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The first time, he is your pool boy.
This was what rich people did, right? They put on their designer sunglasses and scraps of a bathing suit, top it off with an over-sized sunhat that looks more like a tent for rabbits, and suck smoothly on margaritas in the summer heat while they watch their hunk of a pool boy do his job.
You learn quickly enough his name is Seokjin, but he’ll take Jin for short. With a sugary smile and a flutter of lashes and “hello there” you tell him your own, and are more than a little smitten with his modesty when he returns the sentiment with a subdued but alluring smile of his own.
You learn that he doesn’t like to take his shirt off when he cleans. He hums and sings very softly while he works, and does not complain about the heat even when sweat clings to him. More than once, you think to ask if he can stay a little longer and swim, just to cool off, but something always stops you. His shoulders are broad, and sturdy, and they stir something in your heart.
But what you notice the most about Seokjin is how he never once looks at you.
Amidst an entire dozen of your revealing bikinis and strappy one-pieces, all displaying varying atrocious levels of skin and cleavage and curves, his eyes do not stray from the glistening waters. You think it’s politeness, at first – but something in you hurts at his dismissal, and then it becomes a challenge. You slide out of the water as he arrives, soaking wet and inviting; he apologizes for interrupting your swim. He shows up and finds you in naught but a towel, stretching in the sunlight; he waves hello before starting his chores. Bitter, you sprawl out on your beach chair topless, tanning your already bronzed back.
He asks where you moved the chlorine tablets.
It is too much. Nothing brings you happiness. In the shower, late at night, drunk with sadness and sangria, you cry pathetically and wonder when you became so ugly.
The next week you are curled up under the long awning in a chair by the table. You don’t feel womanly at all what with your shaking hands and messy ponytail and very not-revealing sundress.
“Good afternoon.” It’s 102 degrees outside, and he already looks depleted, but he greets you with the same sincerity.
“Hello,” you reply. There is no breeze today, and it’s as humid as a sauna without any of the luxury of it.
“I hope you’ve been well,” he says, reaching for the long net. “You’re right to be in the shade. Heatstroke is no fun.”
“Have you had it before?”
“Me? Ah, I mean, of course me. Yes, just once a few years ago.”
“That’s horrible. Please don’t get heatstroke.”
He chuckles, and your chest warms. “I’ll do my best.”
Silence lulls in. The awful, sticky heat makes you sleepy, but when you blink, you realize you’re staring at bare, broad shoulders and a back carved out of something like marble. His neck is sunburnt, and he seems withered.
“Seokjin?”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps leaning on the pole that’s still in the pool for dear life, breathing raggedly. He looks like he’s about to die. Startled, you jump out of your seat and rush to him, not even sure what you’re intending on doing, and then of course you’re slipping on the deck as you’re reach out to touch him. There’s a gasp, and a harsh yelp, and then the air disappears with a distinctly huge splash and replaces itself with an ocean of cool, pristine, lovely water, wrapping around you like a soothing blanket.
The dreamlike moment lasts only a second. Then, you’re dragging Seokjin’s body up, up, up, and breaking the surface with a sharp inhale and sputtering. Tugging him to the shallow end, you manage to lean him on the wall and cup his red face in your hands.
“Seokjin?” your voice doesn’t sound like your own. “Jin? Are you okay? Can you breathe? Jinnie?”
You keep wiping your face but the trails of dripping water doesn’t seem to be stopping. Strange, that is, especially that it’s coming from your eyes.
The man blinks, weakly, and coughs a little before he manages a smile.
“Hi,” he croaks sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Panic leaves you breathless and relief suffocates you like a tidal wave, culminating into deep, uncontrollable sobs as you press your face to his hot, slippery shoulder. Nothing feels real in the water, especially his hands gingerly moving your hair out of your face and then rubbing circles onto your back.
“Shhhh, I’m okay, I’m okay. I’m sorry to have worried you. Please don’t cry. You’re much too pretty to cry.”
The way he says it makes your heart break.
