#the specialist

“I’m sorry I didn’t have time for you. Wasn’t aware of the things you tried to say. Didn’t know what to do when you’re scared. Sorry I couldn’t hold your hand. Sorry that you waited for me and I couldn’t attend,” For that brief moment, his voice and his face, turned into your fathers’. And in that moment, you were once again that little 9 years old, with ponytails and mismatched sandals, waiting for your dad. Everything your father never apologized for; he had.

↳ pairing yoongi, you

↳ genre office-factory setting, work romance, secret relationship, slice of life

↳ words 5.2k

↳ warnings mentions of physical and mental abuse, implied self harm, tattoos, scars and battle wounds, financial struggles and internal wars

↳ chapters one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | ongoing…

↳ ao3 link https://archiveofourown.org/works/37231339 - will update when complete with several amendments

FIVE.

Ambitious One.

I have always been ambitious, my mother said. Tunnel vision once I set my mind onto something. I have always wanted many things. And have always found my way to get my hands on them — no matter what. I wanted many things. I have never wanted someone.

And I reckon,
It’s a whole lot different than wanting objects.

There is nothing more depressing than the sight of a lady wanting so much from a man that doesn’t know anything about her desire. Hoping for the ripple effect of her desperation would somehow reach him through telepathy. How do you teach your brain to think like your heart? Knowing fully well that they are of different makings? One, thoughts; another, thuds. Connecting the dots with careful calculations, dealing with mathematics is much easier than dealing with emotions. It’s making you physically sick, dizzy, discombobulated.

The last time you felt this severely vulnerable was when you considered leaving your professional field to be an artist. You already prepared the dialogues in your head and answers to questions they might ask. And by experience, you also know that sometimes they don’t ask the question you thought they would. And that’s where the trouble arises.

You caught Seokjin in a pretentious glance to feign hard work. Provided his long legs, he got next to you from behind in no time.

“You look like a drug addict at the sight of your drug dealer after a rehab, could you calm it down?” He spoke in a soft but hushed tone. His eyes darted at random places in the room, to mask the fact that he too was actually looking at Yoongi—who was in fact underneath a blistering machine fixing and aligning the foil and PVC with his capable hands.

“What are your plans?” Seokjin glides his eyes and himself to the side where you are, curious and in a serious undertone.
“It’s a little drastic but it might work,” you matched his tone.
“Sounds a little rapey but sure, I trust you,” Seokjin nods.
“Why on earth would it even go there, I didn’t even say anything remotely sexual,” you grimaced.
“Rapey — as in intrusive of one’s personal space,” he adds.
“Like what you are doing to me right now,” you spat.

He glides his rolling chair away, mouthing, “Fair.”

Yoongi could not understand why it was so difficult to screw the nuts in. He had multiple mishaps to face today and one of them is the no. 12 spanar isn’t in the toolbox, and the WD-40 anti-rust spray is missing for the nth time today. To add to the problem, the PVC roll broke in half because the new kid he is training, slipped them out of his hand. To which he had to request Seokjin, the executive to order a new roll since he clocked in pretty early.

His knees are bruised from kneeling for hours by this machine and already, he had to go for training for a newly installed packing machine. The engineers asked him when he was free. To be fucking honest, his only free time is his break time.

One final twist and it’s screwed. He pulls the foil roll into the feeder, and lets in extra length to finalize the alignment measurements. Then, he let the machine run. It stamps perfectly. He instructed the new kid to watch the machine as he cleaned up. He wipes his greasy hand with a rag he found. He knelt, yet again, by the tool box to hear the door open and close. It was you.

He placed the tools he used one-by-one into the toolbox and when he got to the last one, your hands snatched them faster.

“What do you need a WD-40 spray for?” He asked but not really asking, motioning his hand to take them from you. Repeatedly.
“Do something for me…” you demanded, timidly.
“No,” he darted.
“One thing, please,” you added.

“I just did overtime yesterday, I will not do another one no matter how much you’ll pay,” he assumed.

Realizing he stood firmly on his stand, you resorted to, as you said to Seokjin, drastic measures. You hoped and prayed that you didn’t have to, but knowing Yoongi as long as you did, you have expected this degree of complication to take place.

You took Yoongi’s spanner and went to run with it. You bolted to the doors.

