about you?” He picks at the skin around his nails as he speaks. Even if Namjoon didn’t know about his Celiac, he would be able to see it. Be able to tell the lie.

“I know you’ve been sick.”

He tries to sound stern, confident. But still gentle and concerned. Jeongguk gives him a startled look, before sighing.

“It was Taehyung, wasn’t it?”

Namjoon laughs, fiddles with the edge of the bag, “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk runs his hands through his hair and groans.

Namjoon shakes his head, “No, no! If anything, I’m sorry. I’m the one that got you sick. You’re my friend, and I—I should have known something so important about you.”

Jeongguk looks at him with his brows pulled together in concern. Wrings his hands together.

“You should have known, yes. But—-But it’s still not your fault, hyung. You should have known because I should have told you. There’s no way you could have just known, not all by yourself. It’s my fault. Really.”

“Hey,” Namjoon insists. “It’s not your fault, either. It’s okay. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me, but… well now I know! About the allergy at least. And…” he coughs nervously, “and I’ve been doing a lot of research, and I’ve been testing a ton of gluten-free flours, and—well. Here.”

He thrusts the bag toward Jeongguk, hands held out and head tilted down. He can’t quite make himself meet Jeongguk’s eyes.

Jeongguk takes it, hesitant and curious.

“It took a few stores, but I found gluten-free all purpose flour, and bungeoppang is the first thing that came to mind. It’s, well, it’s my favorite. ” Namjoon shifts where he’s seated, knees tucked beneath his chin. He fiddles with the cuffed ends of his jeans.

Jeongguk opens the bag and pulls out a fish-shaped dessert. He holds it in both hands, gentle and careful. As though it’s something fragile. He only looks at it for a moment. Then smiles. Then grins.

And then he’s laughing, and Namjoon is laughing too because he can never help it when he hears Jeongguk’s laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” Namjoon nudges him.

“You really made this just for me?” Jeongguk asks.

The question makes Namjoon’s ears warm. He nods.

Jeongguk looks at the red bean-filled pastry with a big, lopsided smile. He laughs again, breathy and a little bit of something else.

“I haven’t had one of these in so long . Not since I was a kid,” he takes a bite and speaks with his mouth full, eyebrows raised and giddy. “I’ve never been able to find any that I can eat.”

He laughs again around a mouthful, and Namjoon startles when he sees a tear bud at the corner of Jeongguk’s eye.

“What’s wrong?” He leans forward, stretches a hand out even though he doesn’t know what to do. Pulls it back and lets it rest between them.

“Nothing,” Jeongguk shakes his head. “Nothing at all. It’s perfect, actually. I’m just happy. Really happy. It’s like getting to have a part of my childhood again. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

Namjoon frowns a bit, “I didn’t want to make you cry.”

“No!” Jeongguk insists. Sniffles. “I’m happy. Happy tears.”

Namjoon looks at him, really looks at him. And, yeah. He can see it in the creases just to the side of Jeongguk’s eyes. Creases from the small smile that pulls up the corners of his lips. He can see it in the little dimple that curves into Jeongguk’s cheek. He can see it in how he looks from the dessert to Namjoon and back, all soft and warm and watery.

Namjoon looks at him, really looks at him. And then he knows. Why does he bake? That’s what Jeongguk had asked. Namjoon knows.

He knows he knows he knows.

“I’m glad,” Namjoon moves his legs so that he’s sitting criss-cross applesauce. The candlelight flickers gold-red-pink over everything. “I’m glad you feel better.”

The sofa cushions rock as Jeongguk fidgets. He carefully puts the half eaten bungeoppang into the bag and onto the table. “My stomach still kind of hurts, but it’s way better.”

Namjoon’s hand still rests on the open sofa between them, and he curls his fingers to stop himself from reaching out again. He smiles, looks up from his hand to Jeongguk’s eyes, “Good.”

He can only meet his eyes for a second before having to look away. Somewhere else. He chooses the little mole below Jeongguk’s lips.

“Do you remember when I asked you why you sing? And then you asked me why… why I bake?” Namjoon pulls himself just the smallest bit closer to Jeongguk. Just the smallest bit.

Jeongguk nods, and Namjoon keeps speaking.

“Well, I think I know now.” Namjoon furrows his brows and shakes his head. “No. I know that I know now.”

“Tell me.” Jeongguk’s grin is giddy and bright-eyed.

