Chapter Text
Namjoon never though it would feel like this, but looking at the man sitting opposite him, handsome face illuminated by the warm glow of the candlelight flickering between them, he suddenly knows with complete certainty, deep in his heart, he’s waited long enough to say those three little words.
“This isn’t working.”
Seongil stops.
“What?”
“Sorry,” Namjoon leans forward, elbow perched on the edge of the table. The corners of his lips quirk up with an innocent smile. “Were you saying something?”
“I —”
(He was.)
“Uh —”
(“My buddy, he's got a clinic in Gangnam and they've got a machine with this light, right? Like one of those, you know... Incubator, tha'ssit. It's supposed to, like, stimulate the energy in your cells or something. I don’t really know. The nurse said they’ve got a ton of studies to back it up. Apparently, he’s got guys coming in all the time to do it. So, I thought, s’gotta be legit. But you’re lying there with your pants off and you're lookin' at that alien-lookin’ thing, and you’re thinking, someone’s gonna sneeze, or like, fucking… breathe at it wrong, and they’re gonna cook your ball—“)
“Doesn’t, uh," Seongil clears his throat. “Doesn’t matter. What, uh… What did you —”
“Are you sure?” Namjoon tilts his head and draws his eyebrows together in a frown, playing up the concern in a way that never fails to get guys like Seongil. “Seemed pretty important… Considering you’ve been talking about it for the past thirty minutes —”
“Namjoon,” Seongil cuts in. (Okay, so, almost never.) “What do you mean? What’s not working?”
Namjoon straightens up and drops the charade.
“This.”
Seongil blinks. “This, as in…”
“This,” Namjoon gestures between them over the table. “This date. This evening. You and I.”
Slowly, Seongil sets down his chopsticks. Namjoon follows the movement with his eyes, watching Seongil’s downcast gaze linger as he searches for answers on his plate. As expected, the Chilean seabass and steamed mussels have regrettably little to say about the whole situation, and when Seongil lifts his gaze, Namjoon leans back and gives him a sympathetic smile.
“If there’s nothing you wanted to say, I’ll just.” He tilts his head in the direction of the door. “This was great! Let’s never do it aga—”
“Wait!”
It’s loud and urgent, startling Namjoon as it stays hanging in the stunned silence that falls between them. On the other side of the wall, the restaurant keeps bustling, a steady hum of conversation seeping into their private room.
Seongil had guided him inside with a hand on the small of his back at the start of the night, breath warm on the side of his neck as he’d murmured into his ear about arranging for only the best for our special evening. Namjoon had been so taken aback by the opulence of it all, the dark wood, the candlelight and the chandelier, gleaming metals polished to perfection, that it had taken him a while to notice that anything was missing at all.
(“There’s no menu.”
“Hm?”
“They didn’t bring the menu.” Namjoon had repeated, delicate. Seongil had finally looked up from his phone, hidden from view under the edge of the table. He’d stared blankly as the gears had turned in his head, trying to catch up.
“You won’t need it,” he’d said, eventually, pocketing his phone. “I already took care of it.”
A smile spread across his face.
“This place has the best seafood in Seoul.”)
“Wait,” Seongil repeats, softer. A deep, frustrated wrinkle forms at his forehead. “What —” His voice cracks, squeaky, and he quickly coughs to clear it. “What do you mean?”
The candle between them burns out, a wisp of smoke curling up towards the ceiling.
“I mean, I — I don’t understand, one moment we’re having a great time, and now you’re saying —”
“I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“You don’t have to be so final about it!” Seongil cries. “Or if you’re having such an awful time, you could at least make up some excuse. I don’t know. Say that your, your dog threw up or —”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Or, or your kid —”
“My kid?”
“Or something, instead of —”
“We’re not compatible.”
“What?” Seongil laughs, staring at him, bewildered. "Of course, we are! We have… so much in common.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I don’t know.” Seongil gestures wildly, waving his hands in the air. “We’re both, what. Attractive. Successful. That power couple shit.” He stops. “Don’t you get it? We’re — we’re what everybody wants.”
Namjoon blinks.
“I mean, success is relative, but I think every couple needs a winner to keep things interesti—”
Namjoon’s chair scrapes the floor as he stands, just catching Seongil’s wide-eyed look of shock before turning on his heel.
“Wait!”
He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Seongil scrambles after him, shooting up so quickly that his chair falls back behind him and hits the floor with a loud clatter. It’s followed by a flurry of steps as he rounds the giant table, hitting the corner as he does if the sudden rattling and clinking of bouncing tableware is anything to go on.
“Ah, fucking — shit,” Seongil curses sharply under his breath. “Namjoon, baby, please.”
He’s just about to reach the door when he feels a clammy hand wrap around his wrist. He spins around, meeting Seongil’s gaze.
“Let go.”
“Please,” Seongil implores, breathless. “Let’s — let’s just talk about this for a moment.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
For a moment, Seongil searches his face, frantic, looking for any sign of reprieve. Suddenly, he stills like he’s hit with a flash of clarity. He cradles Namjoon’s hand in both of his, nods to himself and drops down on the ground, knees hitting the hardwood with a loud thud.
Now.
Namjoon has had a few hunky men down on their knees in front of him in his time.
But this?
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath, giving his hand a tug like he’s trying to free it from an especially thorny and remarkably persistent bush. “Get up.”
“No,” Seongil shakes his head, adamant. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Don’t say that!” Seongil snaps. He draws a deep breath, recovering his composure. “Whatever… whatever it is, okay? Anything. Just let me know, and I’ll take care of it. I’ll fix it. I swear.”
Namjoon looks down at Seongil, disheveled and pitiful on the floor, pupils blown wide. His dark hair, perfectly gelled back at the start of the night, now unravels in loose spikes across his forehead. Sweat gathers at his brow, glistening in the low light.
“Anything?”
Seongil nods quickly.
“Anything.”
“Let go.”
“Is it something I said?” Seongil wails. “Something I did?” He stops. “Did you not like the seabass?”
Namjoon scoffs, pulling his hand free. Seongil falls forward with the force of it, catching himself just before his face has an unfortunate meeting with the floor by Namjoon’s feet.
“What about the rain?” Seongil tries, tripping over his feet as he stumbles up. “It's raining pretty hard. Maybe I should —”
“Maybe you should be a weatherman,” Namjoon suggests, reaching to pull the door open.
A wave of noise rushes over him, the sound of chatter and laughter mixing with the clinking of glasses and cutlery. He grabs his coat from the rack by the door and takes off, striding through the dining hall, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the exit as he weaves his way past waiters and between tables of diners. Heads turn as he passes, the hum of conversations slowly replaced by scandalized whispers as people catch up to the sudden commotion, Seongil chasing after him.
“Namjoon!”
“Hey!” someone, a man, calls after them. “What d'you think you’re doing? You can’t just walk out!”
“Just give me one moment — Namjoon!”
The door opens as a couple steps inside, eyes widening as they come face-to-face with him. They quickly shuffle out of his way as he tugs his coat on and slips out, the sounds of the restaurant fading to the background. The rain comes down hard, cold water soaking him. A moment later, the door shuts behind him with a heavy thud.
“Namjoon!”
He startles to a stop when Seongil suddenly overtakes him on the sidewalk, blocking his way.
