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Jumin likes you. You don't know this yet, and perhaps his feelings haven't grown that deep to be labelled as love, but he has a very strong inclination towards you.
Jumin wants to do almost everything for you. You're an important member of the RFA, as he likes to remind you, so he wants to cook for you when you fall sick. It's a reasonable thing to do, so please don't read too much into this.
Jumin is atrocious at cooking. His list of experiences consists of making instant pancakes, and that's it, really.
But it's late and he's here after a hectic work day, arranging the steaming soup he'd personally packed from home on your dining table. He's here, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, winter coat hung by the door, concern knitted into his face. He's here, standing as awkward as the bare Christmas tree in the room that you haven't had the chance to decorate, but you don't feel uncomfortable because he's here. He's here, he's here.
Your heart makes way for him.
Jumin sets down a spoon by your hand. "Is your headache persisting? If you need to see a doctor, I can refer you to a specialist in the area."
You shake your head. "It's fine, I just need to rest. I'm only like this because I overworked myself. The holiday season is always rough. And yes," you say, holding up a hand before he could protest, "I've taken a break from work." If you don't stop him in time, you know you'd be subjected to a slew of nagging, fully backed up with scientific research.
"How about your fever?" Jumin asks while sliding into the chair opposing you. After a beat, he leans across the table with an arm stretched out. "May I?"
It's an opportunity to engage in physical contact with Jumin, and you are an opportunist when it comes to him. Your hand reaches for his and presses it to your forehead. Your skin burns against his cold palm, but the fault isn't entirely on your fever.
Jumin stands up immediately and places his other hand on the side of your neck. "Your temperature is still very high. Are you sure you can take care of yourself like this?"
You give him a pointed look. "If it's low I'd be a corpse."
"If it's lower you'd be normal."
"Are you saying I'm abnormal, strange, odd, peculiar, et cetera?"
"I'm referring to your current biological state. Only with a healthy body, you can function with optimal productivity." Jumin is very determined to share his wisdom. "If you'd like a caretaker…" he trails off, frowning. "Actually, I'm available to stay over if you need me to," he enunciates his offer carefully, letting it hang like a question.
Though every cell in your body screams in agreement, you set your hopes aside. He could have meant nothing by it. He could have only been extending his hospitality as a friend, nothing more.
His hands are still on you for longer than necessary.
"I'll decide based on how good your masterpiece tastes." It was a safe answer. As you shift your attention to the soup in front of you, Jumin pulls back, seemingly too aware of what he has let happen.
The soup is still hot, its swirling steam brushing your face. It has a muddy texture and a stuffy aroma with a note of coarseness, which you doubt it's how it's supposed to smell, but you're willing to give Jumin the benefit of the doubt.
"Masterpiece? Well, I suppose it is." He straightens his vest and slides back into his chair. "My chef said ginseng chicken soup is an effective remedy to fever, so I would have to thank him later."
"Wait." Your mouth hangs open, spoon hovering. "This is supposed to be chicken soup?"
"Yes."
You blink. "Then where's the chicken?"
"I burned it." Jumin clasps his fingers on the table. "I didn't have time to boil another one, but I'm sure its essence has seeped into the broth. Chicken essence also has medicinal qualities, I heard."
"Medicinal," you echo. Perhaps you should retract the benefit you extended to him.
Jumin gives you a confident nod and you smile hesitantly, raising the spoon as a cheer then take a sip. Then fight back a cough. Then fight to keep your expression straight.
Not to be dramatic, but it tastes like death. Did Jumin pour the entire ocean tainted by factory waste into this soup?
His creation should be on the Guinness record. It's a miracle how it can be excruciatingly salty and bitter with none of the usual earthy sweetness from the ginseng. This is best served for your worst enemies, except you aren't sure if your current worst enemy is the soup or Jumin. If he told you this is an elaborate plot to worsen your health to prevent you from returning to your hellish routine, you would probably believe it.
It would be an insult to thank the chef for this.
But Jumin's watching you eagerly and you can't bear to stomp on his spirit, so despite how your stomach is very much stomping in protest, you force a wide grin. "It's very unique and flavourful! I can still taste the chicken on my tongue. It's like its poor burnt soul had never left the pot. The power of phantom chicken, truly." You cover your mouth, attempting to hide a cough. "Did you follow the exact recipe?"