When the sniffles die down and you have him wrapped up in your favorite towel, you bring him inside and promise him lunch every single time he comes over for as long as you both live.
And you live happily ever after.
—
“Take the shot.”
He can see you clearly through the sight, the delicate crosshair sitting pretty on your skull as you try your damnedest to scurry across the bridge. His commanding officer’s voice takes a harder note when he repeats the order.
“Soldier, take the goddamn shot.”
Just as he squeezes the trigger, your scarf flies off your head and you turn after it. He sees your face, wide-eyed and frightened, and then the rifle sings on his shoulder and you fall to the ground. He cannot even pretend it was rose petals in the air.
The scarf floats away to the river.
He dies a week later in an air strike.
—
It’s unfair how perfect he is the third time. Always calm, always clean and fresh and well-liked. Of course you didn’t have a chance at making student council, not when Kim Seokjin existed in the world.
The bell rings. It is with a great sigh of relief that you beeline out of the class with shaky legs, ready to avoid your best friend who will want to console you, your other friends who will offer apologies, teachers who might say “there’s always next time”–
“Wait!”
Your blood runs cold. Feet pick up the pace, hands holding down your skirt to make sure it doesn’t fly up–
“Ah, hold up! Please! Wait!”
People are staring, and you swallow a hard lump in your throat as you pretend to ignore the pleading voice behind you. The burden is lessened once you’re past the school gates, but then something catches your wrist and you are unceremoniously jerked back, trapped like an animal.
“Let me go,” you demand, voice cracking, vision blurring as you stare at the sidewalk. The hand holding your wrist does not obey.
“Please, I just need to talk to you for a moment. Is that okay?”
No, no it’s not okay, you want to yell back at him.
“I don’t care.”
He pauses, and his hand is soft and warm. There are little dark spots on the concrete underneath you and you try not to think about how he asked you to the dance two years ago and kissed you very gently at your doorstep and then did not speak to you for a week. You ignored the funny senior girl from the drama club that he dated freshman year, and you tried not to think about how he would study beside you in the library, manic, when everyone else had gone home, and the drinks he’d buy you without asking, and the smiles he’d give without repayment, and the way his blazers always fit too tight around his shoulders, and the dreaded thudding of your heart when he stood too close and said your name.
Funny how that worked.
“I don’t understand what happened,” Jin admits, confused and frustrated and honest. It is horrible. It is the absolute worst thing to ever happen to you. “We used to be close. I’ve thought about it for… for so long, where I messed up, how I was bad at taking care of the people I wanted to care for the most. Desperately being kind to fix things was easier than saying sorry. Ahhh. I messed up. I’m sorry.”
You do not reply, or look at him. That would be your undoing.
Eventually, he lets go with another quiet apology. His voice sounds strained, too, and he consoles himself that next time around will be better.
—
“Ah, hello! The usual?”
“You know me too well.”
The scent of coffee is overwhelming, but he cuts through the haze with his particular brand of fumbling confidence and bashful smile.
His name is written with a heart where the “i” should be dotted, but always tiny. You don’t think he’s noticed yet.
“Thank you! Have a nice day, okay? And come back soon?”
“But of course. You too. Take care.”
(He’s noticed.)
(He finally asks you on a date the next week. The hearts on the i’s were not for nothing.)
(You live happily ever after.)
—
Five. Father decides that the peasant boy, though strong and respectful, cannot afford your hand.
The star-crossed lovers line up in the sky tonight, though, and it is with a dreamy smile that you lay back in bed, a bitter taste of spite and redemption on your tongue.
Oleander is quite fragrant this time of year.
—
He’s normally not the last one at the table, but fate decided to be cruel this time around.
Saving up for your tickets had been a long, painful process, full of back-breaking labor and sweat and blood and humiliation. The odd jobs you took up for this one single day were myriad in number, but it paid off, didn’t it? It paid off.
It’s freezing and you are tucked safely in a cable-knit scarf. You think Namjoon notices how you keep glancing at the end of the table, but he still shakes your hand warmly anyhow and doesn’t tease.
