Man, each year I get to it, I love the May 5th entry and what it means. I take something new from it each time. Like last year I noticed the sacrifices and efforts the Driver and the other passengers made to try and save Jonathan, a stranger to them, by showing up early, by giving him gifts, by blessing him, despite the danger that puts them in. Especially when Dracula, as the driver, points it out to the Driver of the first coach, what he was trying to do, and scares him by pointing out what he said (despite it being heard far out of normal earshot and over the sound of horses galloping).
This year though, I notice that, but I see some of the smaller details too. Like how the mountains are full of blooming fruit trees, and how we are so used to the “gothic” aesthetic we almost forget it’s Spring. How Jonathan takes notice and comfort in the view, despite the growing unease he feels because of the people around him. He is trying to distract himself from how scared he’s getting based on their warnings. Warding him from the Evil Eye.
"No, no," he said; "you must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce"; and then he added, with what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry—for he looked round to catch the approving smile of the rest—"and you may have enough of such matters before you go to sleep."
I also take notice of this from the driver, as it’s almost a morbid gallows humor that he clearly knows to expect the wolves, and knowing what happens later, I’m sure the people here have a horrible fear of them, knowing what Dracula can do…and what he does to that poor mother later.
There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the thunderous one.
We also get here what might be our first indication that the Count can control the weather to an extent.
They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us.
All I can imagine is Dracula in a fake beard now lol.
"You are early to-night, my friend." The man stammered in reply:—
"The English Herr was in a hurry," to which the stranger replied:—
"That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift."
But God, this must have been terrifying for the driver and the passengers. What would Dracula do to punish them for trying to escape him? Would he dare make an example in front of the Englishman right now, or would he grant them mercy to say nothing else as Jonathan is unsuspectingly led to his doom, so they think.
"Denn die Todten reiten schnell"— ("For the dead travel fast.")
The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile.
It feels like they’re all in on some sick joke that they know the punchline to, but Jonathan doesn’t, so with the dramatic irony, it feels like we the readers are the same peasants, trying to do anything to save or warn Jonathan but it’s already too late.
I also notice how quickly Dracula tries to shift the power dynamic with Jonathan, and have him doubt his sanity so soon, and he’s not even in the castle yet.
He drives him in circles to try and disorient Jonathan and make him feel even more lost, also keeping him out for far later and making Jonathan question if he’s dreaming or if what he’s seeing is real. I’d also bet more than anything that wine he offer Jonathan on the coach that Jonathan didn’t end up taking was drugged. Because it’s far easier to disorient an unconscious passenger in the dark than it is to disorient a conscious passenger. But he still does a pretty darn good job.
Then there’s the blue flames, which Jonathan doesn’t know how to react to as they seem supernatural and he doesn’t know how to rationalize it yet, so he takes it as if he’s dreaming.
This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.
Jonathan also has already felt the fear and nerves associated with the supernatural and superstition after what all of the townsfolk have told him, and later he tries to brush this off and rationalize again, try not to get too scared, but a part of him already realizes something is wrong.
Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road—a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear.
I also want to point this out, as it’s right before the wolves surround the coach, but it’s the second time a “dog” has been mentioned howling in the night, and with this evidence, I bet Dracula uses the wolves as a threat to keep the peasants and townsfolk in line, as he can’t munch down on everyone. But it shows how powerful he is and what a threat he poses. I wonder who the wolves kill in the night.
Also how Jonathan, as an Englishman where there were no more native wolves, can’t even imagine that’s what they were and thinks they are dogs.
And it makes sense now that earlier when Jonathan was getting out his good ol’ polyglot dictionary, how the two words mean the same thing.
"vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire.
As Dracula, as we see later, can transform into a wolf himself, and so there is probably less distinction between the two in this culture than we have tried to establish in the modern day.
Once there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same.
Ah, I wonder if this is an early indication that Dracula cannot be depicted through traditional means? Like how he can’t be seen in the mirror. Certain lights just, pass through him.
I shouted and beat the side of the calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap.
We also see Jonathan taking an active and proactive approach, in this manner trying to be helpful and aid his (what he assumes human) driver. With these sorts of actions already, I can see signs of the man who will pick up a shovel to try and do what needs to be done. Who takes a knife and vows action, not hesitating.
He is polite right now, he’s on business. He doesn’t know what’s coming. But regardless, that person is still in him, and he’s capable of taking great action and doing great things for the sake of survival and doing what he thinks is right.
And Dracula commanding the wolves to stop as the driver, and the cloud passing overhead, I feel is like a subtle display of power and threat to Jonathan. He’s still playing pretend, but when Jonathan does figure out he was the coach the whole time, and he plays coy, the Count knows Jonathan will remember this threat, and it feels that much more sinister.
Jonathan still questions and thinks he fell asleep, as he doesn’t see how he’d have missed the approach of the castle otherwise, but I think he was awake because it was dark, and the count was intentionally taking him a winding and confusing path under a lot of fear. Though if he did fall asleep, I’m that much more terrified about how Dracula was driving him about, now secure in the knowledge that Jonathan would be thoroughly isolated and lost.
And the thing that nearly gives Dracula away twice as the driver is the strength of his grip on Jonathan’s hand, also lacing a subtle threat.
through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate.
Well this is just scary knowing how trapped Jonathan becomes later, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear the outside world, and how the outside world might not be able to hear him, and how he’s already acknowledging that.
The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked?
He already is expressing doubts and fears, he isn’t ignorant of what situation he might be in, and it’s only later when he tries to rationalize with the count and is given the comforts manipulation of food and sleep, that he tries to dismiss these fears and take the Count at his word.
Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor!
Okay, this is just really cute. Mina said You passed the Bar, you Deserve to call yourself a Solicitor Jonathan <3
Also explains a lot that Jonathan is a fresh faced baby lawyer who just passed the bar and needs this assignment. He’s probably hoping that after this pay day he can marry Mina and have enough for them to start making a life together. Also says a lot for Dracula’s strategy to him to get someone young, inexperienced, and unfamiliar with the area, who might be seen as “expendable” so that Jonathan’s sudden “disappearance” might go unremarked by those in charge (though Mina would notice).
I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of the morning.
Again, those early signs of doubt and fear from Jonathan, showing his unease already at the situation. We did not deserve to be clowning on him so much when this book club first started. It’s not his fault he’s not genre aware 😔 I’m sorry Jonathan.
And when Drac does show up to open the door:
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!" He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone.
I wonder if he’s like that because he needs to be invited into places to be there, so if it’s almost like a supernatural hold of importance for him to offer the same thing. Almost like a subtle joke or curse with the knowledge that after Jonathan enters, he won’t be allowed to leave of his own will
holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice—more like the hand of a dead than a living man.