“You’re fast, you know,” he laughs, winded and wheezy. Namjoon stares, unimpressed.
“Move.”
“Please, baby, I —”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Okay,” Seongil nods quickly, sobering. “Okay, I won’t. Just, just let me explain. I’ll let you go after, okay? Just hear me out.”
Namjoon crosses his arms. Cars glide past them on the road.
“You have one minute.”
“Oh,” Seongil breathes out, eyes widening in surprise. He nods. “Okay, yeah. Yeah.” He pushes his wet hair back out of his eyes and hastily tries to straighten out the front of his shirt, where it persistently sticks to his skin, coat forgotten behind. His breath comes out in thick puffs in the cold air. “Yeah, I — I should just. I'll, uh — I —”
“Fifty-five seconds.”
“I really like you, Namjoon.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re — you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before. You have such great… thoughts, insights.”
“Insights.”
“I’m serious!” Seongil insists. “It’s fascinating, all that, that stuff you were talking about, with the, the —"
Namjoon narrows his eyes and Seongil trails off under his unimpressed gaze. He swallows and licks his lips, nervous, droplets dripping down the tip of his nose.
“Art,” he pivots. “I — I’d love to see your collection! Maybe — maybe I could come with you. What do you say? Let’s grab a taxi to your place, and you could show me —”
“I don’t do private viewings,” Namjoon says. “Can you move? You’re blocking the way.”
“I’m not like other guys, you know!”
“I know,” Namjoon says, trying to get around him. Seongil slides in front to stop him. “I think you might be worse.”
“A lot of guys, they don’t want to date someone that’s like you,” Seongil barrels on, clueless and desperate. “Smart, I mean! They get intimidated by that. But that’s not me! Me? I like to learn —”
“Thanks, but I’m not really looking to be anyone’s teache—”
“You’re beautiful.”
Namjoon stops. The rain pours down even harder, pounding the sidewalk. Seongil takes advantage, squaring his shoulders with a chuckle.
“Don’t look so surprised. You must hear it all the time.”
Namjoon sets his jaw.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, I mean, it’s hard to imagine that anyone could pass by you and not notice. I know you caught my attention.” Seongil’s lips quirk up with a smirk as he reminisces. “A room full of the most beautiful art... I was supposed to keep an eye on everything, but it was you I couldn’t stop staring at all night —”
“Thanks for dinner, Seongil-ssi,” Namjoon says, trying to move on. Seongil blocks his way again.
“Why are you doing this, pretty? I thought we’re finally getting somewhere here.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
“Come on, Namjoon,” Seongil goads. “There’s gotta be a reason you agreed —”
“You wouldn’t take no for an answer!” Namjoon snaps, finally. “You kept accosting me. Everywhere I went, everything I tried to look at, you were there constantly, breathing down my neck —”
“I was just being professional —”
“Yeah,” Namjoon scoffs. “Professional.”
“I mean, not strictly, but,” Seongil shrugs, self-assured. “What can I say? I’m used to getting the things I want.”
Namjoon stares at him for a moment, incredulous, before giving him a humorless laugh.
“That’s funny.”
“Come ooon,” Seongil barters. “Do you think I’d stand here getting fucking… soaked down to my socks, freezing my ass off if I didn’t want this? Want you? Give me another chance. Let’s start over.” Seongil smiles. “I think we could have something really great here.”
“Thanks,” Namjoon says, simply. “But I’d hate to have too much of a good thing.”
The smile falls off Seongil’s face. He stares, a challenge, and Namjoon holds his gaze, just as firm. Finally, Seongil scoffs.
“You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”
“I’ll run the risk,” Namjoon says, shouldering his way past Seongil.
“I would’ve shown you a good time!” Seongil shouts after him over the downpour pounding the slick pavement. “You could’ve been in Paris tomorrow.”
Namjoon turns around one last time. Seongil freezes in his tracks, expectant, as passersby walk around them, curious eyes lingering.
“Sorry,” Namjoon yells back. He gives an apologetic shrug and smiles. “I have work tomorrow."
If there’s one thing you should know about Kim Namjoon, it's that Kim Namjoon knows love.
Call it an occupational hazard, but when you make a living untangling the romantic spaghetti of the masses, you start to develop, for better or for worse, a pretty good idea of what love is all about. And from where Namjoon is looking at it (and he’s seen some things), the state of modern romance offers little to be optimistic about.
Before he can get too down about it, he reminds himself that things could always be worse. Like, say, he could have wound up a divorce lawyer and that would've really sucked. Sure, he’d definitely be making a lot more money and maybe he wouldn’t be stuck living in an apartment with nosy neighbors, mismatched doors on his kitchen cabinets, and furniture left behind by the previous tenant with a penchant for 1980s interior design.
(The realtor had called it character, and back then, Namjoon had been in no position to look the vintage gift horse in the mouth, so they stayed. He did draw the line at the floral print couch, though.)
But the point is, when people go see a divorce lawyer, they’ve usually decided there's nothing to be done about the relationship except get rid of each other. And there might have been love there once, but there's rarely anything particularly patient nor kind about the names you start calling each other when it comes time to decide who takes the smart home devices and the signed Girls' Generation Holiday To Remember 10th Anniversary poster.
Because if you think about it, in the most basic terms, a relationship can only go two ways. Either it continues for all of eternity (or until death does you apart, anyway), or it ends. At least when people write to him, it’s usually with the hope that there's something about the relationship still left to salvage. Something about it worth fighting for. Then again, he rarely finds out what happens to any of these people after he sends his reply, and if the rising divorce rates are anything to go, things, again, start to look pretty bleak. Unless, you know, you’re the divorce lawyer.
And that’s just the divorce. After all, before you can start thinking about breaking up, you should first find somebody to fall in love with in the first place. Some say you can’t know love unless you’ve been in love, but that you’ll just know when it happens. Namjoon doesn’t buy it for a second, not only because it’s a stupid, contradictory, cyclical definition made up by people who want to turn love into a big, inexplicable mystery that you can’t understand unless you’re in their club, but because he’s never been in love (real, true love) a day in his life, and he still knows love plenty.
The elevator dings, pulling Namjoon out of his thoughts. He rolls his neck like it might clear his head, wincing at the tightness as the doors slide open.
“Namjoon.”
His head snaps up, eyes widening. He stumbles back, rattling the whole elevator as he collides with the mirror and slaps his hand against the close doors button, but he’s too slow. The door jams against a perfect, unscuffed sneaker.
Namjoon stares as Hoseok breaks into a big, beaming smile.
“How was it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Namjoon says, clutching his coffee protectively against his chest, avoiding eye contact as he peels himself off the mirror and steps out past Hoseok, others already waiting to get on.
“The guy,” Hoseok insists, the hems of his brown blazer fluttering at his sides as he chases Namjoon through the doors of the office.
“What guy?”
Soobin is standing by the printer, zoned out to the sound of mechanical churning as it spits out paper after paper into a thick pile. He looks up as they rush by, face lighting up.
“Good morning, RM sunbae-nim!”
“Soobin-ssi,” Namjoon calls over his shoulder, as good-natured as he can be while being chased. “We’ve talked about this, you don't have to call me —”
“You know,” Hoseok presses, more insistent, and Namjoon swears he can feel Hoseok’s breath stirring the hairs at his nape. He picks up his step, speed-walking past conference rooms and shelves of plants. “The guy!”