“What in the fuck—” You heard Yoongi cussed breathlessly, moaning how he has no time for this.

“That thing is heavy, fucking christ,” he mumbled tiredly.

Standing outside the glass doors, you held on the handles like it was your lifeline. Speaking of lifelines, your plan only works if Yoongi was in it. And the chance for him to be in it, is zero to none.

He could push the door if he wanted. He could do it with one hand. The strength you had mustered in both arms is a quarter of his left arm. But he assessed the situation diligently in a quick second and he knows that if he exerted more than that, you’ll get hurt. What is making you behave that way?

He lets go of the handle for you to set the spanner he wanted on the floor opposed to the door. There is no way for him to take the spanner without tackling you down first. With the glass doors between you both, sounds do not transfer, so you’ll have to communicate with sign languages.

You kick the spanner further away with your leg and toes. He groans and tilt his head back, baring his throat columns where his peony tattoos were. It distracted you. That’s new isn’t it?

Almost at the point of drooling, he tried to open the door so he could get to his tools but you were absolutely persistent.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he shakes his head, pinching his forehead between his thumb and fingers, “I got shit to do!” He fusses.

Poking through the gap of the door, you said, “Are you going to help me or not? You help me, I give you your tools back,” you parlayed.

You closed the door and he steps back to undo his facemask, mouthing a delicious, succulent, “Fuck you,” he smirks.

You chuckled dryly and turned to him once more to show him your glorious middle finger before taking his spanners with you. With confident strides you walk along the long auto-lit hallway and somewhere between your steps, you hear the door behind you open and close.

“What do you want…” his voice, gritty with an attractive rasp.

You tugged a smile on your lips and turned to him.

“Buy me a meal,” you said and he made a confused expression. So you motioned a fork and spoon with your hands and smiled.

Yoongi replied with a snarky expression, bit his smile and challenged you through the glass door as if to say, “You wanna try me?”

Seeing that he won’t say yes easily, you took the spanner with you. So he hollered from the distance, “McDonald’s? Or Burger King?”

“Burger King!” You replied just as loud.
“The spanner!”
“After I get the meal!”

So persistent.

“What do you want?” He said at the self-order counter.

He taps on the touchscreen for ‘Eat In’ option, and bolts at the onion rings the same time you did.

“You too???” You beamed.

“Yeah, the onion rings here are great,” he said through an expressionless face, shoving one when it was placed on the tray, he wiped his hand on the back of his overalls and paid for the food as promised.

Now seated on the semi-empty fast food chain, Yoongi glances at you who is unwrapping the burger you ordered. He sets his limp crossbody sling bag on the empty chair next to him. His jumpsuit was unzipped up till the middle of his chest between his nipples, revealing the white shirt he was wearing underneath. At work, the multiple chains (read: dogtag, celtic cross and wolf fang) would have caused an issue but if worn underneath the jumpsuit, hidden away from prying eyes, one could escape suspension. The rules are high-school worthy,  but that’s how the management wants to be conceived.

“What do you mean by ‘do something’?” Yoongi broke the silence with his gritty voice, fingers nimble on the onion he plans to shove in his mouth next, trying to rake his brain on the enigma that is you.

“I just wanted to have food,” you shrugged. Hoping the lie would be enough but deep down you know Yoongi is suspicious. Yoongi spreads his knees and reclines further back into his chair, lasering menacing gaze on your deceit. Despite him leaning, his bony tattooed wrist still extends over the expanse of the tables’ edge. His other elbow is on the other chair on his right. He cranes his neck back then to the side, and you could see a rough uncolored draft on them. The columns of his throat as he swallowed a thick gulp — such a delicious sight.

“Do I look like four to you?”
You clicked your tongue, “On some days…” You begin. He begins to zip his jumpsuit and gather his sling bag, eyes darted at the exit and he clicks his tongue. You clawed his sleeve before he could go any further; the sleeves that he had rolled up his elbows.

“Let me!” you hurried to say and softened when you met his gaze in a brief glance upward from your seated position, “Explain.”

Seokjin crosses his arm whispering, “Yoongi will not pretend, take it from me.”

“I realized that we started off our tumultuous relationship from a misunderstanding that continued to pile on as we worked together and I know now that you weren’t as bad as I painted you to be,” you gulped. Yoongi is back seated on the chair.