I also like how all the clues are there, and since Jonathan has written them down and taken note of them, the expression on them must be some of the things he’s piercing together about his own fears as well that he’s afraid to voice aloud or in his journal, because if he voices his suspicions, they might become more real to him.
The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking
See? He knows what’s up, he’s just afraid to say it.
I also didn’t pick up that Jonathan’s room is octagonal for some reason. I wonder if there’s any reason for that or symbolism with the 8 sides?
Also the letter from Mr. Hawkin’s feels very ominous in retrospect knowing what’s coming and how Dracula will treat Jonathan:
"I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters."
I feel like Dracula knew to take advantage of that, and also this feels like him basically reading the menu for an ideal victim once his business is said and done, so I get shivers, brrrrr.
Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse—broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal.
I also like that while Jonathan is describing Dracula, he notice his hands. And I am also struck with how little it is brought up that he has hair on his palms, and I can see the more wolf-like nature of this vampire mythology. I wonder if Bram Stoker intended for werewolves and vampires to be the same thing in his novel? They are certainly compared and have similar powers and weaknesses, so it’s possible I guess.
Also Dracula has corpse-breath lol. Nasty.
I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves.
Ah ha! Also the first foreshadowing we get for the importance of dawn and dusk in the novel, as we know later how important timing becomes for our protagonists, so seeing its affects already make me smile at the recognition of the signs so early.
"Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!" Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added:—
"Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter."
And ah, an iconic line. Though I just get second hand angry and uncomfortable at Dracula’s insistence that he’s a “hunter” 🤢. God I just hate him haha.
I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!
And literally Day 1 of being in the castle and Jonathan is already questioning his sanity and piecing things together he’s afraid to even voice in his journal. This is the second time in as many days he has already wished that those around him find this journal and laments should anything bad happen to him. It creates the impression of one who knows they’re walking into danger but must go on anyway.
But I love Jonathan so much, and I definitely really like the May 5th entry, and it does so much work to set up what happens later.
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Waterlog || pjm (6)
Pairing: Jimin x Reader
Other tags: Olympic Swimmer!Jimin, Ex Olympic Swimmer! Reader, Swim Coach!Reader
Genre: Strangers to Friends to Lovers!AU, Coach!AU, Swimming!AU, HEAVY Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, fluff, eventual smut, I'm so soft for these two it's crazy.
Word Count: 9.4K+
Synopsis: After a car accident ends her athletic career, Y/N has slowly started rebuilding her life again as a high school swim coach. That’s until she gets a request from an old friend and finds herself back in the spotlight as the new coach of Olympic swimmer, Park Jimin.
Warnings: ANGST, crying, mental health issues, talking about mental health, I'm so soft for them it's actually wild, angst, trauma, panic attacks, kissing, ableism, mention of past alcohol abuse, talk of previous sexual encounters, talks of bullying, probably poor swimming terminology, I also have no idea how swim events work so might be wrong about that too, talks of possible inappropriate coach-athlete relationship, lots of insecurities, survivor's guilt, lots of guilt and shame actually, reader needs to be kinder to herself, we all deserve a Jimin, he's still best boyfriend, SMUT, smut warnings under the cut...
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Smut Warnings: virgin!Jimin, both of them are inexperienced, bad past sexual experiences, vaginal fingering, praise, public sexual contact, denied orgasm (unintentional), very vanilla and tame all things considered
Jimin stood a few feet away, his hands tangled in his hair as he smeared a thick layer of gelatin through the strands. The sight of him working so meticulously brought a smile to my face. It was a familiar scene for synchronized swimmers, their hair slicked down with the sticky goo to ward off chlorine’s wrath. But I knew a few racers who swore by it too. Jimin had never bothered before I pointed out how his hair was looking increasingly parched from our relentless days in the pool. I had shown him how to do it a few weeks ago, and now it was a daily ritual for him.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, fighting the urge to reach out and trace my fingers over the smooth expanse of his back. The phases of the moon inked down his spine were an irresistible temptation; I longed to press my lips against the artwork.
The event had been a last-minute switcheroo—originally slated for solo swimmers covering 250 yards (10 laps in this community pool), but changed when the organizers realized the length of the meet would be an endurance test in itself. Now, competitors were grouped into teams of five, each swimmer tackling two laps. Jimin was content with his team but jittery about being assigned breaststroke, his weakest stroke. Yet, I had no doubts. After months of grueling practice, his team wasn’t about to falter.
“It is what it is,” he muttered, rinsing the gelatin from his hands. “I’m more bummed about having to redirect our donations, but at least it’s still going to cancer research. Can’t complain too much.”
“Just have fun,” I offered. “Trey got to pick the charity because he pulled in the most personal donations from your team. Just do your thing and it’ll be great.”
I fiddled with the collar of my polo shirt, still struggling to accept the coach’s uniform of polo and jeans. It seemed every other coach in the pool wore it, but I felt more like a middle-aged man at a barbecue than a swim coach. The Sketchers I wore didn’t help. Jimin had picked the dark blue color for me, which was comfy enough, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I looked ridiculous.
“You look great,” Jimin said, catching my eye in the mirror.
I snorted, rolling my eyes. He’d been saying that all day, but I struggled to take him seriously. My reflection told a different story—frumpy and awkward. At least the bit of makeup I’d applied managed to make me look somewhat alive.
“I’m serious,” he insisted, adjusting his swim cap. “You look nice in that color. I even like the eyeliner thing you did. You look pretty. You always look pretty.”
I smiled, wanting desperately to kiss him but feeling too on edge. We’d sworn to keep our relationship under wraps. This year was bound to be chaotic, and the last thing we needed was reporters sniffing around if the word got out. We were confident we could manage it, but as I let my eyes roam over his mostly naked body, and with the thrill of his compliment still fresh, I wasn’t so sure.
How was I supposed to keep my hands to myself when he looked like that? His presence was almost a tangible force, and the temptation was just too great.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to mask the tension in my voice. “Are you almost ready to join the others? William seemed really excited to work with you.”
He shook his head, a pout forming on his lips, and the sight of it made my heart race.
“Socializing is important,” I teased, reaching out to touch his arm. “What would people think if you spent all your time locked up in your changing room with your coach?”
A mischievous grin spread across his face before he leaned in and stole a quick kiss. I gave him a warning look, though the smile I couldn't suppress gave away my true feelings.
“I think they’d take one look at you and understand.”
I giggled, “Such a flirt.”
Jimin wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. The heat of his bare skin against mine sent shivers down my spine. It had never really occurred to me that he might be doing this on purpose. Hoseok’s words still echoed in my mind. Right now, Jimin seemed at ease with physical intimacy, but I knew better. If I tried to take things further, he would retreat and change the subject.