Jumin seems relieved at your reaction. "Actually, I took some liberties. I may be a beginner, but it would be boring if I followed the chef's instructions precisely, so I put my own twist and innovated a brand new dish."
This innovation could invent a new illness in people.
"Wow, I didn't know you're creative too. Good for you!" You can feel your grin evolving into a wince, so you quickly scoop more soup into your mouth. Better finish it fast than let it grow cold. Who knows how it would taste then.
"May I give it a try? I'm curious how it managed to warrant such high praise from you," he asks.
Your throat is as rough as asphalt when you croak, "You didn't try when you made this?"
"I was rushing to get to you. As you already know, I'm good in all my endeavours, so I was confident this would turn out well." Jumin sits back with arms crossed, a smug smile tugging his lips. "It appears that once again, I'm right."
Look where over-the-top lying and grade-A bullshitting got you.
"No," you briskly say.
His smile turns into a frown. "No?"
"No! You're not suggesting we share a spoon, are you? That'd be unhygienic."
"Surely you have another spoon at home?" He looks around the kitchen and sees the cutlery rack. "Oh, it's there. Please sit down, don't exert yourself. I can get it on my own."
As Jumin walks towards the rack, you quickly jump off your chair while ignoring the pounding headache that follows. "Jumin, wait." You grab at his arm desperately. "You made that soup for me, yes? That means it's mine to finish. Don't even think about stealing my food."
He turns to you almost just as fast. "Don't jump like that. Are you all right?" He holds you by your shoulders, grey eyes flitting up and down to examine you. Only when he's reassured of your wellbeing that he relaxes. "I find it surprising that you don't want to share food. When have you changed?"
"Since you made that soup with your whole heart." You motion at the bowl beside you. "It's mine, all right?" Without waiting, you swipe it off the table and try to gulp down the rest.
Keyword: try.
It's a fantastically failed attempt. They say the more you grow, the more you know yourself. Well, it's true. The questionable things you'd do for a crush know no bounds. Turns out, it's you who deserves an award for being the best fool in love.
You're about to finish when you begin to choke, and what a sight it is. You, trying to dial back the coughing to a minimum to avoid spreading the virus and embarrassment, yet visibly cringing from swallowing the contents. Jumin, his whole body frigid in alarm before switching the bowl out of your grasp with a glass of water, which you gratefully gulp down.
So much for pretension.
"Okay, fine, it's horrible," you give in, tears blurring your sight. Would it be too much to declare your taste buds to be damaged?
Jumin's expression is a slow-motion picturesque of horror. "You lied to me."
"I can't mock your hard work to your face," you hurriedly say. "I love the, um, texture? It's soupy. Transported me to the seaside. Very refreshing."
If the seaside is engulfed by a tsunami, that is.
"Soup is supposed to have the texture of soup," he says.
"It could've gone worse! It could've been so lumpy it's chewy."
Jumin looks affronted. "Has the fever gone to your head? What kind of liquid is chewable?"
The salt has.
"The fever is in my head. And in my other body parts. Don't you know how fever " You cross your arms. "And, insinuating me of delirium and therefore incapable of forming coherent thoughts just because I'm slightly sick only makes you sound all the more condescending. Maybe your soup has transformed me. Maybe your soup has dissolved my brain into mush. Maybe your power of cooking has transcended science."
"Then stop eating it if you hate it so much. Just how bad could it be?" Jumin fetches a spoon from the cutlery rack and tries it himself.
To no one's surprise and probably Jumin's only, he instantly sputters it out. You watch him. Then, with an attitude fuelled by a hundred I-told-you-so's, you calmly pass him a glass of water.
"Why," he gasps, "would you put your body through this? This is inedible."
You pat the edge of his lips with a tissue—a wonderful disguise to touch him again—and decide to test him. "Why do you think?"
"If you're doing this to spare my feelings, you're only wasting your energy. I don't get easily offended and I'm excellent at receiving feedback. I would've improved this soup if you had told me the truth."
