ONE. 

It’s a miracle you made it to the office on time despite just leaving the house literally just 10 minutes ago. Hating your job plays a huge role in getting ready fast. You weren’t up late. You were awake by 5.30 am. The reason for your delay was none other than the snooze button. It had 10 minutes of snooze and you’ve approximately pressed exactly 10 times which equates to 100 minutes so you woke up at 7:10 am. It takes 20 minutes to get to your workplace and by 7:20 am you’ve arrived. Of course, paired with some frantic honks, several road rage episodes and some fast and very furious speeding that could have cost you some 3-months salary fines, you’ve made it on time. You dashed past the security guard house and to the thumbprint area where you’re supposed to punch your time-in. Literally jogging your way there, perspiring a thin layer of sweat and sunscreen running down your chin and trailing down your neck that is.

Mornings aren’t supposed to feel this hot, right?

The thumbprint scanner was just right there, your feet lunged over. Your ankles are locked in the sole purpose to close the distance, and it was at the tip of your tongue, a hairline distant. The clock is 7:59, you could still make it before 8. You could still be on the run as the employee on-time for 2 years straight and then…

Your lanyard whirls in front of you. A tall dark figure, clad in black from top to bottom stole your spot. Your thumb presses on top of his and his prints get scanned. The scanner beeps, keying in 8:00 am for him. You frowned at the sight and glared at the owner of the body. He quickly retracted his thumb and scratched the side of his nose with his forefinger, avoiding eye contact with you. You didn’t need a second more to know who it was. You know him by the sound of his boots, by the smell of his cheap musky cologne, clothed mask and black jumpsuit, hugging a helmet on his hip. This intrusion and co-worker from hell, was none other than,

“Min. Yoongi.”

He cleared his throat. He lifted his face, spun his heel around and left the area, not a word was said. Not even any indication of apology, he just fucking left. As if you were never there. As if he didn’t just cut in line. He just… disappeared. You called his name several times, stormed after him. Your backpack flung around as you made a drastic turn to (in your head, you planned to either strangle him or bludgeon with your folded umbrella) and stopped Yoongi in his tracks. Yoongi tried to walk on your left, your right, and around but you didn’t let him. 

“Go away,” he muttered, eyes thrown to the left as he grips tighter on his bag strap on one shoulder. His shoulder length mullet slightly moved with the wind.

“Apologize,” you demanded.

“No,” he spat, trailing his eyes down to you.

“You cut into my line!” you screeched.

He scoffed and said, “You were so slow… Why do I have to apologize for you being so slow?”

“I was there first, I came in and no one was there and it was 7:59 am and I could still have made it and then you barged in unwarranted might I add, and you just stole my spot!” you lifted your forefinger to add the severity of the situation, “Apologize!”

“But I don’t feel sorry,” he shrugged his shoulders, looking blankly at you and his lips in the shape of a slight pout. Then he lifted his left wrist for his wrist watch and he darted dryly, “And you’re 5 minutes late for the meeting.”

“What meeting?” 

“The first week of the month planning meeting,” he said.

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck,” you stormed and walked past him until he caught you by the collar and said in a dry tone, “You haven’t punched in.”

“And whose fault is that,” you spoke through gritted teeth. You pinched his wrist and he recoiled while hissing in silent pain. He was in legit pain but he didn’t want to sound weak so he bit the insides of his cheek and squinted at your tiny body as you walked towards the thumbprint scanner again. 

“I need this hand to earn a living!” he hollered at your sorry back. Then when he’s sure you didn’t see him, he throws a smirk. Then shrugs it off in the presence of somebody. 

You hated Min Yoongi. For as long as you worked here, you have hated the sight of him. You and Yoongi go way back. You started your internship in this company 2 years ago. He was already working as a Machine Specialist for 4 years. 

You thought he looked cute the first time you saw him, with his incredibly fair skin and veiny arms— he was a sight. He has a mullet, dyed blonde at the tips and you have never seen such feminine set of lips on a guy before; they’re almost doll-like! Or ever imagined it to be possible until you met a certain Min Yoongi. 

Broad shoulders and a pretty face, it was not difficult to fall for him, or to have a slight crush. You may or may not have ogled over him like a lovesick teenager the first two days in this factory. Being an intern, who could stop you? Until one day, your superior Seokjin told you to follow a certain Machine Specialist around to learn how machines work, and that Machine Specialist, MS for short, was none other than Min Yoongi. 

He was supposed to train you and by the end of two weeks, you will be put to a test and Min Yoongi will be marking you. As instructed by Seokjin. 

As an intern, you have lots of questions. 