This was something we’d have to address when we got home. For now, I wanted to see how far we could push things. If he wanted to stop, we would. But I didn’t mind being the guinea pig for this exploration.
I hopped onto the bathroom sink, wrapping my legs around one of his. We had taken over the family restroom at the event center, Jimin having convinced the others he needed solitude to get “in the zone” before his swim. I trailed behind him dutifully, my sunglasses barely hiding my excitement.
Jimin’s hands traced down my sides as I wrapped my arms around his neck. He fit against me like a perfect puzzle piece. When his fingers slid under my shirt to grip my waist, I couldn’t help but grind my hips against his thigh. The jeans dulled the sensation, but I sighed in pleasure. Jimin froze.
“Sorry,” I murmured, nuzzling into his neck, mortified. “Got carried away.”
“It’s okay,” he replied, his voice deep and rugged, stirring something primal within me. I bit back the more selfish, needy side of me and just held him. If he couldn’t see my face, maybe he wouldn’t know how desperate I was. “Do you want to do it again?”
I leaned back to look at him. His shyness was evident, but he wasn’t scared. I needed to be sure before getting excited.
“Do you want me to?”
He nodded, “Yes.”
“Are you sure? We can talk about it later if you want.”
Jimin shook his head, his grip on my waist tightening. The sensation was almost too much to bear. I suppressed the intense arousal for his sake. I wasn’t going to get off on his thigh, especially with these jeans on, but I was willing to go along if it meant something to him.
“I want to make you feel good,” he said softly, as though confessing a secret. “I just don’t know if I’ll be good at it.”
“Baby,” I cooed, gently caressing his face. He avoided eye contact. “Hey, look at me.”
He did.
“Don’t worry about that stuff,” I whispered, kissing the tip of his nose. “Whatever we do together is going to feel good because we’re together.”
He shook his head, resting his forehead against mine. He seemed anxious, almost sad. I wished he’d open up more; it might ease his burden.
“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he groaned. “I want you so bad but I get nervous.”
I nodded. “That’s okay. You make me nervous too.”
We stood there, both caught in our tangled emotions. We had arrived early so Jimin could scout and time his warm-up routine before the event. I felt conflicted—my body was slick with desire, and despite knowing he was upset, I still wanted him to touch me. The fact that I was even keeping track of time for a quickie was almost criminal.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Chim,” I breathed, kissing his cheek. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“Is it because you don’t want to or because you’re worried about me?”
I didn’t have a good answer. I didn’t want to make him feel guilty, but I was so afraid of hurting him that I struggled to articulate what I wanted. My fear of rejection was overshadowed by concern for him.
“Can I touch you?” he asked.
I nodded, “Of course you can. I’m just worried about you right now. You seem upset.”
His hands slowly traveled up my shirt. I leaned back slightly, granting him better access. His hands ventured higher, and he admitted, “I’m not very experienced. It makes me feel insecure.”
His hands stopped just below my bra. “I know you’re older and have been with more people.”
I nodded, understanding his hesitation. I didn’t need the whole story to grasp what he was trying to tell me.
“I’ve only been with one person,” I confessed. “You don’t have a reason to be insecure. It’s just me. Just us.”
He kissed me, and my fingernails dug into his shoulders. He pulled away, and I nearly cried out in frustration. He was driving me insane.
“It was one for me too,” he said, his hands tracing down my back. “It couldn’t… perform.”
The pieces fell into place. He was a virgin. It all made sense now.
“Did you ever…?” I asked, kissing up his neck.
“No. She told a bunch of her friends, and I got picked on for a while. I never tried again. Swimming took up so much of my time that it never came up.”
My heart broke for him. I wanted to know who had hurt my beautiful boy. I took a moment to calm myself, planting gentle kisses on his skin to soothe him.
“Fuck her,” I said softly.
He chuckled, his hands moving back to my stomach, then lower. I bit his ear playfully, and he moaned, slipping his hand into my pants. I could barely contain my pleasure.
“We’re not having sex here,” I said, trying to ease the pressure. “I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”
He nodded, his gaze focused on my lap. He was still touching me over my panties, and the sensation was almost unbearable. I was almost ashamed of how wet I was, but after months of frustration, it felt almost justified.
“What time is it?” he asked.
I lifted my wrist. “We have twenty minutes before warm-ups.”
He nodded, slipping a finger into my panties. I jolted at the cold touch. He leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“Do you want to stop?”
I shook my head, “Not if you don’t want to.”
He looked into my eyes as his finger gently traced up and down my folds. I sighed in relief, letting my eyes slip shut, focusing on the pleasure he was giving me.
His finger pressed against my entrance, and when he felt no resistance, he pushed it in all the way. I moaned, opening my legs wider. His movements were tentative at first, but soon became more confident, his strokes deep and deliberate. My body was on fire with need.
“Right there,” I choked out, leaning back into the mirror.
His fingers hit the same spot again, and I shuddered, trying to muffle my cries. Jimin’s touches were more assured now, making my toes curl.
“Yeah?” he cooed, adding another finger. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy. “You’re so perfect.”
I could feel myself shaking, my hands gripping his arm for support. I was so close, and my muffled moans were becoming harder to control.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My eyes flew open. I looked at Jimin, then the door, and back to him. His pupils were almost entirely dilated, and he was flushed a pretty pink. His fingers were still deep inside me.
“Tara?” a voice called out. “Are you in there?”
“Wrong bathroom,” Jimin called out, fingers still moving. I watched him, biting my lip to keep quiet. “Sorry.”
“Oh! My bad.”
The man’s footsteps faded away.
“Time?” he asked.
I checked my watch and sighed. Jimin slowly withdrew his fingers, and I almost choked on my own breath when he put them in his mouth.
“Later,” he promised.
It was a promise that weighed heavily. I fought between being his girlfriend and his coach. The girlfriend wanted to forget everything else and keep him here. The coach knew better and that I would regret keeping him from something so important to him.
“Let’s go kick some ass,” I said, kissing him one last time before sliding off the counter. “You leave first. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
He scoffed and took my hand. “I’m not leaving you after what we just did.”
“Such a gentleman,” I giggled, leaning into his side. “Make sure no one’s around, and we’ll leave together.”
We were the first ones at the pool, a handful of reporters already lurking around the bleachers, eager to catch the first glimpse of the swimmers. Jimin and I had let go of each other before entering the pool room, our roles as coach and trainee now firmly back in place. My steps slowed as I turned to him.
“I’ll hang back,” I said, my weariness of the press still gripping me. No one seemed to recognize me yet, and Jimin was an effective buffer. “Go and play nice.”