“I've been baking forever, really. Cookies with my father when I was little, cakes for birthday parties. Boxed things, mostly. I always liked it, had so much fun doing it, but I always thought I would go to college and pursue some practical career. And I tried that, I did. I lasted a year. The girl I was sharing an apartment with was doing culinary arts, and she would let me help when she was working on something at home, or let me taste things she was working on for projects. And, I don’t know, doing that– baking –was so much more than being a practical person going after a practical degree. So I switched schools: a lengthy, messy process. From a law school to a culinary school.” Namjoon knows he’s talking too much, and yet Jeongguk’s rapt attention doesn’t waver. Doesn’t leave him. “And I did that for years, a whole other story, really. I started working at Mellow, and I just kept baking. I loved doing it. No, I love doing it. But I never thought about why I do it or why I love it, not until you asked me.

“I’ve been thinking about it, ever since we talked, but I haven’t been able to figure it out. But seeing you with a dessert that I baked, being so unbelievably happy? That’s why.” Namjoon’s skin prickles with warmth after he realizes just how much he has rambled. “It has to be.”

Jeongguk bites down on his bottom lip with oversized front teeth. The corners of his lips turn up at the edges despite him trying to hold it back. He’s silent for a few seconds, and Namjoon can practically see the cogs turning inside Jeongguk’s head as he works up what to say. He does that often: thinks and thinks and thinks before he speaks.

But most of the time he—

“I’m so fucking happy for you, hyung. Well, I knew you could do it—no, I knew that you knew, deep down. I, uh, I mean, maybe you didn’t know. But even if you didn’t I knew you could figure it out. And even—even if you didn’t, that’s okay. It’s okay to do what makes you happy without having a reason.”

But most of the time he rambles.

He takes a deep breath after his little tidal wave of words. And then it’s Namjoon’s turn to hold back a smile. He feels like neurons firing and fireworks exploding and all the stupid, stupid lovely things that come when infatuated.

He wants to say something, something big and eloquent and heartfelt. But he rambles just as much as Jeongguk.

“Thank you, Jeongguk-ah,” is all he says. Tilts his head down. Picks at the frayed edges of the blanket that covers the sofa. Watches that candle light flicker over Jeongguk’s Sailor Neptune socks.

“You know, at first I thought you weren’t coming into the cafe because you were mad at me.” He starts, and he can feel the couch cushions shift as Jeongguk jolts in surprise. “I know,” he keeps going before Jeongguk can say anything, “it was stupid, but I thought I made you uncomfortable when I…” he flushes, “when I called you cute. And then Taehyung told me that you were—are—just sick, and then I felt guilty. Feel guilty. I made it about myself because I was worried about what you think of me. I’m always worried about that. And then I was only worried about you, and if you were okay. And I still might have made you uncomfortable, and I’m really sorry, but I had to make sure that you’re okay.”

The candle light curves around the round length of Jeongguk’s nose bridge, brings shadows of his lashes down his cheeks like spider’s legs.

“You’ve never made me uncomfortable, Namjoon-hyung,” Jeongguk laughs a bit as he speaks, incredulous almost. “I think you’re the only one that would think calling someone cute is a crime. You’re not a creepy person on the street. You’re Namjoon: my friend who loves baking and loves his friends and loves my music, and—and worries about me.”

His face is red and his eyes wide. Hands splayed and moving as he speaks. Urgent.

“You’ve never made me uncomfortable, hyung. I—I liked it when you called me cute,” he brings his hands up to scratch the nape of his neck. Namjoon’s whole body burns, warm and fiery. But he thinks that Jeongguk might be blushing too, and being embarrassed like this doesn’t feel so bad. “Thank you. For worrying about me.”

Jeongguk’s hands are still lifted, even though he’s stopped speaking. Namjoon is slow as he covers them with his own and careful as he brings them down to rest between them. He moves to pull his hands back, but Jeongguk stops him. He looks down at his hands holding Namjoon’s with parted lips and wide eyes. He lets go quickly and stumbles over his words.

“Sorry! Sorry. I don’t—I don’t know what that was. I just—”

“It’s okay,” Namjoon says. For once not feeling embarrassed and flushed. He opens his palms to Jeongguk lets him rest his own their. He carefully twines their fingers together. And even though he isn’t flushed red and embarrassed, his heart beats so furiously that he wonders if Jeongguk can hear it.

Jeongguk’s hands are soft. Slightly calloused at the palms. Namjoon wonders if it’s from holding a microphone so often. Rough at the fingertips. Namjoon knows that’s from the guitar that sits propped in the corner. He hopes his own hands aren’t sweaty and gross.

“It’s okay,” Jeongguk echoes, voice small. His doe eyes are so wide, lit up with candlelight and nervousness. Trained on their hands, curled around each other.

❆

It takes a while, but Namjoon learns how to bake for Jeongguk. It takes a while, but Namjoon finally opens his own bakery. A little stage to the left of the door, the perfect size for a guitar and someone Jeongguk-shaped.