Let’s say you did sort of give him a hard time. It is not easy, because even though you excelled in the theory part of the machines, seeing it physically and managing it hands-on is something that would take time. It doesn’t take a genius to know that. For the first few days together, Yoongi was a machine-gun in explaining the parts and screws, nuts and bolts of the machine and this isn’t just one, there were at least 8 machines at work at the moment. 

“Sir, may I ask…”

“Mr. Min.”

“Sorry, Mr.Min…”

He was as dry as the Sahara desert. With every questions you asked, he managed to make you look stupid. To the point where you sort of whack yourself in the head for asking an incredibly superficial question that could have been answered with 10% of brain knowledge and a whole lot of common sense. Raising your hand in tiny, Yoongi huffed. From the sound of his sighs, you know he was getting tired with all the shenanigans you brought into his plate that day.

“What now…”

“What if the primary packaging line doesn’t work will the secondary packaging line stop too?”

“If there is no cook, does the waiter have anything to send to the customer’s table?”

You let out an awkward laughter.

“That would be a no, got it,” you scribbled it down on your notebook that you carried around. 

“Maybe if one spends more time actually involved in the process, and less with pen and papers in lectures, maybe, it will be easier to absorb in that thick skull of yours…” he muttered under his breath but you caught every word. You suffered a few more hours with him before you returned to Seokjin’s office to cry about how he treated you. And your best bet was Seokjin was going to hear every detail.

Seokjin widens his eyes in absolute shock, his shook his head several times and said,

“Well, I thought you too would get along well since you both are the same age and all.”

“What?” you paused,  “We’re. The. Same. Age??!”

Soekjin nodded and pursed his lips.

“He made me call him Mr. Min!” You wail more, sniffing into the tissue Seokjin gave you and Seokjin opens a new box of tissue seeing your state. Not enough with that, after the strenuous, most stressful 4 weeks with Min Yoongi, you were astounded to know that you had the lowest score for the machine-understanding test, marked by yours truly, Min Yoongi. And for petty reasons too. For not remembering the nuts and screw sizes, for misspelling the machines names and date of manufacture and many more that even Seokjin finds utterly ridiculous to give such low marks for. Under Seokjin’s own supervision, you sit the test again and this time, you requested a different examiner— and you passed to continue the next part of your internship.

It was that moment on, you decided that Yoongi is a jerk. No compromise. A full-fledged demon wearing a human mask. 

I don’t care how pretty he looks, he is an absolute ass for living and for existing near me. Although I imagine highly inappropriate stuff with his veiny hands to help me sleep at night, he in all he is, in person, is a pain in the ass. My ass.

But you don’t have to like the person to fantasize about him, right? Even as he sits across the cafeteria with his green lunch box, scrolling through his phone nonchalantly as if he didn’t just ruin your day a couple of hours ago in front of the thumbprint scanner. 

You also don’t remember phones being that small in someone’s hand. How is he able to hold it in one hand, that’s ridiculous. Just how big is his hand really. You tunneled into the vision of his veiny arms, his whitened knuckles and his rolled up sleeves. His Timberland boots rocking away to adhere to his vibrating knees. You imagined putting your hands on those arms. The callus on his fingertips gliding down your ribs, hips and thighs. You felt your nipples hardened at the thought, a familiar thudding on your nubs and the classic squirming between your thighs. You had to look down at your pitiful lunch consisting of limp salads, a carton of milk and banana, and put your backpack on your lap to distract yourself. 

Yoongi stood up and you noticed he had tied his jacket around his waist, on top of his dark blue jumpsuit. Your eyes must have been playing tricks on you but you thought you saw the outlines of his package. It was a quick glance, but it was so prominent. Your lips dried up at the thought. Lucky girl, his girlfriend is. If that’s the package he's carrying, she would be extremely happy and full. Pun intended. But let’s not forget, he is still that jackass who gave you the lowest mark, insulted you for studying and made you call him Mr. Min when he is your age. He walked in front of your table bringing his lunch box in one hand and it took everything in you not to glance down at his—

“Salad makes people miserable, and late I guess,” he remarked. A small grin playing on the side of his lips as he taps on his lunch box on your table just to spite you. You glared and rolled your eyes at him. You took the straw and drank your kiddie box of milk, trying to ignore him.

“I wasn’t late, I was hijacked of my spot,” you grinded your jaws, answering.

“Isn’t it too late for that?” He eyed the milk, “Growth stops at 16 for girls, right?” he giggled low.