He flashed me a grin. “I’m an American sweetheart, angel. The people love me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, sweetheart, you better start talking. We’ve got warm-ups to do. Unless you want to cramp up and lose. If that’s your plan, be my guest.”
As Jimin charmed the cameras, I mentally reviewed our plan for the day. Regardless of the outcome, we were hitting the town for food and drinks. It was a perfect way to build rapport and expand our network. The more connections we made, the more likely someone would pass our name to a sponsor.
It struck me as odd that Jimin wasn’t a sponsor or ambassador for any major brands despite his popularity. When I asked him about it, he mentioned Hamilton’s belief that endorsements would be a distraction. His mother thought Hamilton was just jealous of Jimin’s success. I had to side with Nayeon on this one.
I was already working on securing a deal with Nike or Adidas. Their sportswear was among the most recognized worldwide, and getting Jimin’s face out there would set him up nicely for life after the Olympics. He had at least one, maybe two, more Olympics before retirement, and sponsors could provide the financial cushion he needed while he focused on swimming.
I’d reached out to an old contact at Speedo, who was eager to get the endorsement process rolling. Miguel, the rep I’d always dealt with, was thrilled about the newest hot swimmer in town. A shipment of gear was on its way, and I was awaiting confirmation from advertising about a potential campaign. I hadn’t anticipated this, but Speedo seemed eager to be one of Jimin’s first endorsements. I planned to discuss it with him once the charity event was over.
“Ready?”
I jumped, Jimin’s laugh ringing in my ears.
“Yeah, yeah,” I teased. “Laugh it up. Just take off your clothes and get in the water.”
Jimin stuck his tongue out at me, peeling off his jacket and tossing it on his gear bag. His flip-flops followed, and before long, he was in the water. I stood at the edge, watching him as he began his laps. This was more about stretching than training, and I reminded him to take it slow.
The pool began to fill with other swimmers practicing their strokes. Jimin and the others tagged each other in and out, getting used to the relay transitions. I watched with pride. His breaststroke was impressive. His progress was a testament to his hard work, and I felt honored to be part of his journey. Relationship aside, he was dedicated, and it was a pleasure to work with him.
“He looks good,” Coach Tyler Moore said, his gaze fixed on Jimin. “Better than when he was with that other guy. Kid’s a beast.”
“Good for a short guy,” Nicole, another coach, joked.
Jimin’s height was always a topic of discussion. His shorter stature seemed to be a disadvantage, especially against the taller Olympic swimmers. Most of the men in the category were at least six feet tall, and the women were often taller than Park, myself included.
“He’s a great swimmer,” I replied. “He’s fast and strong. Could probably bench-press a bear if he tried.”
Tyler chuckled. “Do you think he’ll place at the Olympics?”
I nodded. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Girl’s a recluse,” a familiar dry voice drawled beside me.
I chuckled. Summer Lewis, an old friend from high school, had unexpectedly shown up. It was a welcome surprise that eased some of my nerves.
“Thought hell would freeze over before she was back in public,” Summer said. “Do you even leave the house?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to keep the smile on my face. “Obviously. I’m here right now.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked, glancing at me as the others dispersed to speak with reporters. “Leg holding up?”
“Yeah. I still get some pain, especially in the cold, but I’m managing. Alive, so I can’t complain too much.”
The same couldn’t be said for Namjoon. I pushed that thought aside. There was no room for survivor’s guilt today. I was happy. Everything was coming together. He would be happy for me. But he’s dead.
I took a deep breath, my anxiety escalating. The reporters were closing in, and the thought of interacting with them made me physically ill. My stomach churned, and I fought to keep the panic at bay. It was irrational, but I was sweating like a pig.
“Do you miss it?” Summer asked, gesturing toward the pool.
“All the time,” I admitted, a bead of sweat trickling down my neck. “Hey, I’m going to use the bathroom real quick. Let Park know if he starts looking for me.”
Summer nodded. “We’ll be starting in ten.”
“I’ll be back before then.”
Jimin looked my way as I glanced back at him. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I nodded in return, signaling that I’d be back shortly. He needed to stay focused on the water and his team.
I squeezed my hand into a fist, tucking my thumb underneath my index finger and popping it through the other side. I waved my wrist, signaling that I needed to use the restroom. He nodded, and I saw him relax a bit. Good. I just needed a few minutes to collect myself.
I splashed water on my face, my reflection in the bathroom mirror staring back at me. Today was overwhelming. My anxiety was through the roof, and the makeup on my face felt like a mask. It looked fine, as it always did, but it only made me feel more insecure. I looked like I was trying too hard, and everyone knew it. God, I was such an idiot.
And then there was Jimin.
I let a single tear slip. It was inappropriate and disrespectful. He was so nervous and scared, and I’d brushed off his vulnerability because of what? I hadn’t had any in a while? I was no better than the men I despised.
I gave myself two minutes to cry, letting the guilt and shame flow out. Once my watch beeped, I dabbed my face with tissues and fixed my hair. Whatever was going on with me would have to wait. Jimin was counting on me.
As I opened the bathroom door, I collided with a solid chest. I stumbled back, barely catching myself on the wall. The person I bumped into remained still.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, adjusting my clothes. “Are you okay?”
“Perfectly fine.”
The voice was unmistakable.
Standing in front of me was Matthew Hamilton, his blonde hair starting to silver and slicked back with too much hairspray. His pale blue eyes, devoid of warmth, still unsettled me. He was built like an ox and as healthy as ever, but age was catching up.
“Good to see you, Otter,” he said, his tone dripping with boredom. “Seems like you got stuck with my leftovers.”
I was too furious to speak. How dare he speak about Jimin like that? I had to hold myself together before I lost control. I was already at my breaking point, and his condescending attitude was the last straw.
“Too bad they couldn’t find a swimmer up to your caliber,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the offense. “Even with a limp, you deserve better than Park. Kid’s got no spirit, and don’t even get me started on the drinking.”
I scoffed. “Jimin doesn’t drink.”
“Not anymore, maybe,” Hamilton said casually, as if trying to make small talk. “He used to drink like a fish until his brother died. Working with him was a nightmare. Glad you’re not dealing with that shit with your bum leg.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my leg,” I snapped, at least making him look slightly chastised. “And for the record, that ‘nightmare’ you keep talking about beat your personal best in his last competition. So if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do than listen to a has-been who doesn’t know when to shut up.”
I shoved past him, barely moving him an inch. My steps were heavy as I stalked down the hallway, my anger searing through me. I knew my face betrayed my emotions, and the cameras would catch every detail. It was almost enough to make me turn back and hide in the bathroom.
But I had someone counting on me, and he was far more important than protecting my pride.
Jimin was standing with the group when I returned, three minutes to spare. He clocked something was off right away, and so did Summer.