Flashes of the words from the period drama you watched alone. The main character persuaded his love interest. Flashback end.
Flashes begin. Standing across the table staring at Seokjin, you asked timidly, “Then what do you propose?” Flashback end.

Sometimes I learn to love from the TV screen. I mimicked their words and copied their intonation. To pretend to have feelings. Or to remember feelings, having been devoid of them for so long.

“After the time we’ve spent and how you’ve helped me out with the car and at work, I found out that I’ve been microscopically focusing on your bad qualities instead of the good because I was terrified of…” you fiddled with your nails, gazing down at your lap, “Terrified of liking you.”

Seokjin gazes to the side, at the window panels overlooking the road, “If he can’t pretend, then you’ll have to.”

I have to do this Yoongi.

“And I wonder if you’d consider,” you took a deep breath and forced yourself to look at him, “…Me.”

You can almost hear the crows flying across the room filling the silence that has been casted upon the whole restaurant. Actually, the crows were flying inside the restaurant and the staff are clamoring over them to shoo them out.

Yoongi straightens up in his seat. The way that whole day seems constructed, no, orchestrated to seem like a movie makes him wary. How it unfolds, how it came to be— they’re all so suspicious. He slouched forward and he brought his hand together, lacing each fingers like a prayer.

“What are you plotting, madam?”

I have to be more convincing. He’s not buying.

Yoongi has always been empathetic. According to Seokjin’s experience, if ever Seokjin needed help to fill in a specialist vacant spot, Seokjin would be honest about why the spot is vacant. Whether their motorcycle tires are busted, or their wife’s in labor, Yoongi would chime in. And by experience, you know that Yoongi would drop forks and spoons to help someone with something they couldn’t help with. Didn’t matter if it was a carefully-made lie. And the worst is, Yoongi kept falling for it.

Blinking to the side with your head hung down, you gulped. You didn’t say another word, just a dry scoff, too short a chuckle to hide a broken heart. Your lips pressed into a thin line. You don’t plan to say another word. You want the silence to eat him alive. Convincing, sometimes isn’t about speaking out, or throwing out big emotions; sometimes it can be in the silence. Because when emotion is at play, no words could compensate. Utilizing Yoongi’s strong sense of quiet empathy, you know that this was enough to dissuade his accumulating distrust. Sensing the change in the air, Yoongi’s head dropped and leaned back hoping to see the bigger picture of this strange confession that seemed to manifest out of nowhere. The longer you stayed silent, the heavier, the thicker, the more suffocating — the atmosphere became.

His knitted brows, the creases of his skin between, the lines in his forehead and the little shake of his head signifies a demanding confusion. Then he remembered the look, the gaze you held on him when he was catering you not too long ago. The lingering eyes, the stare. It adds up, doesn’t it?

“You have to understand,” He begins, clasping and unclasping his hand as he spoke in whispers, “I have never seen you in that way before, it has always been work and wanting to lend a hand where it fits,” and I am aware how it looks for you right now that I may have crossed a thin-line but for some reason, I can’t decide if it was love or coworker-ship and I can’t risk both. Yoongi clenched his eyes shut like it pains him to say it out loud, “But you’re my superior. It won’t look right for both of us.”

You swung your head to the side, nail digging into your Prada purse. The leather skin peeling off, unsure if it was his voice or his words that was wavering your fragile strength. This was something the dramas didn’t teach. Suddenly, it almost felt real and you tune your heart out to protect it.

“You’re not answering,” you shake your head, your smile faltering, “I asked if you would consider me… not the executive me, not your superior—me, the one you took riding, the one you cooked for, the one you listened to— me.”

The reflection of you in his eyes, his fluttering lashes as he figures out what to say. His mouth moves, and they sputter words that sound foreign to you. It is almost as if you’ve gone deaf, and you watched the shape of his lips to make sense of what he was saying and by delay, the words string into your head to form a sentence— all you could hear was ringing, high pitch ringing in your ear. The time moves agonizingly slowly and you sat there frozen, and taking it all in.

A week went by.  And then. Two weeks went by.

In your room, there’s a large corkboard. Unfolding the blueprint of the house you wanted, you have thumbtacks piecing all its four-corners. There were pictures of Yoongi surrounding his name card— his interest, his tattoos, the pros and cons you see in him. Your domineering mother and passive father and the qualities they might search for in a son-in-law. The strings connect towards the house; this pretentious status of the house your mother wanted you to have because it would increase your family’s societal status.