The girl in front of you moves quickly, happy to have seen Hobi finally and be dazzled by his beaming expression in person, and each member ticks away until you are standing in front of him with a lump in your throat.
“Hello!”
The scarf slides down your face and you feel woozy as you smile back. The world melts away like ice cream down the cone and onto sticky-sweet fingers.
“Hi.”
“You look cozy,” he admires, and you gently reprimand him for not wearing a scarf himself. He, bashfully, cannot argue with that.
After signing the poster and accepting the small gift from you, you reach out to finally shake his hand.
The electricity that jumps between your skin is like heat lightning, abrupt and dazzling and you hear him breathe in sharply at the same time you do.
“Have you come to one of these before?” he asks.
You shake your head no, trembling slightly as you apologize, trying to hurry away, “Sorry, it must have been static.”
—
7:00 p.m.
“I love you.”
Jin makes a pleased sound from the floor, and you smush your face lovingly into his neck. Thunderstorms are still scary, even at your ripe age of twenty-eight, but at least you have a protector to keep you safe and warm.
It’s soothing to run your fingers through the thick clumps of his cinnamon-and-black fur that shelters his neck and shoulders like a mane, his tail thumping rhythmically against the floor. The AC runs softly in the background in the darkness of your home, and as you kiss your German Shepherd once more to ignore the violent light that slashes through your window, he returns the gesture with many, many long licks, because he loves you, too.
You live happily ever after.
—
He has a job interview, and is almost certainly going to be late for it. Pedestrians are angry as he bolts in front of them past the cars, and broad-shouldered as he is, bumps into at least one person – you stumble mid-step and for a split second, he feels vaguely dizzy, staring at your face like a dumb-ass, wondering why it felt like he knew you – but then cars start honking wildly and yes, yes, he is certainly going to be late in more ways than one.