“What crawled up your ass?” she asked.
“Some dumb bitch,” I huffed, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself. “I bumped into an asshole on my way out of the bathroom.”
“Are you okay?” Nicole asked, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Do we need to tell security?”
I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. I think I gave him enough of an earful to keep him the hell away from me.”
I didn’t want to reveal who had bothered me. It would only cause unnecessary drama and upset Jimin. We had an event to focus on.
“Let's go over the plan one more time.”
Taking over as head coach, I directed the team. The others were happy to hand over the reins, and the boys took direction well. We reviewed the order of events, their best times, and their confidence levels. After a pep talk and some words of encouragement, it was time for the boys to swim.
Jimin was third in our group of four, and I watched him intensely. How well he performed today would set the tone for the rest of the season. He was signed up to compete in the breaststroke event at the Olympics, along with other solo swimming events. I knew just how skeptical people were about his chances. Today’s performance could reignite interest in him, which was crucial for securing sponsors.
Jimin took his place on the block, laser-focused and ready to dive in as soon as Trey tagged him. Trey was the fastest in the pool today, giving Jimin a head start before the others were halfway back across.
I held my breath. Jimin was a bullet in the water. Not as perfect as I wanted, but much improved. He reached the touchpad and pushed himself back across the pool. Team 3 was catching up, but Jimin would finish first. I watched as he gave one final push and tagged in D’Angelo.
Take that, you old bastard, I sneered internally. My anger surprised me; Hamilton deserved my contempt. No one gets to talk about Jimin like that. Ever.
D’Angelo butterflied us to victory. Our team hugged each other as the announcer declared our win to the cheering crowd. The bleachers were filled, the audience screaming their praise at the four men. They basked in the glory. All I could do was stare at my pretty boy’s smile in awe.
I really did love him.
Even if I didn’t tell him right now, I knew in my heart that I did. I went up against Matthew fucking Hamilton for him, came to this charity function, and kept it together. Now, I was going to talk to some news reporters, all because I loved him.
I love him, I love him, I love him…
“You’re a damn good coach, Y/N.”
I turned to smile at Summer. She was beautiful, her brown eyes warm and kind. She reminded me of Giselle, but her features were sharper, her nose broader. I remembered us cutting up after placing in nationals right after we turned 21. I hadn’t thought about her in so long I forgot what it was like to miss her.
“So are you. D’Angelo is one of the best I’ve seen for his age group. How old is he?”
“Sixteen. Turning seventeen next month. Hope he’ll be Olympics-ready next time, but I don’t know if he’ll stick with it.”
“He will. You can see it in his eyes.”
D’Angelo was talking to Jimin, the high schooler bubbly and starry-eyed. He had a slight stutter and kept apologizing about his tics. D’Angelo had Tourette’s and clicked his tongue and winked a lot. He attached himself to Jimin once they got comfortable, and my boyfriend told me he had followed the younger swimmer on social media.
“Where does he go to school?”
“Pioneer High,” she replied. “His family moved to Ann Arbor a few weeks ago. He was going to school out here in Allendale.”
What a small world.
“Does he need a new coach?” I asked. “I’m out in Saline. It’s only twenty minutes away from Ann Arbor.”
Summer seemed excited about the prospect of us working together. She said this was their last meet as coach and student, and she was sad to see him go since he was the only person serious about swimming professionally on their team. I gave her my contact information and asked her to pass it on to D’Angelo’s parents. I saw potential in him and wanted to keep that fire in his eyes.
“He’s going to be so excited.”
“Well, he’ll have to wait until after the Olympics,” I reminded her. “I’m up to my neck in work right now.”
“What about weekends?” she countered.
“Maybe Saturday,” I sighed. “We’ll see. I’m not sure if I want to commit to it right now. I’ll be in hell until July. Between Nationals and all the other competitions Hamilton signed him up for, we’re not getting any breaks.”
Summer hummed, eyeing the reporters. They had gone to speak with the boys, all of whom seemed eager to share their happiness about the win. St. Jude’s would be getting a hundred thousand dollars from today’s event. Reaching into my pocket, I asked Summer if she had recorded the race.
“Nicole did,” she told me. “She sent it to the group chat already.”
“Excellent,” I grinned. “Jimin’s mom wanted to see him swim. She was so disappointed she couldn’t come.”
I felt Summer watching me as I unlocked my phone. Watching the video, I was pleased at how well-shot it was. You could see all of our boys on full display. I thanked Nicole for the video and saved it. Pulling up Neyeon’s number, I sent the video and promised her to have Jimin call her as soon as he was available.
“You two together?”
I looked at Summer, keeping my face neutral.
“Sorry if I’m overstepping,” she laughed. “It’s just…you two seem very close.”
I raised an eyebrow. Lying wasn’t something I did often, and this felt wrong but necessary. I didn’t want anyone to know about us. It took one person saying the wrong thing, and we’d be up shit’s creek come July. Our relationship was frowned upon by SafeSport and would be considered imbalanced.
“We’re not.”
Summer did not look convinced.
“I’m not going to tell anyone, Y/N. You’re just a trainer while he’s still in Michigan. A stand-in until Bunch finds him a new coach. We all know that, and you’re not breaking the code of conduct.”
“I’m not a temp,” I sighed. “We haven’t disclosed anything yet. I wanted to wait until after the Olympics, but I’m afraid I’ll have to step down before that happens.”
Summer placed a hand on my shoulder. “He’ll be in Colorado in April, right? Tell Bunch your job as coach is over and you won’t have anything to worry about.”
“You don’t get it,” I shook my head. “Ozzie wants me to be his permanent coach. That’s been the expectation this entire time, and I know Jimin would want the same.”
“Well, he can’t have his cake and eat it too,” she said, glancing at the reporters. “Get him to understand the position you’d be in. I’m sure if you told him your romantic relationship would make you look bad, then he’d be more willing to get help elsewhere.”
“He wants to finish the season with me by his side. It was the only compromise he was willing to listen to.”
“Put your foot down. Find other options. Christmas is around the corner. Spring won’t be too long after that. You should step down before Oswald finds out. Don’t screw yourself over, babe. You’ve worked too hard for this to let some kid take it away from you.”
I snorted, “He’s not doing anything wrong.”
“No,” she argued. “He’s being selfish. You both are.”
I knew she was right. I should have waited until I was no longer attached to him in this way before starting anything. I knew it from the beginning, and I still allowed myself to be in this position. Summer had a point. Finding him a permanent coach before we went to Colorado in April was a good idea. If I was just a trainer, then nothing would be inappropriate, and I could still help him out in the gym.
“Are you looking for anything?” I joked.