”I am already so very successful, mother!”
“Really? Where is your house? Your land? Who would believe you?”

Unmarried. No prospect. A burden.

Smiling towards the corkboard, next to an open luggage on the floor, you said, “He didn’t say no.” Yoongi didn’t say no. These past two weeks, you were on a business trip to town, representing the production department in the annual meeting for the headquarters based in Seoul. These past few weeks, your only source of entertainment was Seokjin who was updating you on all the field gossip while you were away. In a phone call, Seokjin mentions something peculiar about Yoongi.

“He had been taking a lot of overtime lately,” Seokjin sighs into the phone, “Without me even asking… d’you think it has something to do with what happened in Burger King that day?”

“It might have…”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say no.”
“But he didn’t say yes either, did he?”

Silence from your side, but your smile remains as you reminisce Yoongi’s voice when asked for time to decide, in Burger King that day.

“Did you tell him that doing too much overtime could kill him?” you switched in your seat.
“Yeah-yeah I did. But he kept saying that he needed to do something.”

“Which was?”
“Dunno.”

Yoongi had the day you returned to work, off. With his bike, clad in black, his black leather jacket and work boots, he walks into a pawnshop. Upon entering, the young boy at the cash register leaves to the back and an older heavily built man replaces him. He wore big chains on his neck, had gold teeth that were apparent when he smiled at Yoongi. Yoongi took off his helmet and greeted him with his chin. A wad of cash was placed on the counter for the older man to take. He combs through the stack of money with a wry smile.

“You can count them out, I’ll wait,” Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly. The older man passes the cash to his son who disappeared into the back to take out something from the safe deposit.

This is the something that he needed to do. Recovering his grandmother’s vintage wedding ring. The day that she had to pawn her ring was the day Yoongi went to interview to obtain the job he has now. He promised her on her deathbed that when he could afford to, he would take them back to her.

And so he rides to the cemeteries. With white baby breaths in hand, Yoongi crouches by his grandmother’s name plate, fiddling with the vintage ring he recovered, burdened by the thoughts of the future, something he had never even imagined because Yoongi had always been living in the present.

“Because you said, when a girl spoke to me about feelings, I should tell you first,” he said, his eyes squinting at the glaring sun, “This is me telling you.”

He dug a small shallow hole and placed the ring inside, “And this is the promise I’ve fulfilled. Permission to be happy now, gramma.” The smile his grandmother wore on her portrait now didn’t seem crestfallen like how he remembered it to be. Call him delusional, but she actually looked happy. He walks away feeling like the weight on his shoulder was lifted entirely. He took one last look at his grandmother’s grave and the baby breath he had left, the velvet box the ring came with on top of her name plate next to her portrait — a redefining leap. A fresh start. To the new Yoongi.

It was a little over 6.30pm when Yoongi clocked in for his night shift for the week when he saw you still seated in your office with your face lit by the PC screen. You were skimming through files and keeping up with the changed production plan while you were away. You stood up to update the rosters for your supervisors and machine specialists to see. This is to inform them about the changes and they were required to arrange a task force accordingly. Seokjin might have notified them verbally and through text but this is a formal briefing as per SOPs. Earbuds in your ear to keep you company when you catch the scent of freshly brewed coffee lurking in the dark office. Yoongi enters with a thermos and two mugs.

Looking over your shoulder, you eyed him suspiciously.

“Did you know, the largest spanner in this factory weighs about 2.5 kg?” He pours coffee in the mugs, takes his and leaves behind a smaller spanner and retrieves the heavier one you had been withholding from him. He walks backward, one hand holding his mug, the other shaking the large spanner, and he said, “This one’s 1.1kg.” A smile crept on your face. He disappears into the dark hallway. And you sped to the door sill.

“So it’s a date?!” you yelled from where you are, hoping it reaches him, whose silhouette is apparent underneath the automated light in the hallway.
“No time this week!” you could hear him smiling, he continued walking.

“Next week then?!”
“No!”

That was how it began. Yoongi is doing the trades like you did. Like how you earned Burger King from him. The spanner is the symbol of trade. By leaving behind the spanner to you, he is giving you the benefit of the trade, the power. So you returned them to him. The issue here now is time. And suddenly, Yoongi was bludgeoned with looks and nudged from you, asking “Date?” A folded sticky note that reads, “Date?” Over time, you’ve gotten creative, and almost exposed yourself in pursuing Yoongi.