“From the bike repair? Yeah, I went back and talked with him. He gave me the bell back eventually. You know, I’m all for small business, I just don’t think it’s fair to say that you sell used parts if you’re going to be stealing them from your customers —”
Namjoon comes to a stop at his desk, suddenly whirling around to face Hoseok with a frown.
“Did he think I wouldn’t notice?”
Hoseok finally catches up with him, coming to a stop by his desk.
"Wait, what?"
Yoonji looks up from her computer at the commotion, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She blinks at them in the way she often does, placid.
“What’s this?”
“Nothing,” Namjoon says, quickly, at the same time as Hoseok says, “Namjoonie had a date with that gallery owner that was drooling after him all night.”
“Oh,” Yoonji says, perking up in interest. “How was it?”
Namjoon sets his coffee down on the desk and looks between them, both of them staring expectantly. Finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping.
“Not good.”
“What?” Hoseok asks. “Why?”
“He was a jerk,” Namjoon mutters, slipping out of his coat. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Yoonji furrows her brows.
“What happened?”
“He was so full of himself,” Namjoon says, frowning as he thinks back to last night. He tugs off his scarf and throws it over the back of his chair. “Chased me out of the restaurant. Said he’s used to getting what he wants.”
Yoonji rolls her eyes.
“Asshole.”
“Don’t worry,” Hoseok reassures him quickly, resting his hand on his shoulder. “You know what they say. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”
"Please,” Namjoon grimaces. ”Don’t talk about fish right now."
“What about that guy from the grocery store?” Yoonji asks. “That didn’t go anywhere?”
(A health nut. Nice muscles, good hair. Charming enough, at least until confessing that he likes to experiment with vegetables also below the waist. Namjoon likes veggies, too, but not like that.)
“No,” Namjoon sighs, shaking his head, settling down at his chair before reaching to power on his computer. Hoseok looks at him, sympathetic.
“Seriously, Joonie, don't worry about it. The right guy is out there somewhere. Just give him time.”
“I don’t know, Hob-ah,” Namjoon mutters. “How much more time does he need?”
“That’s the thing,” Hoseok says. “You’re Kim Namjoon, you want to have things on a schedule. You can’t do that with love. You just have to wait.”
Namjoon hums, thoughtful.
“I mean… not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
Namjoon thinks about it for a moment, staring at the corner of his computer display, listening to the rhythmic tapping of keys as Yoonji types.
"I could just give up.”
Abruptly, the typing stops. Namjoon looks up to see Yoonji staring at him.
“What?”
“You’re giving up? On love?”
Yoonji’s expression is unreadable in a way that makes Namjoon suddenly feel a little self-conscious.
“You don’t think I should?”
Yoonji shrugs. “It’s your choice.”
Namjoon frowns.
“But…?”
She blinks at him once more, slow and cat-like, before turning her attention back to the monitor.
“A relationship advice columnist gives up on love…” She purses her lips in contemplation, neatly tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Maybe romance is dead.”
Hoseok snorts. Namjoon turns to frown at him, instead.
“What?” Hoseok protests quickly, surprised, smile dropping off his face. “She doesn’t mean me.” He stops. "Noona, you don't mean me, right?"
“No,” Yoonji says simply, not looking up from her screen, fingers flying over the keyboard.
She tries to act nonchalant about it, but ever since she and Hoseok started dating, she keeps a growing collection of colorful post-it notes at her desk, with messages like cheer up ^^ and noona, fighting ♡ and let’s be happy today, too written on them. Her lunch nowadays comes with a small plastic container of fresh fruit meticulously cut into hearts, and a tiny black cat monitor figure just appeared above her computer screen one day, cute, but not at all practical. And Yoonji, she’s all about practical.
They keep a pretty low profile in the office, but sometimes, Namjoon catches Yoonji smiling to herself at the distant sound of Hoseok’s laughter while the video team films something down the hall. They can all hear him (after all, Hoseok is the kind of person you hear before you see), but only Yoonji gets that specific smile on her face at the sound, amused and exasperated and fond.
Namjoon supposes each data set has a few outliers. And he’s happy for them, really.
Right now, though, he wants vindication.
“Why does it matter?” he asks, growing a little defensive. “Nothing’s going to change with RM —”
“Namjoon,” Yoonji interrupts, slowly. “You are RM.”
“The readers don’t know that! Besides, I don’t need to personally believe everything I say to give them good advice.”
Yoonji tilts her head.
“You think so?”
“Lots of people don’t!” Namjoon stops, thinking about it. “I — I don’t know. Lawyers. Politicians.”
“Relationship advice columnists.”
“I just don’t get what the big deal is,” Namjoon huffs. “I tried it, the whole finding love thing, it didn’t work out, so what? Isn’t it better to just give up now than spend the rest of my life chasing after something that’s never going to happen? Or — or settle for something, just because that’s what you’re supposed to do? I mean, even if there is a perfect guy for me, he’s clearly not just going to walk into my life —”
“How can you be so sure?”
“What?” Namjoon heaves, head snapping up to look at Hoseok’s newly frowning face.
“I said, how can you be so sure?”
“Because,” Namjoon says. “If he was, he already would’ve by now, and I wouldn’t be stuck going out with a new jerk each month. So, I’d rather just… give up and focus on something more important, instead, and it’ll be fine!”
“What will be fine?”
Their heads whip around at the voice. Editor-in-Chief Kang is a petite woman in her fifties with a short, round bob, a straight-backed posture, and a purposeful walk as she strides through the floor each morning in short but determined steps, purse swinging at her side as she disappears into her office. Now, she stands with her arms crossed in her dark blazer, peering at them from behind her glasses.
The springs on their chairs squeak as they jump up to bow to her, stumbling over their words.
“Good morning, pyeonjipjang-nim!”
“Pyeonjipjang-nim! I was wondering if you had a moment later —”
“We were actually just talking about —”
“— would be a good to get your thoughts on the draft, before —”
“— having a meeting in an hour to go over the —”
“ — hear you coming! Not that, you know — not that you wouldn’t be here, but —”
“— anyway! Is there anything we can do for you?”
She stares, unimpressed, as they trail off into silence. She coughs.
“Right,” she says, slowly. “In that case.” Her eyes narrow as she turns her scrutinizing gaze to Namjoon. “Namjoon-ssi… A word in my office?”
“Disheartening?”
EIC Kang nods, solemn.
“Very.”
Namjoon nods slowly, sitting on a chair in EIC Kang’s office. She sits opposite him on the other side of her desk, the corners of her lips downturned with a frown. The wall behind her is decorated with framed Big Hit Magazine covers from over the years. The clock on the wall ticks in the silence.
“What is it that you do, Namjoon-ssi?”
Namjoon opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts in before he gets the chance.
“I don’t mean your job description. In your own words, what is the meaning of what you do here, for this magazine?”
Namjoon hesitates, unsure. Is this it? Is he getting fired?
“I… I try to help people.”
“You try to help people,” she says, looking to the side as she considers it. Abruptly, she looks at him. “Have you ever met a life coach, Namjoon-ssi?”