Summer laughed. “Girl, I’d love to work with that boy, but I don’t think we’d line up this year. I have kids now. I can email you a few recommendations.”
“Thanks, Summer. I don’t know how big of a deal it’s going to be, but I’ll talk to Bunch about it.”
“Anytime, Otter. I’m just speaking from my experiences. He might tell you something different. Don’t spiral over it. I know you.”
I always hated that stupid nickname, but I had to put on a smile. Cameras were coming our way, and I needed to be sure I was on my best behavior. For Jimin’s sake.
The interview went better than I expected. I didn’t have to talk about myself a single time, and it didn’t look like any of the reporters here knew who I was. It wasn’t pleasant, but I couldn’t complain. We spoke for five minutes before they moved on to the others. Taking that as my cue, I went to collect my athlete.
We had a lot to talk about tonight.
Jimin smiled when I approached. The other three boys greeted me just as eagerly, and I was more than happy to hand out my praises. D’Angelo and Trey went to mingle with the losing teams. Paul went to find Nicole, leaving Jimin and me alone.
“You look upset,” he said, handing his duffle bag over when I held out my hand. “Something the matter?”
“No,” I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing’s wrong. I just need to talk to you later.”
“Is it bad?”
“Not bad,” I reassured him. “Something private. I don’t want to do it here.”
“Okay, Coach.”
That night, as I lay in bed, I thumbed through the email Summer had sent me earlier. Jimin had been invited out with the other boys, and I had pushed him to go. I told him I had paperwork and reports to handle, that he should enjoy his night off. He seemed reluctant but left anyway.
The truth was, I wasn't ready to have this conversation with him. Every time I tried to bring up our relationship, he brushed it off, saying he was fine with waiting until after the Olympics. But I knew better. It would look worse if we waited until he won a medal to disclose everything. I was his coach, temporary or otherwise, and it was my responsibility to make sure boundaries weren't crossed.
I should have never come here. Not when I knew exactly how I felt about him before I did. I was such an idiot.
Finally, ready to face the music, I called Ozzie. It was still early in Colorado, but I knew he'd answer. I never called him unless it was important. Maybe, if I was lucky, Whitney would pick up, and I could chat with her first. She always had a way of helping me get my head straight before unleashing my worries on Ozzie.
"Hello?" No such luck tonight.
"Hey, Oz," I greeted, the worry in my voice making me want to hang up. "How are you?"
"Fine. What's wrong, Otter?"
I sighed, "I fucked up."
"Tell me about it."
So I did. I spent half an hour unloading everything that had happened since I moved to Michigan. How attracted I was to Jimin, but how I pushed those feelings aside to coach him. The months of slowly building longing. Sushi night in Detroit. The date when I came back from visiting home. The kiss on his couch. The brief sexual encounter this morning (though I left out most of those details). I told him everything.
To his credit, Oswald just listened. He only spoke every so often to clarify something or ask about a small detail I left out. As my story came to a close, the pit in my stomach felt like someone was sitting on me. My hands began to tremble.
"I'm so sorry, Ozzie," I cried. "You trusted me, and I fucked it all up."
"You didn't do anything wrong," he finally said, his voice soft and gentle. "Summer was being dramatic earlier. What you two do is your business as long as you disclose it."
"But-"
"Katinka Hosszú and Shane Tusup are married. Coach-athlete relationship. They've disclosed it, and they're fine. You and Park are doing the same thing. I'll let everyone else know, and you'll be fine once the Olympics come around."
"I just don't want to be a bad person, Oz."
"You're not," he soothed. "You did the right thing by telling me. I'm happy for you, Y/N. You've been alone for too long, and that kid needs someone like you in his corner. He's been through a lot."
Wiping my face, his words brought back my encounter with Hamilton. The words he used to describe Jimin were so far from reality, but I still couldn't find it in me to not believe him. Matthew was a jerk, a stupid one at that, but he was sincere in his annoyance.
"I ran into Hamilton today. He said some shitty things about Jimin. Called him a drunk."
Ozzie cursed under his breath.
My heart rate sped up. So it was true? But that didn't make sense. Jimin didn't even drink. I had never heard of a drunk who didn't drink. Unless he was in recovery.
I thought about my dad. He'd been sober for five years now. It was one of the only compliments I could give his new wife. She kept him on the straight and narrow. Imagining Jimin in my childhood basement, too drunk to stand up, crying for a wife that wasn't coming back felt wrong. I could never put him in that position. That wasn't him at all.
"That's something you should talk to him about."
"But it's true?"
"To an extent," Ozzie admitted. "I wouldn't call him a drunk, but the kid can hold his liquor. He was worse a few years ago, but he's been great for a long time. Hamilton is just exaggerating."
But I had a gut feeling he wasn't.
"Thanks for talking to me, Oz."
"Anytime, Y/N," he chuckled. "And delete that damn email. He doesn't need a new coach. You're working magic on him."
"Night."
"Night."
Tossing my phone on the bed, I slammed my laptop shut and put it on the nightstand. Today had been a disaster. We came here and won, did exactly as well as I had hoped, but it felt hollow. I didn't know who to believe. Summer's concerns were valid from an academic coach's perspective, and I understood her worries. It was strange to me as well. Ozzie was a far more reliable source, but it felt too easy. Things were never that simple for me, and it was difficult to calm down enough to believe what he said.
Curling into a ball, I stared at the front door. He'd be back soon, and I'd have to explain my strange mood. I knew he'd be upset with me for sending him away after saying we needed to talk, but I hoped he'd forgive me once I explained why I needed space to think. So many decisions needed to be made, and I knew I would only hurt him if I tried to do anything before screwing my head back on.
For now, I decided to go by Ozzie's advice. If any issues came up, we'd deal with them together. As a team. Jimin would prefer it that way, and I could take some of the pressure off my shoulders.
A beep. A wiggle. Another beep. The door opened.
"Stupid keycard doesn't work right," Jimin grumbled to himself, slipping out of his shoes. "I knew there was a reason it was so cheap."
I slowly sat up and watched him. His hair was in his eyes, and his skin looked a little pale, but he seemed to be in a good mood. I couldn't smell alcohol either.
I wanted to punch myself in the face.
I wasn't ready for that conversation yet, but I knew avoiding it would only make things worse. If I let my mind wander, it would spin the worst story ever told, and I'd constantly be checking to make sure he wasn't drunk.
Jimin didn't drink, I told myself. Jimin's been doing great.
He went straight to the bathroom, giving me a few minutes to collect myself. I needed to be honest but cautious. If I told him word-for-word what Hamilton had said, it would only make him feel bad. Starting with the good news first might help. Maybe learning that we didn't have to hide our relationship status going forward would ease the sting of his old coach's words.