“Get off my ass Yoongi…”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Another thing to be annoyed about is how HR placed your locker right below Min Yoongi’s. You have requested for a change of locker in the opposing section but for now, HR said there are no available lockers with the size you preferred. HR said a lot of things, from under construction to missing keys; the key point take-away here is, you’re not getting a new locker unless you buy one yourself. But of course, they won’t allow you to do that. So here you are, under Yoongi’s elbow, trying to put your lunch boxes in, and trying to get a bottle of water, his hip occasionally brushing against your ass when you lowered your stand to poke your head in the locker. Yoongi has a habit of humming as he looks for things in his locker. It sounds like purrs for some reason and sometimes, it's close to your ears— too ridiculously close for any sane thoughts to come through. 

“Will you please hurry up?” he grouched, “I can’t find my pen and I think it’s in there but I can’t get my head in there, if you’re standing underneath me…”

“If you don’t step back, I’m gonna brush my ass against your groin and I too have to find a stupid pen, asshole,” you roared back. 

“Excuse me, coming through,” a non-suspecting co-worker walked behind Yoongi, pushing him to the front, sandwiching you between him and the locker. His groin is pressed up against the valley of your plumped ass. His hand in front of your waist, his defined chest on your shoulder blades and your face smashed against the cold steel locker door. He froze and quickly repelled. 

“The lockers are all yours,” Yoongi grumbled before he fled to the end of the hall and disappeared. 

You can’t help but recall the feeling. Hours after it happened, you were sitting on your desk, pen in your mouth thinking. What was that hard rod thing you felt? The bulge. Was he… Was he having a boner? You frowned.

“What’s going on? You had 17 expression switch for the last 2 minutes, what the fuck is going on?” Seokjin stormed right beside you, making you jump. Like when did he even move from his desk to yours? It would take at least 5 minutes. You gasped.

“Nothing… nothing,” you straightened up in your seat, fixing your blouse and clearing your throat. Maybe you’ll keep that fantasy for tonight. Where you get to meet the sweet Yoongi, the Yoongi you imagined to be, the nice Yoongi, the Yoongi you’d kill less. The sensual, tentative, highly perceptive, sexy mouthed Yoongi. Not the despicable, foul-mouthed, sleazy face Yoongi who is walking right into your department and to your desk right now. The confident stride paired with the handsome boy face is a recipe for your demise— it doesn’t take a lot for you to turn your attention to the paper Seokjin just shoved in your arms as he spoke to the MS. 

“The Qualification department is all up in my ass wanting me to train people for the new machine and with the current planning en-route I don’t know if I could do that, Seokjin,” Yoongi spoke in hushed tone away from you but you could still hear some of the chopped up words to know the gist of the conversation without actually being there. Seokjin patted the younger guy in the back and nodded, and he too spoke in a gentle tone, “I know, I know. I’m trying to talk to the people up above, to arrange someone else to do that, but no one is with your amount of experience. Tell you what I can do now is to postpone the date of the machine coming, and then I’ll have them to structurised the whole training so it doesn’t weigh on you. I’ll assign reliable help.”

Yoongi looked slightly relieved although he was keeping his cool demeanor. It’s not unusual for an MS to enter the production executive office, however, knowing Min Yoongi, he would rather not unless the matter is truly pressing. Talking about pressing, was that how a boner would actually feel like?

You shook your head, hoping to erase the racy thoughts. Seokjin has handed you the schedule for tonight’s production. You would be informed and your job is to make sure the MS, group leader and operators follow the schedule and run them accordingly. 

“Need you to send those to the MS group chat, as a reminder,” Seokjin taps your table twice and rushes into his own office. His lanyard flying along with him at the speed he is going. Seokjin is getting tense, maybe because the mid-year sales are going to hike and you and him will have to gather all your guns and bullets for everything that might come. Bosses are always asses in the mid-year meeting. They press you and Seokjin dry for you to press on the MS and supervisors to deliver the company monthly goals; it’s relentless— and brutal. You will have to push everyone to overtime when they don’t want to just so you could have people working on weekends. It’s not fun being an executive.

Driving home in your car, showering, and having dinner then laying to sleep that night, you couldn’t help thinking about Yoongi’s large hand and how it felt against your belly pouch that noon. He had pretty defined pecs, you could feel them protruding just nicely. Not to mention the suspected boner he had. Why did he have a boner? Google says that man could have boner when he needs to pee. Maybe he wanted to pee and you’re just overthinking it. Come on, you know he hates you. From the moment you knew each other by name, he had done everything to annoy you. No one does that to someone they like, right? Right?

You switched to your sides and muttered mindlessly, “I am way too qualified for someone who started working when they’re 19. Besides… I’m too booksmart for his worksmart-ass.” 

But damn those fucking hands, amirite?