Namjoon shakes his head.
“I dated one, once,” she says. “The worst advice I ever got. Push against the wind of adversity, and feel the storm change your life. Believe me, I wanted to push him out of the —” She stops, chest rising and falling as she draws a sharp breath. “Well, anyway. No point in reminiscing.”
They’re pretty high up, Namjoon suddenly realizes. It’s a clear morning, the downpour of last night forgotten as light comes in through the big windows. If Namjoon were to get close, he’d probably be able to see pretty far. At least until Gwanghwamun Gate.
He’d hate to give EIC Kang any ideas, so he snaps out of it, eyes flicking from the window back to her. She doesn’t notice, engrossed in thought.
“But your advice,” she hums, trailing off as she thinks about it. “I like your advice, Namjoon. I like your honesty.”
Namjoon blinks, unsure. Still, he relaxes, a little.
“Thank you…?”
“It’s important to be authentic with our readers,” she continues. “But we should also keep things, you know.” She stops, giving Namjoon a stiff smile that starts looking more like a grimace the longer she thinks about it. “Feel-good.”
“Feel-good?”
“Honest is good,” she says, encouraging. “Authentic, practical, all that stuff, great, fantastic! Especially,” she says. ”In moderation.”
Namjoon furrows his brows.
“Sorry, I... I’m not sure I follow.”
EIC Kang glances down, contemplating for a moment, before she looks back up at him.
“Can I be honest with you, Namjoon-ssi?”
Namjoon nods, quickly.
“Of course.”
“My late mother was thrice divorced, and she could’ve given more uplifting advice than this.”
Instead of dwelling on his stunned expression, EIC Kang clears her throat, pushes her glasses up her nose with a swift finger and reaches for her computer mouse, eyes trained on the monitor.
“Should we read some of your posts?” she says, the mouse clicking as she scrolls down. “Let’s see here. This one.”
She clears her throat.
“Dear RM.” She stops, glancing at him over her glasses to make sure he’s listening, before she continues. “My husband has been distant lately and comes home at odd hours, but whenever I try to broach the topic, he tells me he just needs some time to find himself. I know I should give him the space he needs, but it all just feels so sudden… How can I connect with him again without driving him further away?"
She scrolls down.
“Do you remember your response?”
“Uh.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll remind you. You said: Alone time is important and necessary for any relationship, but so is maintaining an open line of communication. It seems that your husband might be having a hard time finding himself. Suggest that you join him next time to help him look. A search party of three is always more efficient than two.”
EIC Kang looks up at him.
"A search party.”
Namjoon frowns.
“He’s clearly having an affair —”
“You’re not supposed to say that,” EIC Kang snaps. “Certainly not like that.”
She draws a deep breath.
“You know what,” she says, calming herself, putting on a forced smile. “Let’s just — let’s try another one.”
The mouse clicks as she scrolls down.
“Here, this,” she says. “Dear RM, my fiancé never helps out with the chores, and I’m slowly starting to resent him for it. I feel so torn, because he’s otherwise a really sweet guy, always buying me gifts and flowers to make me feel appreciated. I just wish he did his part at home to show that, too. Whenever I try to bring this up with him, he brushes me off and comes home with another bouquet, instead. How do I get him to change his behavior without hurting his feelings or coming off as ungrateful?”
Her eyes scan down the screen.
“You said: Communication can only do so much when one partner is not pulling their weight. Remember, you can’t make him change his behavior. He has to decide that for himself. To nudge him in the right direction, try speaking to him in the language he knows best. A dish brush in his favorite color or brand new rubber gloves might inspire him to clean up his act!”
EIC Kang stares at the screen for a moment longer before she sighs and looks up, exhausted.
”That is a Daiso ad.”
“I —”
“And then there’s this one,” she says, pointing towards the computer screen. “Dear RM, my fiancé and I are currently in Italy for our first vacation together, and he’s being a total nightmare. He's rude to the hotel staff, complains constantly and wants to be in charge of the itinerary, even though he’s completely clueless with directions. Yesterday, he made us take a “short-cut” that ended up taking us two hours the mountains… I’m just happy we didn’t meet any wild boars on the way. They say you don’t know a person until you’ve travelled with them, but I never thought I’d find out the hard way! Now I’m questioning whether to even go through with the wedding, anymore… Please help!”
“Are you ready? This is the good part.” She wags her finger at the screen fervently. “You said: Travelling is a time for discoveries — good and bad. Now is a great time to consider what you want for yourself in the long-term. Thankfully, if you decide to end things, an international airport is a great place to lose someone. Just get your fiancé distracted at the Duty Free, and slip away onto your flight. By the time he finds the gate, you’ll have already started a new life.”
EIC Kang looks up at him, and Namjoon shrinks back under the weight of her gaze.
“Do you think that’s reasonable advice? Leaving him stranded at the airport? In a foreign country?”
“I didn’t tell her to take his passport."
“Oh, great!” she says, sardonic. “That’s exactly what we need! International criminal liability on top of a diplomatic catastrophe —”
“That’s why I didn’t tell her to do that —”
“Argh!”
EIC Kang rips off her glasses and bows her head. Namjoon stays awkwardly sat across from her as she rests her elbow on the table and rubs deep circles on the bridge of her nose. Finally, she slides the glasses back on her face, and looks up at him.
“It didn’t used to be like this, Namjoon,” she says. “Where’s all of this coming from?”
Namjoon grimaces.
“You know what, forget it,” she says. “It doesn’t matter. It's none of my business, anyway." She looks at him, resolute. "The point is, you need to fix it.”
Namjoon’s eyes widen at the finality in her tone.
“How?”
“I don’t know!” she says. “It’s not Cupid’s arrow. It’s not just going to hit you. This is the time for actions. You’re going to have put the rose-colored glasses back onto that cute little nose,” (Namjoon frowns.) “— get out there, and find it!”
“It?”
“Inspiration,” she says. “True love, happy ever after, the romance fairy. Whoever you need to talk to.”
She sighs.
“I don’t care what you do, okay? Just do it fast. Or we might start losing readers.”
Namjoon nods.
“I — I’ll try.”
“You will,” EIC Kang says, the corners of her lips quirking up with a satisfied smile. Before she can say anything more, her phone chimes on the table and she glances at the screen before reaching for it.
Namjoon watches, a little stunned still, as her thumbs fly over the keyboard. He licks his lips, unsure.
“Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
“Hmm?” she hums, looking up from her phone. She stares for a moment before shaking her head. “That’s all, Namjoon-ssi.”
She goes back to typing as Namjoon nods to himself and inches out of the chair, gingerly pushing it under the desk. When he’s by the door, she calls out after him, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as she peers at him over her glasses.
“You’re the readers’ favorite, Namjoon. There are a lot of people counting on you.”
Namjoon nods, before bowing to her.
“Thank you, pyeonjipjang-nim.”
“Mm-hm.”
She starts typing again, smiling down at her phone as Namjoon closes the door behind him.
Dear RM,
My girlfriend and I started living together a few months ago, and for the most part, everything’s been going great. There’s just one problem: I don’t like the cold and would prefer to keep the apartment warm, but my girlfriend gets hot easily and wants to keep the air conditioner running all day long. I love her so much, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep living like we’re on an Antarctic expedition.
