#she thought she was gonna waltz out of school with my twenty dollars?

[mins-fins]

still holding a grudge idc idc

how do you steal my money, see my ask about it, lie about it, see me cry about it, then get CAUGHT ON CAMERA STEALING MY MONEY???

girlie should be ashamed

[doctorstethoscope]

In the Garden || A. Hotchner x Fem!Reader

hello babes! Something a little different today-- I didn’t have time to write a request that I was going to be pleased with, so this is something that’s been sitting in my drive for a while. Hope you like it! 

Submit requests here! 

contains: sexual innuendo, gun mention

wordcount: 2.4k

You can’t remember the last time you wore a dress, much less a gown like the one JJ was zipping you into now-- dresses weren’t practical for field work with the BAU, and even when you’d worked in the counterterrorism unit, you’d much preferred a professional blouse and pair of slacks. But the First Lady had decided to throw a ball in the White House to celebrate federal employees, and the Bureau was receiving an award, which the Director had hand-picked the BAU to accept. So, gown. Even though you’d much prefer to be changing into a pair of sweats-- you had been called on a case two days before the ball, and Garcia saved the day by running to everyone’s apartments and grabbing their nice clothes so you all wouldn’t be late. Which is how you found yourself squeezing into a sleek off the shoulder number in the Batcave, with Emily batting at your face with a makeup brush and JJ tugging at your zipper. 

“Babe, you look hot.” Penelope says as Emily and JJ step away from you, admiring their work. 

“All Emily’s work,” you deflected with a shy smile. 

“We’ll have that fight when we’re not running late,” Emily said, pulling you out of Garcia’s office, she and JJ not far behind. 

Derek let out a wolf whistle when he saw you all approaching, and you heard JJ’s windchime laugh from a few steps behind. 

“Hello ladies,” he said with an exaggerated leer. 

“Derek Morgan, you’re lucky that my thigh holster doesn’t go with this dress.” Emily spits out, and all of you burst out in laughter. 

“Chocolate thunder, you clean up good,” Garcia says, crossing to Derek, who moved to put his arm around her shoulders as Reid emerged into the bullpen. 

“Speaking of cleaning up good,” JJ says with a small smile, and you catch Reid blushing. 

“Did you know that balls like this can cost American taxpayers up to a million dollars?” He asks the group, and you smile.

“Maybe don’t mention that when the first lady gives us the award, yeah Spence?” You tease, and he treats you to a little chuckle.

You hear Hotch before you turn to see him and Rossi. “Alright, let’s go,” He says, leading the group out of the BAU and towards your SUVs. You end up in the passenger seat of the car Rossi is driving. 

“You doing okay, kid? You’re awful quiet this evening. Invitations to Federal Government Prom don’t come often, you know.” He smirks, and you half-ass a smile in return. 

“Yeah, I’m okay, Rossi. Just tired, you know. Would have preferred to get a night’s sleep in my own bed before we did this, you know?” 

He nods, but there’s no use in lying to a profiler. 

The food, you have to admit, is leagues better than the instant ramen you would have cooked up if you had gone home tonight. And the conversation isn’t half bad either, you admit to yourself as you lazily flirt with Paul, a junior fellow from the Department of Health and Human Services, just barely putting in enough effort to seem interested while allowing your mind to wander.

The sensation of a warm hand in between your exposed shoulder blades distracts you from your train of thought. 

“Excuse me,” Aaron’s deep baritone interrupts Paul’s nervous tenor. “I’d like to cut in for a dance, if you don’t mind.”

Paul sputters, and you laugh, because you know that Aaron was asking you, not this early-thirties politico type that he towered over, both physically and morally. 

“We’ll catch up later?” you said to Paul, with absolutely no intent to catch up later, before Aaron led you out to the dance floor. 

“Hotch, I’m gonna step on your feet.” You warned. 

“No you won’t,” he assures you. “Follow my lead.” 