You wrestle the bowl out of his hand and place it on the table. "Jumin, from the bottom of my heart, I'm begging you not to do anything more to it. Ever heard of what doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result means?"
"The very definition of improvement means implementing different methods to make it better."
"Not when those methods have one thing in common: you."
"You seem to have lost your pleasantries, but I'll excuse it since you're ill," says Jumin, tone totally pleasant.
"Do you know how aggravating you can be?" you retort, not at all pleasant.
Jumin nods solemnly. "I've heard Zen accusing me with more colourful insults. It also appears that Assistant Kang often shares his opinion." Then he puts on a neutral expression so carefully crafted that you know it's anything but. It's an expression designed to boast. "Of course, I'm one of a kind. It's natural that not everyone can get along with me. It'd be a privilege to gain my courtesy."
And yet here you are in my house. "I wouldn't say it's a privilege to be personally poisoned by you."
Jumin grunts. "That's not what you implied when you doled out those high compliments."
"If you'd read into the subtext, you'd know I wasn't praising you." You pick up the bowl again and sigh. "Let's move on to something else after I finish this."
"Are you serious?"
You mimic his deadpan tone the best you can, "I'm always serious."
"So now you drink poison."
You shrug. "You said it, not me."
This time, Jumin touches you first. His fingers splay out on your arm, halting you from doing another stupid thing. As you proclaimed earlier: the best fool in love.
"Pardon me if I still can't comprehend why you're so adamant to finish that," he says. "Unless you're trying to prove that the fever has infected your brain?"
You aren't going to let Jumin push you to confess first. Not when you're in your worst shape, complete with ashen lips and bird-nest hair from lying in bed the whole day. Your nightmare before Christmas has arrived too soon.
"Are you asking because you really have no idea or are you looking for confirmation?"
Jumin tilts his head. "What are you insinuating?"
"Don't play coy, Jumin."
"I'm not playing anything. It would be cruel to play with a sick person."
Sometimes, a person could get a sharp zing of epiphany and it would feel like this is it, this is what you're meant to do. And sometimes, that moment comes when the man who stirs up a flurry of emotions in you is so infuriating that it has become your new mission to make him confess first.
The visit, the food, the dancing around the truth. They all click. The fever has not gone to your head.
Who visits a random woman's place on a freezing night, during peak season at work, when the said woman is only felled with a mild illness, nothing medication and rest can't cure?
Not Jumin.
"Let me ask you one thing. Why are you here?" you prod.
Jumin looks at you as if it's something you should already know. A common answer to a common question. "You need to eat a proper meal and no one's around to take care of you. I'm not going to let you drag yourself out for food when it's a blizzard outside."
Glancing out the window where snow is falling rapidly, you won't deny that trudging alone in that weather would be a poor survival method. Zero out of ten doctors would suggest it.
You snort, eyeing the soup at hand. "And this is a proper meal?"
"Accidents happen, but my intention remains the same."
"You could've ordered something for me, sent over a chef, or asked Jaehee to check on me. Aren't you too busy to waste your precious time like this?"
"No time is wasted if it's spent on you. You're an important person to me, so I needed to make sure with my own eyes that you're all right." Jumin's forehead creases with worry. "All I could think about at work was you. I was afraid you might faint and no one would be here to help."
You don't bother to hold back a small smile. "Well, you're here now, so what's your assessment?"
At least he has the decency to look contrite. "Moderately alarming upon first look, worse after consuming my soup. My alarm is on full blare now, so please, stop this madness." Jumin pries the bowl out of your hand and sets it back on the table before fixing his posture. After a moment, he pushes the bowl farther out of your reach for good measure.
You shake your head at how adorable he is. "I also have an assessment on my own."
"Go on."
"I think the things you said and did are a roundabout way to confess your feelings for me. You like me."
You let it float between you, trying to gauge Jumin's reaction, but he's still, too still for your liking. You know you aren't wrong, but could this be the wrong time to poke at his feelings?
"And would it bother you," Jumin asks slowly, "if I tell you that you are correct?"
Bother you?
Bother you.
Jumin must think that his feelings could disrupt your peace, but if they could, then you don't want to know another moment of peace. He's the one who gives you the sense of calmness that you long for. His mere presence brings you comfort, and he's the one you rely on to lift your spirits. It's appalling how your feelings that are so palpable to you could be invisible in the eye of your direct affection.