Please help,
Icicle
Dear Icicle,
Moving in together is a big adjustment, and compromise is key when it comes to managing your shared living space. I suggest you experiment with different solutions until you find a temperature that’s just right for the both of you. Instead of reaching for the dials on the air conditioner, consider shopping for a portable fan for her and a heated blanket for yourself. For a more personal approach, turn up the heat on the situation directly: start talking loudly about wanting to take up hot yoga and invest in some thermal overalls to wear to bed. That should give her a hint.
Regards,
RM
Rain pelts down relentlessly again in the evening as Namjoon trudges down the sidewalk, mangled umbrella hanging limply from his hand at his side, wires sticking out uselessly like the branches of a dying tree.
He squints against the downpour, tucking his chin down to his chest when a particularly strong gust of wind blows past, whistling through the street. Cars slow as they pass on the road, headlights cutting far through the thick mist.
“Fuck,” Namjoon mutters when the wind finally lets up, tugging his coat tighter around himself.
A middle-aged businessman gives him a funny look as he passes, distracted for a moment before cradling his phone tighter against his ear and hurrying along, angling his mouth towards the speaker.
(”Not the sweet one. Alright. And, mm-hm. Kim Seokjin on the carton? Okay. I’ll ask. Alright, yeobo. I’ll be there soon, okay?”)
Maybe if Namjoon were a less stubborn person, he’d accept defeat and duck inside a convenience store to dry off until the storm passes. He’s already missed three entrances to the subway, and at least twice as many bus stops. Instead, he braces himself as the wind picks up again, violently rustling the branches of the trees that line the sidewalk.
He’d lost track of time earlier, staring at the blinking cursor on his computer screen while the office slowly emptied around him. When his eyes had started burning, he’d dug out a notepad, instead, scribbling and scratching out idea after another. The janitor had found him slumped over his desk next to a trash can overflowing with crumpled wads of paper and informed him that he had fifteen minutes to get out before the building alarm alerts the Jongno Police Station about his presence.
(“But I work here,” Namjoon had said, blinking blearily. He hadn’t been sleeping. Just resting his eyes for a bit.
The janitor had just shrugged.)
There’s really no reason for him to be marching through the streets when he’s got a perfectly nice couch at home to sulk on. But he figures there’s something cathartic about this, allowing himself one last chance to be really, truly pathetic, to mourn the death of romance once and for all before beginning on the rest of his life of singlehood, with only sex toys, snacks and a discounted monthly subscription to an erotic audiobook service to keep him company during cold, lonely nights.
Suddenly, he stumbles as a strong gust of wind nearly knocks him to the ground, wrenching the umbrella from his hand. He turns and tries to grab it, broken wires scraping his palm as it slips from his grip for good and flies out to the road. He watches, stunned, as it bounces with the wind, once, twice, rolling down the asphalt before getting dragged under the wheels of a taxi.
As quickly as it had begun, the wind stops, and the rain mellows out into a light drizzle. For a few seconds, Namjoon just stares as the taxi rolls away, flattened umbrella lying on the street.
Then, very slowly, he turns back around and makes a sharp turn onto a side street. Fighting the shiver that threatens to wrack through his body, he keeps his eyes fixed ahead as he strides past restaurants and small groups of people huddled under canopies to smoke. Somebody shouts something after him over the faint thumping of music carrying out from one of the restaurants. Namjoon doesn’t hear it, gritting his teeth as he takes shallow breaths and focuses on not thinking.
Not about Seongil, not about EIC Kang, not about Hoseok or Yoonji or the janitor or about how he’s going to lose his readers and then he’s going to lose his job and die alone, which is still an infinitely better prospect than ever again agreeing to a date another shameless, arrogant, self-absorbed, flighty, two-timing, too-much-cologne-wearing, colossal piece of —
He stops.
In front of him is a restaurant, standing on the corner of a building with a small street on its either side. Above the door is a simple sign, a single word in an ink-brush style, glowing white in the darkness.
결실
With its warm lighting and wooden interior, the restaurant has a pleasant buzz around it, the kind that seems to slow time, soften the drizzle of rain as it falls down on the pavement outside. There are two windows above the restaurant, small apartments, maybe, with a simple terracotta flower pot sitting on the windowsill of the lower one. For a moment, Namjoon just stands catching his breath in the glow that spills out to the street. Then, he goes in.
The bell above the door chimes as Namjoon wanders inside.
The restaurant is surprisingly busy for a Thursday evening, the air filled with the pleasant hum of conversation and the smell of grilled meat wafting out from somewhere. Unsure what to do, Namjoon makes his way past chairs and tables, stopping by the counter at the back.
There's nobody behind it. To his left is a swinging door, where Namjoon assumes the kitchen must be. He can hear people on the other side, interspersed with the faint sounds of sizzling and the metallic clattering of pots and pans. A beverage cooler stands to his right, with an Out of Order sign taped on the door. Namjoon can vaguely make out his shape in the reflection on the steel wall cladding behind the counter.
A simple cash register sits on top of the counter, next to a few laminated menu cards. Namjoon reaches out for one of them, dragging it closer to himself.
He glances back, unsure. None of the customers pay him any mind as he scans his surroundings, eyes trailing over the framed accolades and newspaper articles hung on the walls. On the ones closest to him, Namjoon can make out things like Taste of Seoul Festival 2024, Skewer Sensation Award 2024: Gyeolsil and Review: The beauty in simple things done well, Gyeolsil.
At a nearby table, a waiter makes conversation with a customer. He’s standing close, listening intently at what he's saying, hand coming down to rest on his upper arm. The way his thumb rubs circles into the muscle is certainly… friendly, but the customer barely notices, lips jutting out in a pout as he talks, something about peas, honey blonde hair falling in waves over his forehead.
Suddenly, the swing door creaks. Namjoon turns his head towards the sound, watching as a guy with cat-like eyes and long, dark hair pushes the door open with his shoulder. His hair is tousled like he’s been running a hand through it, frustration etched across his face as he holds a phone to his ear.
His expression turns to surprise when he sees Namjoon. For a moment, the two of them stare at each other.
“Sorry,” the guy says slowly, finally. Namjoon watches as he turns his attention, calling out to the waiter. “Jimin.”
The waiter’s head snaps up.
“Huh?”
The guy on the phone stares, incredulous, before gesturing with his eyes towards Namjoon, and then towards the kitchen. The waiter turns to look at him, their turn to lock eyes.
“Oh!”
Before he can say anything else, the guy on the phone startles, pushing the phone closer to his ear.
“Yes, I’m still — hello?” He rounds the counter and wanders past Namjoon towards the beverage cooler, crouching down in front of it with a frown. “I’m here. Can you hear me?"
Namjoon stands in place, uncertain, as Jimin comes around to the other side of the counter, giving him a kind smile.
“Sorry,” he says, patting at the front of his apron for something. Namjoon doesn't really know what else to make of the situation, except shake his head, slowly.
“It’s okay.”
Jimin gives up, plucking out a pen from a cup on the counter, instead. His hand briefly searches for something else, before he bends down and grabs a piece of paper from underneath the counter, something that looks vaguely like a loose page from a circuit manual. He turns it over and clicks the pen.
“What would you like?”