You do as you’re told, and you’re surprised to realize just how easy it is to follow him, anywhere. 

“Aaron Hotchner, when on Earth did you learn to ballroom dance?” You asked incredulously. 

“Boarding school,” He answers with an easy smile.

“You’re joking,” you accuse. 

“Ah, yes, something I’m known to do.”

“You remain a mystery, Hotchner.”  You tell him.

“I don’t know. That might have been my last secret.” 

You roll your eyes, content to continue dancing, and finding yourself getting distracted again. 

“What are you thinking about?” Aaron asks, and you mentally curse yourself for letting your guard down in front of your boss. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just tired. But really grateful to be here, of course, and--”

“I wasn’t asking as your boss, you can stand down,” He smirks, dipping you quickly and it takes your breath away. “You’re thinking of leaving.” He says as he lifts you back up, and it’s not a question. 

“How did you-- I can’t believe-- Damn profilers.” You harrumphed. 

“You’ve been distant, the past couple weeks. You’re in your early twenties accepting an award at the White House, by all accounts you should be ecstatic. That’s when I knew something was wrong. And when I saw you with Peter, or whatever his name was, who you couldn’t be less interested in, that’s when I knew it was us.” 

“See, and that’s exactly why I need to leave. Because I’ll never be able to do that.” You tell him, finally looking him in the eye.

“You will,”  He says in a self-assured tone that does nothing to assuage your anxiety.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. 

“I do.” 

“Maybe I’m not good enough, Hotch.” You confess carelessly. He’s already figured you out. Might as well fess up to your deepest insecurities while your boss holds you and stares you down with his deep brown eyes in the middle of the East Room.

“You are,” he says in that same tone, that you’re sure is supposed to be calming but is only infuriating. 

“But maybe I’m not! Maybe I’m one of those people who always wanted to do it, who always wanted to be an agent, but it’s like a pipe dream for me. I don’t contribute to the team the same way everyone else does. I don’t pick up on the things that seem so obvious to all of you, and it sucks. I can still do good work, but you know-- you change your dreams and you grow up. Maybe I’m one of those people and I’m just not supposed to be here. I just can’t stay knowing that I’m not supposed to be here-- I have to leave.” You’re not even sure if your soliloquy makes any sense, but Aaron pulls you a little closer, so he can speak the next few words lowly, directly into your ear. 

“You’ve been here eight months. It takes time. You are an incredible agent, and an asset to this team. I don’t need another profiler that sees the same things we all see-- I need you, and your observations, the things we missed-- those are the things that solve cases. I can’t-- I can’t allow you to change your dream. I can’t let you leave. I need you here.” 

You let his words hang in the air for a moment before he speaks again. 

“The, uh-- the team needs you. We all need you, and your observations, is what I meant.” He stammers. 

“Hotch?’ You ask, confused by the sudden change in tone. 

“Do you want to go get some fresh air? Get away from the crowd?” He asks, pulling away to look at you, and there’s an invitation in his eyes. Maybe a more seasoned profiler would know exactly what it was, but you were excited to find out nonetheless.  

“Yeah, I think I do.”

You’re certain that you’re breaking some sort of law as Hotch pulls you out of the ballroom and down a hallway, his fingers interlocked with yours. You try not to think about it too much. Your heels click against the marble floors as you follow Aaron’s brisk pace, and eventually he finds a door outside, opening it up and allowing you to pass through it first. It takes a minute to place yourself, especially under the cover of night, but after a moment you realize you’re in the rose garden. 

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” You say under your breath with a little laugh as you look out over the sprawling display of flowers and plants. 

“It definitely beats the Quantico courtyard,” Aaron agrees.

“Never thought I’d make it there, either.” You confess, not looking at him.

“But you did. It wasn’t meant to be easy, but you made it, and you’ll grow. You just need time.” He tells you. 

“How can you be so sure?” You ask, feeling your eyes well up. 