—
Dr. Kim chalks dates onto the board that the class numbly takes down. The AC is broken and it’s hot, it’s too damn hot, and all he has done is taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and you’re two hours into class when the sweat slowly begins to make his shirt stick to his back.
Distracting is an understatement. Torture is too kind a word.
No amount of shoujo manga consumed could have prepared you for it. He is too friendly. He laughs at your jokes. He stays behind in his office for too long, and listens even when he probably shouldn’t.
Falling in love with your professor is not good by any stretch of the imagination.
“You awake back there?” The humor in his voice startles you from your stupor, and your eyes lock onto where he has loosened his tie, two buttons undone, his clavicle flicking up to his swimmer’s shoulders and your lips part very softly into an oh.
Even Dr. Kim forgets to speak. The class is too muddled to notice anything, but when he murmurs “nevermind” and turns back to the safety of his blackboard, his cheeks might be red.
Maybe he’ll say something in his office later. But maybe not.
—
e̹̻̝̪̝̺̗̣̍̈́̒̈̉̊͊͛͒v͕̲̯̑̈́͂e̳̙̟͕ͯ̑̋n̙̥͕͍̱̯͖̦̏̎̓̚ ̜̱̪̞͉͓̌͒̄w̰͉̺̻̞̳̳͒̋ͯͨ̿̈́ͅh͇͍̻̟̯͉̲̋́̓̒̑̾̊ẻ̯͉͇͛́ͤͩ͌̊n͈̝̻̺̣͉̻͕̍̀̒ͥ̒̔ ̙̰͍̖͇͉ͤ̒ͯt̝̹̃͋ͤ̀̊ẖ̼̘̠̫͕͇̀ͩ͐ͩͅe͗͛̇̈́̋̋͗̚ͅ ̱̻̻̭̖̺͊͆t̘̮̰̹͈̒̾͑ͫë̜̪͌̋̽ͤ́̈͐n̖̖̩͎̬̓t͖͈̮̙ͥ̂ͫͥ̑a͉̮͋̀͊ͩ̽͌ͅċ̮͉ͮ̓͗̂͑l̹̖͎̝̻̺͙̱͆ͪ̆̍͛͌̅ͅe̹̮͎̍̾͌̍̏s̞̬̖̟̹͉̮̳̩͆ͫ̏̈́ͩͥ ͓̝̲̞̭͕̤̮̽e̼̜̭̦̙͖̎̉̊̈́̉̌̓͊r̬͙̿ͪ̚̚ǘ̜̱̩̺̣͆̈̍͂̆̚p̩̠̃ͧͧ̓̇̑ͥͫt̤̯̦͎̤͑ͧ̋̓ͤ͊͂͐
̼͚̪̲̦̦͓̓̊͛̔̆ͫ̾̓ͨa̺̝̠̘̠̣̝̲̓̂ͥ̓̀ͪ̆̓n͙ͭ̾ͥ̋͛͋͐̈́ḏ͎̻̗̖̳͈̫̣̔ͪ͑̔͑͛ ̝̝͎̖̞̬̠̥̩ͥ̆b̘͖͖̳ͬͩ́̃l̖͉̤̘̱ͤͮ͊ͧͭ̅a̺ͯͣ͂̒̄c͙͉̬̞̳̑̓̐̇ͪͬǩ̟̼̯̱n̥̼̭̽̋͂ͯͦ̊e̲̩̫ͬͭ͑͋͋s̳̟͔̺̜̳̻̣ͤͥ̓ṡ̻̺̫̩͈̖͇͈ͯ̃ ̬̗͍̯̤͈̳̎̅ͅo̯͚̳͋̿͌͗̒̋v̲͎̫̔̈ͫͅe̫͍̭͖͚̩̯ͭ́ͨ͑̌͋̂͌ͅr̰̬͚̭̒̃̎̇ͨ̐t̙̻̻̗͎̤ͮ͐ͩã̲̎͂k̯͔̯̹̟͚͚̳͐͌e͍̹̽ͪ̆ͬͣͣs͍̠̹̗̻̭͒ͩͣ̎
̱̻̗̉̋̑́ṯ͇͉̦͋̒̏̀̚h͓͇̲̜ͭ͋̌ͮͪ͌ͅḛ͓̰̎ ̦̫̑ͬ̎o͎̬̗͗͆̿͋ͮc̦̲̫̱ͦ̅̔e̼̙ͨ͐ẵ̲̣̞̹̱̦̑ͤͫǹ̥̯̤͖͎̳̺̘̒̃̑̋̂͗s̮̽ͩ̿̌̈̽̌́;̩̰̙̺͂ ̰̤̥͉̓͛ͥͬͬ̌ͪ̓̓ṫ̩̗̣͍̲̖͈̻͋ͪ͋ͯ̉͑ḧ̩̫̣̜́ͮ̒̉̐̓̈́͂e͙̳̟̙̦̹̤ͮͩ ̠̰͖ͩ͌̇̌ͯ̃ͤͭs͕̲̟͖̗͎ͭ̒̉̒̅̇ͯ͋k͓̦̯͉̜͙̣͗̅̔î͚̺͔͎͙̩̤̒̄̂ͥ̂ͬ̾ê̤̗̥̟̪̝͆ͦ͐̾ͭͬ͑ͬs͔̙͎̮ͬͣ̎͊̓̏;̮̻̦͈͎͚͐ ͖̮̹͔̠̟̮͎͗͑ͫͣ̎͌̚t͈̻̘̮͓ͭh͍̜̥̗͚̱͋ͮ̐ͧ̓̚̚e̘̞̯͔̘̓ͬͦ̚ ̗̗̩̮͇̞̰̤͑ͪͦͬd͕̪̿ͩ̌̃̈́̌ṙ̫̩̝̪̓e̱̭̫͉͚̘̦̺͋̂́͐̾͛̾a̜̻͔̗̋ͫ͛ͯͩͅm͉͓̫͓͉͍̙̦ͨ͂ͦ͗s̝̘͚̱̳̠̾̐̂͌͆ͪ̒͋ͅ