Namjoon hesitates, uncertain.
“I —”
Suddenly, a metallic crash sounds from the kitchen, like a shelf of pots and pans collapsing at once. A silence falls in the restaurant, heads turning towards the noise. The guy on the phone slowly rises from his crouched position in front of the beverage cooler, staring blankly in the direction of the kitchen.
“Sorry,” Jimin grimaces, eyes flicking from Namjoon to the guy on the phone, then to the kitchen and back to Namjoon again. “Give me two seconds, I’ll be right back —”
Without waiting for a response, Jimin turns on his heel and disappears into the kitchen. The murmur of conversation starts up again and the guy crouches back down in front of the cooler, affirming to the phone that he’s still here, enunciating carefully, sounding increasingly tired. Namjoon takes the opportunity to study the menu.
The door swings closed, but Namjoon can faintly hear Jimin talking to someone inside.
”What was that?”
Namjoon misses the response, drowned out by the sound of something being dragged on the floor. He glances over his shoulder. The guy has the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, frowning as he moves the cooler, peering behind it. Namjoon turns his attention back to the menu.
“Yoongi hyung asked you to get that? What’s he gonna do with that?”
Namjoon flips the menu over.
“You know what, just — I’ll take care of it. Can you get the counter? There's a guy, give him a free drink or something. But tell him it's not gonna be cold. Hyung's still talking with the fridge people, they're driving him crazy —”
There’s another crash, a muted clang, like something metallic bouncing off the floor. Jimin says something, his voice growing distant as the kitchen door swings open again.
Namjoon looks up and —
“Oh.”
He stares, frozen. Stares, specifically, into the biggest, roundest pair of bright doe eyes he’s still ever seen, widening with surprise at the sight of him.
“Namjoon hyung,” Jungkook breathes out. “Hi.”
February 14, 2021
In hindsight, Namjoon can acknowledge that he had spent considerable time (probably more than the average person) envisioning the perfect way to celebrate Valentine’s Day this year.
He’d started casually eyeing restaurants a few weeks after his birthday, and then a little less casually in December, after reading an article that said that people, on average, book their tables for Valentine’s Day 23 days in advance. Sure, you could say that even then, starting any time before January was excessive, but Namjoon likes being prepared, and being prepared means having a buffer in case anything unexpected happened. Because if he thought a place looked nice, there had to be at least a hundred other people, who thought the same, and the last thing Namjoon wanted was to be fighting a hundred other people on February 13th to snag a table for the next day, just because he caught the stomach flu or the pipes burst or he had to file an insurance claim, because somebody stole his bike.
Apart from the restaurant, all the other little things he could take care of in advance, he had. He’d stocked up on scented candles. He’d put together a playlist and set aside his softest bedsheets. He’d splurged on an expensive box of Swiss chocolates, waiting on the top of shelf of his kitchen cupboard. He’d even saved a discount code to use specifically to buy a few new pairs of fancy underwear (it was good to have options), a fresh bottle of lube, and a pack of sexy playing cards.
Some had said he was giving the whole thing too much thought, but Namjoon disagreed.
He just wanted it to be special.
Of all the ways he thought he’d be spending Valentine’s Day this year, he never thought it would be like this.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I don’t know,” Namjoon says. “They’ve grounded all the flights because of the blizzard.”
“They’re not flying, because of a little snow?”
Since the sun set an hour ago, John F. Kennedy International Airport has felt more like an isolated island in the darkness. Even where he’s pacing a small, secluded hallway near Gate 1 with a door at the end with a sign forbidding entry beyond it, Namjoon can hear the wind pounding against the windows overlooking the tarmac, the storm of white swirling and ravaging everything in its wake. There’s already a headache brewing behind his eyes, and by the looks of it outside, he’s pretty sure the waiting game has only just begun.
“None of the airlines are going to do it,” he says. “They said it’s too much of a risk.”
“Well, there has to be something you can do.”
Namjoon wonders whether there’s someplace around here he could get a shot. Or five.
“No, you’re right,” he says, coming to a stop. “Actually, I just found the flight manual on Naver. I think I’ll be able to go over it in a couple of hours. The lady from the airline said I might have to take an extra quiz since I don’t have my license, but after that, she said I can just grab one of the planes from the runway —”
“Namjoon.”
“Dongwon.”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“I hate it when you do that,” Dongwon sighs. The line rustles like maybe he’s rubbing his temples or running a hand through his hair before he speaks again. “Why are you being so difficult about this?”
“Why do you care?” Namjoon retorts. “This isn’t any of your business to worry abou—”
“Of course I worry,” Dongwon cuts in. “Are you crazy? Of course I worry about you. You’re halfway across the world —”
“We broke up.”
On the other end of the line, Dongwon falls silent. Namjoon draws a deep breath, before he continues.
“You broke up with me.”
Dongwon stays silent long enough that Namjoon begins to wonder whether the blizzard cut the connection.
“We can talk about that,” Dongwon says, finally. “That’s why I called. When you get back, we can —”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to talk,” Namjoon repeats. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t want you to think about me. I don’t want you to call me.”
“Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?” Namjoon asks, growing annoyed. “Isn’t the whole point of breaking up that you don’t have to worry about each other’s lives anymore —”
“You’re not being fair.”
“You weren’t being fair when you broke up with me, over text, 12 hours before the biggest interview of my life, because you found someone else —”
“I made a mistake,” Dongwon says. “Is that what you want me to say? That I messed up —"
“You did.”
“And — and that I was stupid —”
“You were.”
“Because I know,” Dongwon breathes out. He swallows thickly. “I know, okay? I see that now.”
Namjoon sighs, resting his forehead against the wall. On the line, Dongwon draws a shaky breath.
“Please, Namjoon, you have to listen to me. You’re — you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He sniffs. (Is he crying?) “I love you —”
“You don’t,” Namjoon says, tired. “You just like keeping your options open.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” Namjoon says, final. “That’s exactly what happened. You never loved me. You just liked me enough to keep me around until something better came along. And as soon as it did, you left.”
At the other end, Dongwon keeps sniffling, breathing shakily. Namjoon continues.
“And I don’t know what happened, I guess it didn’t work out, because otherwise you wouldn’t be calling right now, but I’m not going to be your backup option —”
“It was the time away,” Dongwon croaks. “That’s what made me realize. You’re the one that I want, nobody else —”
He stops, choking on a heavy sob. Namjoon closes his eyes.
“Namjoon, baby. Please, you have to believe me. You have to understand. Nothing compares to how I feel about you —”
“I have to go.”
“Wait —”
“Don’t call me again.”
Before Dongwon can protest, Namjoon cuts the call. He breathes out a sigh and closes his eyes again, adjusting his brow bone to rest more comfortably against the cold wall. For a moment, he just breathes and listens to the sound of distant conversation, suitcase wheels rolling on the floor, the wind howling outside.
So much for a special day.
He blinks his eyes open and grabs his bag from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder, quickly glancing back one more time before stepping out of the hallway. He’s not expecting anyone to be there, with most people being huddled together at the gates closer to the shops, either slouching on the chairs or pacing the floor while the gate display board stays lit up with red.
There is someone, though.
The first thing Namjoon notices about it him are his eyes, big and dark as they snap up to him. He’s sporting a frown as he stands in front of a vending machine, a backpack down by his feet, fingers curled around his wallet.