“I was young once, too.” He tells you with a self-deprecating grin. 

“You can’t play up the wise, ancient elder with me, Hotch. I’ve seen you chase Jack across a soccer field like you’re still in your twenties.” You laugh, but he can hear the emotions behind it.

“Hey, come on, I mean it. I’m not Rossi, but I’ve got my fair dose of wisdom to share,” he says, moving closer to you and placing a hand on your arm, trying to comfort you. “Let’s keep dancing. If you want to talk, you can talk. But you thought you couldn’t dance, and you could dance, right? So we can keep doing that until you believe me.” He said, pulling your hand up in his and placing his other on your waist. 

The two of you moved slowly, the orchestra from inside only barely audible from where you were standing. With Hotch’s bad ear, he could really only hear it when his body was angled just right in the direction of the East Room, but somehow he had perfect rhythm regardless. You move in silence for a song or two or three before Hotch speaks up again. 

“I lied to you, earlier.” He confesses, still guiding you effortlessly through a simple waltz. 

“How do you mean?” You ask, suddenly nervous that you were right, that you’re a complete failure of an agent, and that you need to pack your bags and head on back to Kansas.

“I lied when I said that I’d told you my last secret.”

“Oh,” you said, too caught up in your own head to try to understand what he was saying.

“And I lied when I told you that I meant the team needed you--” you felt that bone-crushing weight on your soul again-- “we do, of course, but that’s not what I meant.” 

“Hotchner, what are you talking about?” You finally asked, no longer able to tolerate the emotional whiplash of his conversation.

“When I said I needed you, I meant it.” 

“Oh,” you say, your face a portrait of shock and confusion, even though you understood him completely. 

“That’s selfish of me as a person, and wrong of me as your superior, and maybe that means that I’m outing myself as the kind of fucked-up person that isn’t worth another second of your time, but I needed you to know.” He stops dancing now, tries to hedge a bit of space between you without letting you go entirely. 

“Aaron,” you whisper, clinging to him more tightly as he pulls away, feeling his jacket wrinkle under your fingernails. 

“Yes?” he whispers back. 

“I’m glad you told me,” you tell him, and that’s all the permission he needs to take your face in both of your hands and kiss you, with a gentleness that makes you feel like spun gold, with the reverence of a man who knows that love is not a game, with the hunger of one who has been starved for months. 

He pulls away from you, too soon, and your eyes are wet. “My resignation will be on your desk by Monday morning.”

He takes a step away. “What do you--” 

“Goodnight, Aaron,” You tell him with a sad little smile, turning around towards the door you came from and leaving him in the garden.

You’re drowning your sorrows in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s when the doorbell rings the next day. You swing the door open grumpily, to reveal Aaron. 

“It’s Saturday, and you can’t turn in your resignation until 9am Monday. What can I do in the next forty eight hours to convince you that you belong here?” Aaron asks, still standing in the hall of your apartment complex.

You sigh, stepping aside to let him in. You can’t give him what he wants, but you won’t have this argument where all the neighbors will hear, either. “It’s too late, Hotch.”

“It’s not too late,” he argues, checking his watch. “I have forty six hours and thirteen minutes.”

“I’ll still be the girl who got this job on her back forty six hours from now.” You tell him, folding your arms.

“You’ll be what?” He asks, incredulous. 

“I know that you heard me loud and clear. 

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know that you slept with Erin Strauss. I didn’t think you were her type.” He says, and you let out an exasperated sigh. 

“You’re absolutely incorrigible!” You cry out. 

“Who implied that you got this job on anything other than your own merit?” Aaron asks, a glint in his eye that lets you know that they’ll be handled just as soon as he gets you to shred the letter of resignation you drafted last night.

“Didn’t I? You didn’t clear my promotion because you were attracted to me?” You asked.