I would have to approach this delicately. The toilet flushed. The water ran. The bathroom door opened. It was showtime.
"Had fun?" I asked him, knees pressed against my chest.
He smiled at me, "They're all really nice. Wish you were there."
"Next time," I promised. "Want to put the TV on?"
Jimin shrugged, "Sure. Food Network?"
"Chopped might be on."
It was actually Iron Chef, but we both liked that show too, so we kept it on. I tried not to stare at Jimin as he got undressed. He only wore a shirt and boxers to sleep, so it was very distracting. I needed to be focused and ready for anything.
Climbing into bed, he wrapped an arm around my waist and buried his face into my side. I was still sitting up, cradling my legs, but Jimin's whining finally got me to relax. Sliding down, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him throw the blanket over me.
This was my happy place.
"I missed you," he mumbled, fingers playing with my hair.
"I missed you too," I told him. "Sorry I've been weird."
"What's wrong, angel?"
I felt my eyes welling up. "Good or bad?"
"Good."
I took a deep breath.
"I told Coach Bunch about our relationship. He said we'll be fine, and he's going to put in a disclosure form with the board for us. We'll probably get an email to sign a few documents in a couple of days."
He kissed my forehead, a large, toothy grin overtaking his entire face. I couldn't help but smile back. I knew it would make him happy. Gripping my hair, he yanked my head forward for a kiss. He couldn't stop smiling even as our lips collided. His joy eased some of my anxiety about the conversation that was to come.
"I'm so happy right now," he giggled, kissing me again. "I can finally show you off like the pretty girl you are."
Relenting, I tightened my grip around him. I needed to focus on the good. Jimin wasn't going to get mad at me for being honest, and I had to hope Hamilton being a jerk wouldn't burst our perfectly formed bubble.
"I ran into Coach Hamilton today."
Jimin's smile dropped in sync with my heart.
"He said some things," I averted my gaze. "It upset me. That was my issue when I came back from the bathroom."
"What did he say?"
I shook my head, "It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter."
Jimin cupped my cheek.
"You were upset before you went. Why?"
I sighed, burying my face in his neck. It was easier to talk to him when I didn't feel his eyes on me. It never ended. The anxiety. The shame. The guilt.
"I just felt so bad about the bathroom thing. You told me to drop it, but it's still there. I don't want to make you feel pressured. I want you to feel loved when I touch you. I just want to make you feel good, Jimin."
"You do," he soothed, kissing my head. "You make me feel amazing. There's nothing wrong with the things we do. We're going to be okay."
I couldn't help but cry. I loved him so much. I could never, ever, let him go. He was everything I ever wanted. Perfect.
"And then, here comes this goddamn asshole," I cried, the words spilling out of me like a busted dam. I was past the point of no return, the fury and frustration rolling off me in waves. Any semblance of calm had fled, replaced by a raw, unfiltered torrent of emotion.
"He kept yammering about my 'bum leg,' saying you were no good, calling you a drunk. I don't know what came over me, but I just snapped. I never lose it like that, but I did. And now, I feel like I've ruined everything—your meet, your moment. And to top it all off, I went behind your back and talked to Ozzie—"
"Stop." Jimin's hands were on my face, his grip firm but gentle, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Stop it. Please, don't hide from me. You didn't ruin anything, angel. I promise. I'm so happy we won, and you talking to Bunch is the best gift anyone’s ever given me."
I shook my head, unable to accept his words. The day had spiraled into a nightmare, and I felt responsible for every second of it. I couldn't celebrate with him, couldn't touch him, couldn't even look at him. I was a failure. I was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. I was going to ruin his career. His life. His—
"One," he took a deep breath. "Two," then another. "Three," he kissed my forehead. "Come on, angel girl. Breathe with me."
I blinked, following his lead. One deep breath in. One big exhale out. One breath in. One breath out. One, two, three, four; five. Ten, nine, eight, seven; six. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
"There you go," Jimin mumbled. "Just calm down. I'm not mad. I promise you I'm not mad."
I nodded, my breath catching up with me. With my head cleared, the weight of my earlier words hit me like a sledgehammer. So much for being gentle and kind. I wanted to punch myself in the face. God, I was a horrible girlfriend.
"I'm sorry," I murmured. "That was unnecessary. And selfish. And wrong. I promised myself I'd stay calm, and then I just freaked out on you."
Sitting up, I wiped my face roughly, angry at my tears. I was too old to act like this when I was upset. I needed to learn how to stay composed and communicate. No one wants to deal with a crybaby who explodes all the time.
"It's okay to be upset," he replied. "That's a lot to handle alone, and you did so well today. I want you to know you can have these moments with me. It's what I'm here for."
"But you shouldn’t have to."
"I want to," he said, grabbing my face again. I hadn’t realized I had looked away. "I want to because I love you."
Automatically, I laughed. My disbelief was so great I was positive Ashton Kutcher would jump out of the bathroom and tell me I was getting Punk’d. But this wasn’t 2003. It was 2024, and no one had thought about that blemish on MTV’s record in over a decade. This was just me and Jimin in our hotel room, and he was telling me something profound, and all I could do was laugh.
He cracked a smile. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," I shook my head, almost giddy with joy. "Nothing. I don’t know why I can’t stop laughing."
His smile widened. Sitting up, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. I squeaked, giggled, and threw myself at him.
My mood swings had to be exhausting. I knew I had to be as well.
But he loved me. Jimin loved me. Even if I was the most exhausting girlfriend, he loved me.
"I love you," he repeated, his eyes soft and glowing with unmistakable fondness. "I don’t like it when you talk about yourself like that."
"I love you, too," I whispered back like a secret. "I’m sorry."
He shook his head. "Don’t feel bad for telling me these things. You’re not ruining anything for me. I’m just happy you’re giving me the privilege to hold you when you’re down. You’re a suffer-in-silence type."
I snorted. "Woe is me."
Jimin leaned back and took me with him. Laying across his chest, I got comfortable and stared at him. He was the prettiest man I had ever seen. He needed a haircut soon. It was past his ears and too hard for him to manage. I’d let him go early next week so he could fit in a trip to the barber.
"There’s nothing wrong with your leg, by the way."
I snickered. "I told him the same thing. May or may not have called him a has-been, too."
That made Jimin laugh. The sound was like music. I loved it when he was happy. I was worried he was putting his feelings aside to make me feel better, but I had to force myself to let him come to me on his own time. Whatever Jimin wanted was what I wanted, and if he wasn’t ready to tell me about his past yet, I would accept that.
Because I loved him. And he loved me. I smiled. He loves me.
"You have questions, right?"
"About the drunk comment? Sure, but you don’t have to say anything. You can talk to me or not, and I’ll still be here."