̫̘ͧͫͩ̔̒͊͆e̦̙̲͍̲̜̙͗ͬ͌͂̎̚v̗̜̝̩͎͉͙̄ͤͫ̋ͤẹ͔̘̘͉͋ͩ̓ͅn͓̜̂ͨ͌̎̏ ̬̻̲͕̳̙̂̓͌͒͂̃ͪ̓w̺̹̺̍͛ͅh̲̭͚͚̺͂̇͗ē̥͔͖ͭ̚ñ͚̙̤͌̾̎ͤͯͧ̓ ̞̗̩͑h̝̘͙̤̤͙̋ͧ̎̈ǐ̺̥̌ͩͧ̉͐̍ͅș̖̹͉̘̐͗̀̒̾̿̋̑ͅ ̞̰͍͇̳̑ͮ̿́͌ͩ͗͂e̟̾̔̚y͉̦̦͋̾͐̿̌e̥̪̤̪ͪ̎ͅͅs̺̭͇̘̬̪̟̆͑ͫ̐ ͔͓̉̐̀a͇̖̲̖͎̐ͩ̾̋ͪͧ̿̑̊ṙ̙̬̣͐̉̏e͖͎͐̓ͯͭ̅ ̫̥̪̰̳̘̝͌̓̀̊n̤̭̤̘̝̩͍̆ͮ̏ͧͅo̮͖͋ͨ̒̓ ͓͈̙̝͓͉̺͐̉m̰̜̠̳̮̓̒ͪͫ͗̔̐o̭̼̻͗ͦͬͯ̍r̩̜̅ͤĕ̝̖̰͈̙̌̓̈́̅̉ͨ̈́́
̦̜ͭ̋ͪ̍̿ͫͭͪa̬̖̰̺̣͈͚̔̈͛ͅn͓̤̘͎͍͕̠͕ͮ̄ḍ̳̹̦͖̻̼͋̓̃ͯͪ ̭̞̺̫̯͈̻̭͂ͨ͌͗̿ͯ̃ͨh̻̜̮͓̖ͮ̂ͅi͙͍͔̻͓͈̗͔̒̅̓ͤͯͯͩ̉s̬͇̗͓̟͍̹̽̆ ̻͈̱̤̳̦̹̼͎͐̿͂̈́̿p̫̱̤͚͔̥̮ͬͪͣ̀r̺̲̜̘̉̐̅ͧ̋͋ͣͦ̓ͅo̩̭͚̗͔̞͐̑m̹̥̹͋̎ḯ͕͙̰̟͎̬͑s͍̙̟͔͔͑̿̑ͮ͌ͅḙ̞̋̐ͮ̄ͧ̐͑s̘͎̗̔̍ͣ̐̄ ̹̪͕͉̆ͩ̇ͨ̓͑a͚̯̮̰̼͙ͮ̈́ř̖͕͓͙͛̚e̺͉͍̿ͯͭ̔̇̽ͅ ̞̥̪̱̩͖͓͐͛̌̿̒ͬͩà͔̞̺͚ͬͮ̅ͯ̇́ͅl̗͍̝ͪl͇̘̱͔͉ͣ͆͂ ͉̩̫͕͙̻̌͗ͧ̌̿d͙̫͔̾ͮ̂̏͐̎ͅe̗͓̹ͮ͂a̙͇̪̭̣̻̦̘͋̊̾̓̀́ͦ̾t̞̰ͮ̔͊ͦ̆͒̎h̻̪̦̫̠̙ͯ̎ͫ̃
͕͚̖̙͚̣ͦ͊͛̓͋ͪy̦͕̭̤͆ͧ͆ͨ͆̅̚ö͎͎̖͚͎̝́̅̃ͣ̄̃u̥̤̼̮͖̝̟͗ͬ͂ ͕̰̩͓̫̋̾ͯͧ̎͌ͬľ̟̘̯͙͔͊̈́ͧͭͯ̑ò͔̻̬̝v͎ͨͫ̽ͪ͊ė͕̜̖̿͒ͣ̑̒ͦͮͥ ̫̹̯̱̯͎ͦ̈ͮ̓ͧ͐ẖ̩̄ͭ͋͆͋i̗͓̯̱̣͎ͥ̉m̝̘͔̫̦ͦ̿͆ ͍̇́n̲̳͓̭͎̲̤̈́̆͆͐ͭͨo̮͓͔ͦ͋ͣ̊ͥͪͣ ͚̝̼̟͈ͯm̞̻̬͎̞̭̞ͩ͑͋͋̂̈́̆o͕̯͙͍̤͎̙͆͑ͨ̊ŕ̗̫͎͚̪̏e͖̣͕̫͛̐̑ͦ
̤̩͋ͯ̐̾y̹̼͖͇̱̓̉͋̄͗o̰̜̟̪̪͍͍͍̽̋u͚͉̝̺̙̤̱̳ͩ͒̊̅̇ ͖̥̯̯͚ͬ͗̊̏͐ͅl̻͇̻̻̝̖͒́o̦̘̅͗͛͌̒̓̅v̟͔̠ͩ̿͋͊̋̓e̱̻ͧ͛ ̘̤͎͓ͮ͐̈̍ͬ̓ͧͅh̺̠̹̀̅ͩĭ̠͍͚̺̭͕̲̣̇m͖̘̩̫͇͖̞̏̓̌̌̊̎͑ ̩̤̗͖̣̃͋̅͊n͇̟̻͓̿̅ͯ̇̐ͫo̮̗̅͂̃̋ ̬̞ͦl̠̰͕̗̗̲̘̲͋͋ẽ̞̗̟̯͇̹͈̰̑̅ͯs̥͍͍̹̪̃̅̂ͮ̑̚s̲̠̒̇̑̎
—
“I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend. Just for dinner. At ten.”
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
“It will be okay. Really. Stop worrying for once in your life and do this for me. Please. I will do anything for you.”
“Be careful with your words.”
“No, I really mean it, I will literally do anything for you. Just… please help my grandmother get off my ass?”
“…Fine. But you better hold up your end of the deal.”
Everything goes off without a hitch. He holds your hand very convincingly under the table and looks at you like you’re made of gold and god’s teeth. After dinner, outside, he mumbles that your grandmother is watching you from the window, and to act natural, and with ease you were suddenly pushed against his car and locked in a kiss with your best friend.