“I cleared your promotion before we even met-- your interview was a bureau formality. Your reputation and the glowing recommendations from your peers in counterterrorism spoke volumes.”  He assures you.

“Oh,” you let out, your anger deflating. 

“If you want to leave because of my inappropriate behavior, please reconsider. I’m incredibly sorry for--” He starts, but you cut him off, placing your hands on his face and pulling him in for a kiss. 

“Nothing to be sorry for. Please continue to be inappropriate,” you tell him in between kisses. 

He smiles as he continues to place kisses across your face, your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “Right now?” He asks, slipping a hand underneath your shirt.  “You want me to be inappropriate right now?” 

“If you’re really good at it, I’ll let you tear up my resignation yourself.” 

@romanogersendgame @wanniiieeee      @zheezs14      @greeneyedblondie44 @angelic-kisses13  @baumarvel @ssamorganhotchner  @ijustwannaread2k19    @rexit-mo @shmaptainhotchnersmain @qtip-blog @averyhotchner  @the-modernmary @itsmytimetoodream @choppa-style @hotforhotchner11 @infinite-tides @isthatme-thatsme @g-l-pierce @bakugouswh0r3 @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @rousethemouse @scuttling

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter two: old markers

hehehehehe

It would be another hour before the Cherry Suicides packed it in for the night, and at that point, the sun was already hanging low over the New York City skyline. Zelda ran her fingers through her pitch black hair and showed Sam, Aurora, and Marla a big goofy grin. Despite such a hard and raucous show, she had a nice bloom of blush across her face and her eyes twinkled with the fire of having performed a good show.

“Apparently the four of us are getting a good healthy paycheck in a couple of days,” she announced.

“So the bunch of us are all gonna have to pitch in,” Aurora followed along.

“Exactly! The bunch of us along with Metallica, too. And I have to pay Louie's rent, too. So—you guys wait over there and I'll be right back...” Zelda stuffed her drum sticks into her back jeans pocket and gave her hair a toss back; Sam watched her stop at the curb and peer in both directions at the street. She was amazed that those drum sticks never fell out given her long and lanky drummer's legs pumped so hard across the pavement. She reached the sidewalk on the other side and then she slowed down into a brisk walk: Sam watched her for a little bit longer until Marla tapped her on the shoulder.

“C'mon, Sam-zish,” she coaxed her.

“Sam-zish?” she chuckled at that as she fixed the strap on her purse. Zetro put his arms around the both of them.

“That was courtesy of this big dude here,” Marla continued.

“I thought of saying 'Sam fish' but the 'zish' sounded better to me,” he confessed with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Oi, Zetro!” Charlie called out. “Hands off my girl!”

“Oh, calm down, Charlie,” Marla scoffed. “It's just a little bit of repose before we have a full on banquet.”

“It will be a banquet,” Zetro remarked as he gazed up to the sun and the warm orange light that bathed over all of them. Sam turned her head to find the boy with the tiny white stripe in his hair, who stood about twenty feet away from her. Even in the bright sunlight, which washed over them and to the point of washing out the pale soft color in Aurora's skin, she could make out the sight of that stripe.

So familiar and yet nothing about him fit. There was that one drawing in her other journal which she stashed in Frank's couch, and she only managed to draw out the head and the stripe on his head. But his stripe was tiny, about half the size of her pinky finger and as wide as a match stick; and yet, she could see it from a distance and through such bright light. He squinted his eyes against the sunlight and bowed his head so she could see the smooth crown of his head. Billy loomed next to him with his arms folded across his broad chest.

And then she recalled everything she needed to know about Stormtroopers of Death.

She took a step forward and peered about the street to ensure no one was coming. Before she could even so much as step off the curb, Marla called after her.

“Where you going?”

“Check my money,” she replied with haste.

“Oh, yeah, that's right!” Marla's face lit up at the sound of that.