The “Dates?” were asked through the passover windows, written and folded in his locker, in his boots, inside his helmet, in all his pockets, in his toolbox. Time and time again, he crosses his arm at you, shakes his head and mouthed, “No.”

You sent a screenshot of your Google search to Seokjin. It reads, “How to ask a guy on a date?” followed by, “How to attract an INTP” then, “How to date.”

Seokjin [10:09pm] : Yikes.
Seokjin [10:00pm] : Sorry I asked.
“H. E. L. P,” you replied.

Seokjin calling…

“Maybe you’ve been too forward, like, the poor dude got spooked,” he starts.
“Wow okay,” you grunt.

From the conversation with Seokjin, it seemed like too much effort isn’t attractive. Fair enough, you should have known when the first 3 of your 25 tries didn’t come to fruition. In dramas you watched, the girl wouldn’t have to ask. According to Seokjin, Yoongi would prefer a more intimate approach.

“ Maybe cut down the asking from 25 in a day to perhaps 1 or two—” Seokjin trailed.
“ —a day?”
“A week,” to this response from Seokjin, you frowned. Face crumpled.

“Inefficient, I wouldn’t have time, I need the house by mid-year next year,” you scribbled down the timeline.
“Now, let’s not think of the time. You can’t rush trust,” Seokjin instructs, “You have to be patient.”
“I’m a burnt out underpaid and overworked executive, I can’t afford to be patient,” you spat.

Seokjin rubs his face down, “Relationship to Yoongi, heck, to anyone is like a marathon. The finish line being the relationship itself. It’s not how you start, it’s how you end. It’s never about speed, it’s about sustainability, stealth and commitment.”

“Speak to me like an engineer, you make zero sense right now,” you massaged the temples of your head.

Machines, calculations, mathematics— connecting the dots from one end to the other have always been simple to me. All the things the world finds complicated have always made sense to me and for that reason, perhaps, other things people thought as simple weren’t so to me. They don’t appeal to me, much less matter to me. It was when I began to work with people that I realized how much facial expressions could say without words. Being direct has always been easy, but now that I know emotions others have, I tend to think more, learn more. 

Have I been neglecting my heart for so long, I forgot I have one? 

Gentler. Like how you heard the female actress in that movie say to her lover. Yoongi had shied away from your advances because you came off too strong. Too eager. Having heard Seokjin’s advice, you had dialed it down by a ton. It wasn’t difficult, but you were more concerned of the time, ever glancing at the digital calendar at every 5 minute interval. Maybe you should forget about it all. Maybe accept your first defeat and run off. That doesn’t sound like you. Fret, you’re clawing at the impossible as of now because this desire of yours requires a third-party who had to be earned by emotions. It probably would have been easier if the target wasn’t Yoongi. But it is too late to change now. The cards are drawn and they spell his name.

What would you do if you truly love someone?

You make amends with your past. Yoongi blinks at the half-bitten biscuit in his hand. He is seated on the roadside, wiping his hand on the back of his black worn-out jeans. Dust flew as cars after cars passed by. His boots scratch the pebbles underneath being the only sound apart from the throttling bikes speeding by.

The tattoo parlor behind him had its shutter just opened. The owner, with his fiery neon green hair, rubbing his eyes as he prepares.

“The alarm died on me,” he greets Yoongi at the door. Yoongi cocks his eyebrow and walks in, unconvinced, “Sure it did.”

“Heard you were back at the pawnshop,” Hansung yawns.
“Not to pawn, but to get something back,” Yoongi sat himself on the leather seat, peeling off his jacket and black turtleneck. Hansung prepares a bottle of cognac and two shot glasses. In a while, Hansung puts on his black gloves and Yoongi bares his neck. Unprompt, he applies tattoo care balm on his neck.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you want to cover up your skin,” Hansung mumbles to his chest, knees widespread to be in close proximity in order to do his job.

Yoongi didn’t respond. Hansung’s eyes glided to where Yoongi’s skin was still bare. The specks of scars, and healed wounds that his skin endured. Cuts and blades on the columns otherwise invisible to the naked eye. It was these scars that he wanted to hide. Ligature abrasions, permanent scarring, small pale circle scars littered his shoulders and neck, all but his face— his skins were witnesses and proof of a turbulent upbringing.