“Sorry,” Namjoon says, in English. He’s not really sure what he’s apologizing for, the word tumbling out his mouth on reflex before he can think about it. Then again, the guy does look a little startled by his sudden appearance, so Namjoon figures maybe it’s only appropriate.
He doesn’t expect for the guy to reply in Korean.
“It’s okay.”
It takes a split second for Namjoon to realize that the guy must've heard him talking on the phone. The realization must show on his face, because suddenly, the guy speaks again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to listen to your conversation, I was just —”
“No,” Namjoon says, quickly, trying to avoid further mortification. “I know you didn't.” He stops, briefly assessing the situation, before nodding towards the vending machine. “Not working?”
The guy turns to look at the machine like maybe something changed during the time they talked, before turning back.
“Guess so,” he shrugs. “I wanted to get a snack while we wait, but… I guess something’s wrong.” The guy’s brows furrow. “It ate my dollar.”
“Oh,” Namjoon says, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “Maybe that’s how they make money in America.”
The guy chuckles, soft.
“Maybe.”
A silence hangs between them for a moment. Namjoon hikes his bag further up his shoulder.
“Headed to Seoul, too?”
The guy shakes his head.
“Rome.”
Namjoon nods. “Rome’s nice. Good food.”
The guy nods. A staff member walks towards them before turning to the escalator, walkie-talkie chirping as she rides up and disappears from view. Through the windows along the wall, Namjoon glances into the darkness, snowflakes swirling around in the yellow and orange glow of the lights on the runway. And maybe it is the combination of being stranded, meeting a stranger who suddenly doesn't feel so strange, and just wanting to forget about it all, that makes Namjoon feel bold.
“I don’t know if you have other plans,” he starts. “But I was going to eat, before, you know.”
He lifts up the hand holding his phone, vaguely gesturing. The guy nods, hanging onto every word, dark eyes reflecting the glow of the vending machine. Namjoon gives him a tentative smile.
“Do you want to come with me?”
The guy looks surprised for a split second, before he nods.
“Sure.”
“Great,” Namjoon says. He holds out his hand for the guy to shake. “I’m Kim Namjoon, by the way.”
The guy takes it, eyes crinkling with a small smile.
“Jeon Jungkook.”
Namjoon watches as Jungkook pushes the swing door out of his way, carrying a plastic box full of what looks like a mess of metal and plastic spare parts, bolts and screws and tubes.
His face is just as boyish as before, black hair falling in wisps across his forehead, dark eyes sparkling with a surprised smile. It’s a striking contrast to… everything going on below. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that clings to his thick biceps, tattooed bicep, as he sets the box down on the coun—
Namjoon jerks his head up.
He knows he must look miserable in comparison, soaked from head to toe, dripping a small puddle onto the floor of the restaurant with his coat hanging off his shoulders. Jungkook’s expression settles into something less surprised as he takes him in, a smile still tugging on the corners of his lips.
“Did you swim here?”
Namjoon huffs. He feels a droplet travelling down the side of his cheek, quickly reaching up to brush it away.
“I walked.”
Jungkook nods outside towards the rain. “In that?”
“Fresh air is good for you.”
Jungkook chuckles, eyes crinkling with a smile.
“How are —”
“What’s the sweetest thing you have on here?” Namjoon asks, eyes dropping down to scan over the menu again. Jungkook’s mouth clicks shut.
“Sweet?”
“The most sugar,” Namjoon clarifies, looking up.
“Oh,” Jungkook says. “The, uh — well, the tangsuyuk, probably, but the honey-glazed skewe—”
“Do you have any desserts?”
Jungkook stops before shaking his head, slow and unsure. Namjoon shivers. It sends another droplet rolling down the back of his neck, which he quickly slaps away, stubborn. He looks down at the menu again, worrying at his lip.
He’d kill for some cake, right now. Or ice cream. Or a bottle of maple syrup.
“Okay, can I —"
“Actually,” Jungkook says, suddenly. Namjoon looks up to find him looking like a deer caught in headlights (although, Namjoon thinks most of that is just his eyes), like maybe the words spilled out before he could think about the repercussions. Under Namjoon’s gaze, he blinks.
“Are you in a rush?”
Namjoon shakes his head. Jungkook glances over Namjoon’s shoulder at the chairs and tables, before looking back at him.
“If you want to take a seat,” he offers. It sounds like a question. “It’s — I — I’ll see if I can do something.” He pauses. “If you want.”
Namjoon doesn’t exactly understand what he means, but well… It’s cold and wet outside. And he’s already inside, anyway.
“Okay.”
Twenty minutes later, Namjoon has wiggled out his coat, seated at a table to the side by the wall, and he's finally starting to warm up, feeling a little drowsy as he looks around. The restaurant is gradually emptying out with only two groups left, quietly chattering amongst themselves while they finish their meals.
The customer from earlier had also finished his meal, giving Namjoon a smile before getting up and wandering somewhere to the back like a cat used to roaming around wherever it pleased.
Must be a regular, Namjoon had thought, making a metal note to ask about the bathroom.
The customer had returned a moment later, bundled up in a coat with an umbrella in hand and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck with Jimin the waiter trailing after him. Jimin had followed him all the way to the door, which Namjoon had thought was curious, but he’d figured he couldn’t fault the guy for good customer service.
He’d found out exactly how good a second later when Jimin had adjusted the customer’s scarf, expression softening, eyes crinkling into a fond smile before pressing a quick kiss onto his lips and sending him on his way.
(“Don’t worry,” Jimin had said with a laugh when he’d turned around and caught Namjoon staring, clearly still feeling a little giddy, light on his feet. “I don’t do that with all of them.”)
Lost in thought, Namjoon doesn’t hear Jungkook coming up next to his table until he sees his arm come into his field of vision, setting down a plate on the table in front of him.
“Here.”
Namjoon looks up at him before his attention is caught by the smell of something sweet, instead, and —
“Oh.”
“It’s, uh, caramelized pears,” Jungkook says. Namjoon stares down at the plate of browned fruit, generously covered in an amber caramel sauce and a scoop of — “Vanilla ice cream.”
Namjoon looks up.
“You made this?”
Jungkook nods, although he’s not quite looking at Namjoon when he does, setting down a spoon for him, instead.
“We, uh — we use the pears… They’re good to tenderize the meat. Yoongi hyung gets them from a guy in Suncheon,” he says. “I just grabbed a couple and sliced them up. And water and sugar on the pan for the caramel.” He stops, looking down at the plate. “And I found the ice cream in the freezer. We had an ice cream float of the menu in the summer... I think it’s left over from that.”
Namjoon nods.
“It might be a bit freezer burnt,” Jungkook hums in thought, trailing off as he looks at the ice cream, before quickly adding, “It was unopened, though! And I checked the date. It should be okay. To eat.”
Namjoon turns back at the plate, stunned.
“You should eat it while it’s warm,” Jungkook says, softly. “Hope you like it.”
At that, Namjoon snaps out of his trance.
“Thank you,” he says, eyes flicking back up to look at Jungkook’s bashful face. “Sorry,” he adds, feeling ashamed all of a sudden. “I didn’t mean to… To be difficult. About the —”
Jungkook shakes his head. Some of the tension seems to seep out of his body with it.