You take a step closer, studying him. Black hair thoroughly mussed by the wind, ruddy cheeks, and a tender expression that you've never seen him wear with other people. "Do you really think you're the only one with a crush?" you whisper.
Jumin stares at you in disbelief, but it slowly morphs into relief when the truth dawns on him. "I didn't want to be," he murmurs. "Truth be told, I've had my suspicions since you insisted to eat that cursed dish, but I couldn't be sure until you give me a clear sign."
"So you admit that you're searching for a confirmation." A smug grin appears on your lips. "I literally swallowed poison for you. If that isn't a clear enough sign, then I don't know what is."
He clears his throat. "I wouldn't go so far as to call my cooking poison. It was a beginner mistake at worst. Can't you spare some mercy on my first trial?"
You gawp. "To hell with mercy. I was your experiment subject?"
Jumin's response is immediate. "I thought it'd be more special if you were the first person to try my cooking."
"It was certainly nothing like anything I've tasted before," you say.
His lips pressed into a smile. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I was responding to your sarcasm with sarcasm. Do keep up." Jumin's eyes twinkle with mischief, and it makes you want to strangle and kiss him at the same time.
You rake your fingers through your hair. "Should I kick you out?"
He raises his dark brows. "You wouldn't want to do that."
"I want to do a lot of things to you, Jumin." You hoist yourself up the table and smirk at him. "Shame they'd have to wait until I recover."
Carefully, he slots himself between your legs, arms kept to his sides so he won't touch your bare thighs by accident. It's endearing how cautious he is. "Is there anything I can do to make your illness go away faster? I can't wait to see what you've got planned."
You laugh. "You'd be scandalised."
You close your legs just a bit more so they brush against his trousers. Jumin's breath hitches and you arch a brow, a silent dare for him to make his next move. He chuckles, then settles his hands on your thighs. A light touch that turns into a reassuring grip.
"I doubt they could rival my desires against you." His tone takes on a sultry cadence that draws your body in.
"Stay the night. You made the offer earlier, and the weather is too harsh to go home. So, stay."
Jumin lights up at your request, and you feel giddy with how transparent he is. Look at the joy you can spark within him. "Are you going to pour wine for me while putting on the records too?"
You crack up laughing. "I can't believe you just quoted 'Baby, It's Cold Outside'!"
"Paraphrased," he corrects. "It's unfortunate that they don't mention wine in the song. Didn't they know wine is the most fitting drink for the holidays?"
"You think wine is the best fitting drink for any occasion."
"Red wine contains antioxidants that are helpful in preventing coronary artery disease and has been proven to reduce stress and anxiety. It has countless qualities that are beneficial for your health," says Jumin.
"Like your ginseng chicken soup?"
He sighs. "I see you're fond of reminding me of my failures."
You make a show of cleaning invisible dirt on his shoulders. "I'm fond of seeing you admitting defeat," you say. "And you haven't given me an answer. Will you stay or do I have to belt out the whole song to persuade you?"
The corner of Jumin's mouth twitches up. He's always been fond of your theatrics, and now, finally, he can tell that you want to be with him as much as he does. "Of course I'll stay, I'd be a fool to turn you down. In any case, I'm glad everything works out."
The triumph in your chest transforms into suspicion. "What works out?"
"My overnight clothes are packed inside that briefcase." Jumin gestures at the leather briefcase on your couch.
"You planned for this?" you ask, partly in awe, mostly in surprise.
"I simply prepared for all the possible scenarios."
"And one of them is to sleep with me."
Jumin rubs his lips. "I never mentioned anything about sleeping together."
You roll your eyes. "Fine, but don't ask me to sleep with you later, because I won't."
"Is this the game you want to play?" Jumin braces his hands on the counter, trapping you between him. You have to keep reminding yourself not to make out with him when you're still sick. "Very well. For your information, I never lose. If you don't want to sleep with me, then don't." He leans in, lips nearly brushing your ear. "See how long you can last."
But just because you're ill doesn't mean you've lost your touch. You tilt your head to meet his gaze and smirk. "Game on."