Jin was very good at this. Meek-mannered and perpetually stressed, yes, but apparently an amazing kisser. Double-jointed, strong hands held your waist with tenderness, and against your mouth he knew how to alternate between tempting, light touches and harder, captivating ones that made your knees go weak. In fact, this is the best kiss you’ve ever had, let alone dreamed of. Heat pools in dangerous places, and your heart stumbles and throbs and races, and some downright inappropriate thoughts cross your mind. But before you can part your lips and tempt him a little further, it’s over and your vision is unfocused and you’re unconsciously leaning towards him for more.
Seokjin laughs at you and you freeze, feeling yourself blush, stuttering, lost for words.
“That was good,” he mumbles, quite winded himself. “Wow. Uh. That was… wow.”
“Where did you learn to do that?” you breathed out.
“Oh, you know,” he shrugged.
“You… you can’t just kiss me like that and then leave me hanging! What the fuck? How long have you been holding out on me?”
Seokjin looks positively pleased as pudding by this point, and you are a hot mess, fingers clinging to his shoulders to keep yourself upright. It all has the strangest sense of déjà vu, and rightness, and for some reason you want to cry, and for some other reason you realize you are in l-o-v-e.
“I… have actually wanted to do that for a… very, very long time. Too long.” His voice is rougher now, and he, too, seems a little overwhelmed, and also like he might happily devour you where you stand. You think you would be okay with that. His hands have been tight on your hips this whole time, and this dress isn’t your style anyway. “It feels like I’ve wanted to do that for a thousand years.”
Finally, something spills against your cheek, and you don’t know why you’re crying. But he is, too, suddenly, and grinning stupidly from ear to ear and then he crushes you in his arms, murmuring over and over again like a song, “I love you. I love you. I love you. Please don’t cry, you’re too pretty to cry. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
And this time, he is yours.