“It’s okay.”
“Thank you,” Namjoon says, again, reaching for the spoon, breathing in the smell of warm, comforting spice, the rich caramel and the sweetness of the vanilla. “Sorry, just, you know… But this is great. Amazing. Thank you.”
“A tough day?” Jungkook asks, and Namjoon chuckles, hollow.
“You could say that.”
Jungkook nods, understanding. He hovers next to the table for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while glancing around. Namjoon wouldn’t blame him for trying to come up with some polite excuse to get away.
Before he can let him just know that, Jungkook’s eyes are on him again as he offers, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“— and then he used my card to order jajangmyeon to my place and asked them to leave a note on top saying that we’re over. On Black Day.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon finishes, leaning back on his chair. “I should’ve known then that romance is dead.”
The plate still sits between them on the table, pears long gone with just a mix of melted vanilla ice cream and caramel left, which Namjoon has mindlessly swirled together with his spoon while talking. With fifteen minutes until closing, the last group of customers just shuffled out of the door. Namjoon can vaguely hear conversation in the kitchen, accompanied with the sounds of brushing, scraping, and water running.
Jungkook sits opposite him with a spray bottle and a rag in front of him, although he’s been much too distracted to use them ever since Jimin came and set them down in front of him ten minutes ago. Namjoon wonders how long he can get away with it, before somebody brings him the choice of a bucket and a mop, instead.
“I don’t think so.”
“Think what?”
“That romance is dead,” Jungkook says. “Love’s everywhere.”
Namjoon swirls around the sauce on his spoon when he says, “Everywhere but in my life, clearly.”
Jungkook snorts.
“Do you know RM?”
Namjoon blanches for just a split second, but thankfully, Jungkook chooses just that moment to finally get up, grabbing the cleaning supplies. By the time he looks back again, Namjoon’s set down the spoon and hopes he’s schooled his expression into something that looks nice and normal and not like Jungkook just shortened his lifespan by about five years.
“Who?”
“RM. He’s got this advice column,” Jungkook explains, spraying down a nearby table. “Reflections with RM in Big Hit Magazine. People write to him about their relationships and crushes and stuff and he helps them out,” he continues, wiping the surface. “He’s crazy popular. They call him the Romance Master.”
“Romance Master?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook looks up at him, grinning. “You know, RM. Romance Master.”
Namjoon huffs, looking away.
“Sounds lame.”
“I think he’s really cool,” Jungkook says, with a little half shrug, moving onto the next table. “I read all his posts. He’s got a lot of perspectives on even, like, really small things. His brain is amazing.”
Namjoon tries not to let his embarrassment show, but then again, Jungkook isn’t even paying attention, focused on scrubbing out something stuck to the table, fringe flopping with the movement.
“You should write to him,” Jungkook says, when he lets up. “Maybe he could help you out.”
“I don’t think so.”
Jungkook turns to him, curious.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Namjoon says, a little lamely. “What would he tell me? Have you tried not dating stupid guys?”
“Probably that love is complicated,” Jungkook muses. “And that you’re sick of stupid guys, but that doesn’t mean that love is dead.”
“You sound pretty sure.”
“I told you,” Jungkook says, easily, moving onto the next table. “I read all his posts.”
Namjoon huffs out a laugh, watching for a moment as Jungkook makes quick work of wiping the tables.
“Look, I don’t know why this is such a big deal to you but I’ve made up my mind, I’m not going to waste my time —”
“Or let me prove it to you, then.”
“What?”
“Let me prove it to you,” Jungkook says. “That love’s not dead.”
“How?”
“I’ll take you out.”
Namjoon scoffs.
“No way.”
“What?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” Namjoon says. “I just dumped a guy yesterday —”
“I thought you didn’t like him.”
“I didn’t,” Namjoon jumps to say quickly, indignant, before getting back on track. “I just dumped one guy, I just told you about all the other stupid ones I’ve dated, and your response is to, what? Want to take me out?” He catches his breath, heaving a little. “Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”
“It doesn’t have to be dating,” Jungkook says, sliding back down onto the chair opposite him. “I’ll take you out as a friend.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon scoffs. “Friends.” He sits up a little straighter. “Is this a prank? Or a social experiment or something?”
Jungkook blinks.
“No?”
Namjoon crosses his arms, staring out of the window into the rain for a moment like it might give him some answers before turning back to Jungkook.
“So, what?” he presses. “You want to take me out, out of spite? To — to, to prove me wrong?”
Jungkook shakes his head, dark strands of hair falling across his forehead, just above his bright eyes.
“I just don’t think you should give up something before giving it a fair chance."
Namjoon narrows his eyes.
“Giving you a chance, you mean.”
“I guess,” Jungkook shrugs. “All the guys you’ve dated sound like huge jerks.” He pauses. “No offence.”
“So, what I’m hearing is that you’re not a huge jerk. Supposedly.”
Jungkook shrugs.
“You can judge for yourself. But I think I can do a better job.”
“Better job at what?”
“Dating you.”
Namjoon stops, tilting up his chin.
“I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then, what?” Namjoon pushes. “What do you want out of it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Namjoon starts, slowly. “I’m having a hard time believing that you have no ulterior motive. Am I just supposed to believe that you want to... pretend to romance me for a bit for fun, and that’s it?”
Jungkook frowns.
“It’s a nice thing to do.”
Namjoon stares, at a loss.
”Should we set a deadline, too?” he says eventually, sarcastic. “How’s Christmas? Or maybe New Year is better —”
“Valentine’s Day.”
“What?”
Jungkook suddenly looks the most determined he has all conversation.
“Give me until Valentine’s Day.”
Namjoon stares, feeling a little delirious.
“Are you... asking me for more time?" he starts, slowly. "I thought you’re confident.”
“I am,” Jungkook says, and Namjoon watches as his eyes start sparkling with mischief again, the corners of his lips quirking up with a smile. “And I could do it by New Year.”
“But?”
Jungkook’s grin widens.
“Valentine’s Day is more romantic.”
Namjoon stares at him for a few beats, incredulous.
“And what happens when you don’t do it?” he says, finally. “Prove me wrong.”
Jungkook snorts.
“When.”
“You won’t,” Namjoon says, simply. “So, we should agree on the details now.”
Jungkook thinks about it for a moment.
“I’ll admit that I was wrong, and you can eat here free for the rest of your life.”
Namjoon blinks. It seems kind of a meager prize for undermining what some people (not Namjoon, though!) would qualify as the foundation of life. But a free meal is a free meal.
“It's good, right?” Jungkook grins, and Namjoon watches him wipe his hand down the front of his thigh before holding it out in front of him. “What do you say? Deal?”
Usually, Namjoon would stick it stupid bravado or a larger than life ego, but as much as he hates admitting, there’s something different about Jungkook. The way he talks, the way he conducts himself. Maybe a little cocky, sure, but keen underneath that boyish smile. Earnest.
“Fine.”
Jungkook’s eyes widen.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Namjoon confirms with a nod, uncrossing his arms. “Fine, yeah, okay. Whatever.” He nods again, meeting Jungkook's gaze. "Deal.”
Jungkook’s hand is warm when they shake on it.