He regarded me for a moment before nodding. "Thank you."
I simpered. "You’re welcome."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
Wanting to break the tension, I made a show of stretching my arms above my head. Yawning melodramatically, I curled up against his side. Jimin’s arms wrapped around my waist as if they were always meant to be there. As it turned out, a new episode of Chopped had come on.
Jimin was very pleased with this, and we lapsed into a comfortable silence as we watched the chefs open their baskets. We had gotten lucky enough to only miss the introductions. For their appetizer basket, they got mofongo (something I had never heard of before), English peas, sparkling cider, and catfish filets. I marveled at the ingredients. I would have been utterly clueless.
"What’s mofongo made of?" I asked Jimin.
"Mashed up fried plantains," he replied calmly. "They put garlic paste and chicharron in it. You’d usually eat it with beef broth, but it can change depending on the recipe. It’s a Puerto Rican dish. I only heard about it after swimming with Luis Rivera at Nationals. It’s really good."
"It sounds good. Summer? Her family is Nigerian, and if we were lucky, her mother would bring these massive pots of food to our training sessions when we were in the U.S. Olympic swimming team back in 2012. I dream about her jollof rice. And the soups? Don't even get me started."
I watched as one chef used the mofongo to create a marinade for his catfish and raised an eyebrow. Points off for lack of creativity. Another person had taken the mofongo and turned it into a thick gravy. Both seemed like safe choices, but at least they were using it. The other chef hadn’t even touched it. They were very focused on a pot of boiling potatoes and frying the fish.
"Boiling more potatoes seems pointless," I muttered.
"Let him cook."
I snorted. "Yes, sir."
Jimin was right, of course. A few moments later, the man was mixing the potatoes and mofongo together to make a hybrid of sorts. After that, he assembled his fish pie. He used the cider to make a base gravy for the fish and peas, added in a few other veggies for more flavor, and piled on the potatoes. I did not think I would like the flavor of fish with heaps of mash on them, but it looked delicious as he plated them. Far better than the other two’s strange and avant-garde style.
It just wasn’t something I would consider an appetizer.
"That’s an entire meal," Jimin scoffed. "He’s going home."
"Get out of my head, kid."
He kissed my cheek. "Make me."
"Punk."
"You love me."
"I do."
"Say it again," he giggled.
I rolled my eyes. "I love you."
"I love you, too," he sighed happily. "I’m so happy I can just say that now. You have no idea how hard it’s been to just... not say it."
I thought about the semi-panic attack I had in Hoseok’s car and laughed. He had no idea how much I understood where he was coming from.
"Say it as much as you want, love," I kissed the underside of his chin.
We had both been right. The judges thought the pie was too much to be an appetizer.
The hiss of the shower jolted me awake, the sound slicing through the thick, restless silence of the early morning. I fumbled groggily for my phone. The screen lit up: 3:17 AM. The bed beside me was a cold, empty expanse, and a tight knot of worry coiled in my gut. I slipped out of bed, the chill of the floor biting at my feet, and crept toward the bathroom door.
“Chim?” I called softly, barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile night.
“Yeah?” His voice was close, too close to the door for him to be in the shower.
“Can I come in?”
The moment of silence that followed was heavy, like the air before a storm. Then came the soft click of the lock, and the door creaked open just enough for me to see him. As I’d feared, he was still fully clothed, slumped on the toilet with that distant, haunted look I’d hoped never to see again. It had been months since he’d looked this lost.
I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, the small space barely accommodating us. We were so close our knees touched, but I didn’t care. He needed me, and I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, my voice barely a breath.
He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on some dark chasm only he could see. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady drip of the showerhead. Eventually, he reached over and turned off the water. The steam billowed around us, wrapping us in a dense fog.
"Her name was Jackie," he said finally, his voice a whisper lost in the fog. "She was a friend of Annie’s. We were in college, and Annie practically forced us to go out so she could double date with Tom."
I hummed softly, encouraging him to continue. I didn’t understand why Jackie was surfacing now, but I had a sinking feeling she was the girl he’d mentioned earlier—the one who had made him feel small and worthless. Jackie. What a godawful name.
“She was one of those people who wore a mask around her friends and was someone else entirely when we were alone. I was 18, and she was pretty, so I let it slide. We had things in common, and we laughed a lot.”
He paused, drawing a shaky breath. “Her friends thought I was weird and didn’t want her with me. They’d been tight since middle school and still acted like high school mean girls. I didn’t care much for them either, but Jackie always said she didn’t care what they thought.”
My heart twisted in my chest. I had a gut-wrenching feeling where this was going, and it made me sick. My poor baby. I placed a hand on his knee in a futile attempt to comfort him.
“We’d been seeing each other for a few months, but we hadn’t done more than a few kisses and hugs. I was gearing up for my first professional championship swim meet, and she was buried in schoolwork. Double major or something, I don’t really remember.”
He took another deep breath. “Our clothes were off, and I was so nervous. She seemed okay with it. We just got dressed and watched a movie. We both knew that things weren’t going anywhere.”
“That’s normal, Jimin,” I murmured, trying to fill the void of silence. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He shook his head. “She told her friends, who told their friends, who then told everyone in my frat about what happened. Then she was too much of a coward to face me and acted like nothing had ever happened. I was humiliated, mortified. I just didn’t want to have sex anymore. The drinking started after, but that was more a side effect of being in a fraternity with undiagnosed depression.”
I was at a loss for words, so I stood up. Jimin watched me as I lowered myself onto his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him tight.
Even if it wasn’t some grotesque horror story, it was still a deep, festering wound. Trauma was trauma, regardless of its shape or size. This morning had uncovered more than either of us was willing to admit.
For Jimin, it was confronting his fears of rejection. For me, it was the struggle to finally move on from guilt and shame. Namjoon's face came to mind, and I had to make my brain stop itself from going there. He would want me to be happy. He would want me to live. I relaxed into him, hoping that we could both find a way to heal.
Jimin sucked in a few deep breaths before his arms enveloped my waist. He hiccuped once, then twice, and finally, he began to cry.
I buried my face in his hair, my own tears mingling with his. It was heart-wrenching to see him in such pain, but I felt deeply honored that he was finally allowing his walls to come down. For all my talk about suffering in silence, Jimin was far more adept at hiding his pain than I was.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “You didn’t deserve that.”
He cried harder and nodded. “I know,” he wailed.
I didn’t want to talk anymore. Holding him in my arms, this beautiful, broken boy, I wished I could keep him locked away in this bathroom forever, safe from the cruelties of the world. I didn’t care if my legs went numb from sitting or if the grip he had on my ribs was starting to hurt. Jimin cried, and I stayed in his lap, a silent promise to be there, come what may.
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