Yoongi closed his eyes and when he did, those words he grew up to ring in his ears like a broken record.

“How about I break your pretty little face, huh?” 

”Get over here, I need to put out my cigars.”

His childhood was dreadful.

“Hyung is always so strange,” Hansung let out a short chuckle, probably feeling foolish for saying this out loud, “Most people do tatts for the art, and you told me to treat your skin like a canvas. What if one day you wake up and decide you hate what I drew on you?”

“I do it for the tingles. I don’t care what you draw on me,” he replied coolly.

Yoongi showed up with a turtleneck the next day at work. He smells like coconut and mango when he passes by. He senses several head perks up when he walks by. He brought the book he was trying to finish since last Christmas.

“Friedrich Nietzsche,” you typed into your phone once you walked back to your locker. That was very interesting. Especially ‘Beyond Good and Evil’. The idea was to remember what interests him; and that is through the books he reads. As Yoongi was minding his business, he felt a shadow looming over him like a statue.

“I know you’re there, I’m not going on a date with you,” he spat dryly.
“I wasn’t gonna ask— “ you screwed your face in disgust.

“Then why are you here, standing there like a ghost? Hm?” Yoongi shrugs, careful not to turn his head to the side because his throat tattoo is healing.
“The will to overcome an emotion, is ultimately the will of another, or of several other, emotions,” you quoted. Sitting across the table, just like you did in Burger King, coffee in hand.

“I would not have guessed you were a fan of Nietzsche,” you take a small sip of the coffee in a paper cup, “Bunch of bullshit he is. But then again, fitting.”

Yoongi let out a scoff the same time he shut his book and threw it a short distance on the table, “Who said I was?”

“You were reading him.”
“To understand him. The man’s dead.”
“Well, I have SEVERAL things I disagree with.”
“And so you spoke through his grave?”
“IF I must.”

Yoongi squints his eyes toward you, and you squint back.

“One quote of him that I hate to this day, he said and I quote; ‘He who seeks intelligence lacks intelligence,’” you stated.
“Why, because it hits home?” Yoongi darts.

“Because it was inaccurate,” you swirled and blew the hot steams away from your coffee.
“Really, how so?” he tips his chin and folded his arms, leaning towards the table at you. You were rendered silence.

Yoongi clears his throat and lowers his voice, “It’s not a criticism. He’s not saying the people who value knowledge lacks it or saying that they are stupid. He’s saying that the people who search for something, don’t have it. It is in a way, stating the obvious. He, who seeks intelligence,” Yoongi points his forefinger to your temple, “Lacks intelligence,” he taps the tip of your nose. He scrunches his nose, smirking.

“Get it now?” he returns to his laxed self.
“I need a pen and paper,” you swallowed the whole paper cup of coffee. Yoongi handed one. Then he tore off a page from the Friedrich Nietzsche book. That sudden move thrilled you but you hoped it wouldn’t show on your face but Yoongi caught on.

“So you’re that type of reader,” you grinned, taking the piece of paper from him, “The read and butcher kind.”
“ I can’t decide if that’s a slur or a compliment, I’m leaning to believe that it’s both?” He pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side.

The wall clock showed 8AM, you stood up folding the paper he gave you after writing something on it, then you pushed it towards him. His larger hand overlaps yours as he takes it. Your hand slips out easily. It was obvious that he fully intended to touch you. The calluses on his fingertips send electric tingles on  your knuckles and you couldn’t even look back at him after you left the cafeteria. You could feel his eyes on you.

“Bookstore. Saturday. Lunch.” You wrote.

Meeting was grueling. With the CAPA incident involving Yoongi finally coming to  a close, you are now helping Seokjin with his CAPA report while the meeting is in progress. All seven executives of the branches were huddled in the meeting room and while the presentation was happening, it was common to see secretaries and clerks handing over notes from the Machine Specialists to their Execs. This time, Jimin passes a note to you saying that it was from your MS.

Unfolding the note, you read a big three letters written with a marker pen, “ Y E S.” You smiled so big, Seokjin looked up from his laptop, his bangs poking his eyes. You gave him a nod and a smile and he too, grins.
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