“Get after that money, girlfriend!” Frank called from behind her and Aurora. And without another word, Sam moved at a brisk pace across the darkening pavement to the sidewalk. She followed the sidewalk to the cross walk and then, careful to ensure she wouldn't stray too far away from the group and take the wrong way, she reached the corner. The restaurant itself stood down the block from her; next door to that stood what appeared to be another art shop.

Easy to figure out and still somewhat easy to lose herself in like a wandering stark maze. Through the sunlight, she spotted a silhouette up the street: she lingered over a notch in the pale brick wall that lined the sidewalk next to her. As Sam ducked out of the light and into the shadow, she recogized Zelda's lanky legs and short haircut.

“Zelda!” Sam called out. She pressed something and then she stooped down to take out the money from the slot. She lifted her head and turned in her direction.

“Oh, hey!” she greeted her with a grin on her face; Zelda clutched at the dollar bills and reached behind her back for something.

“Hey, you,” Sam returned the favor. “I have to check something.”

“I gotta get a money order before the bank closes,” Zelda quipped as she adjusted the drum sticks in her pocket.

“You honest to god seriously have to pay his rent?” Sam asked her as she opened her purse.

“Yeah, for real. They're—Legacy, are still in kind of a, uh—I wanna call it a 'settling in phase'. We went through it, too: you try on certain musicians to see if they fit your band and you go forth until one finally does. Louie can't seem to make up his mind because he lives here and they're based out of all the way the out in San Francisco. And in the meantime, there's absolutely no money. The four of us are lucky to make just enough to keep on paying places like the one down the street as well as pay our rent. Louie moved here 'cause their rehearsal space is over here and 'cause the label is over here, too. Anyways, I gotta bounce around the corner—I'll see ya in a little bit!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

Zelda darted away from there: the soles of her Chuck Taylors echoed over the sidewalk as she made her way down to the corner, and she ducked around to catch the glass bank doors. Sam turned to the machine nestled in the bricks and she proceeded to check out her account and make sure Charlie and Aurora kept their word. She gasped at the sight of the few hundred dollars injected into her account. It wasn't much, and she believed she would have more than that, but then again, it was a side project of a still fledgling band. And then again, it could keep her head above water with her own rent, and until she entered art school and earned her granted, she could pay back her parents at some point.

She closed it out and returned down the street to join the group, the banquet as Zetro described it.

The restaurant reminded her of one of the places she would see out in the California coast, or out in the desert. The pale yellow lights in the front room had already switched on for the evening, and the warm wooden boards comprising the floor underneath her kept their warmth from the day outside. Lars and James had already taken their seats at the far side of the room, right before the faded floral wall paper and a spindly wrought iron lamp the size of Sam's fist. Cliff towered over them all even there at the far end of the room: his long soft brown hair sprawled across his shoulders like the floppy ears of a dog. He showed Sam a thoughtful little smile when he lay eyes on her: perhaps it was his height or the twinkle in his eye, but there was something big and powerful about him.

Much like the boy with the white stripe in his hair, she noticed a little discoloration at the crown of his head, one that was a faint black and hid underneath the rest of his smooth wavy hair, which sat flat upon his head. Indeed, when she set her hands on the top of the heavy wooden chair next to one of the four tables pushed together so they could all sit together, she thought about the mysterious man in her dreams. He was tall and slim, much like Cliff himself. He had those deepset hypnotic eyes and his face seemed round enough. He had those same sensual lips and he had that same boyish look upon his face.

It was in fact a dream after all: perhaps it was her own memory playing around with it given dreams always changed upon waking, even when she felt she had a good grip on it upon drawing him in her journal, but a thought lingered in the back of her mind when he gazed on at her from their end of the table. She locked eyes with him for only a few seconds but the mystery had unveiled itself to her right before her very eyes. It wasn't a white stripe, but a soft black one set against smooth wavy locks over his shoulders.

She had no idea if Metallica were going to be in New York for much longer, but she needed to wander on closer to this boy. She needed to unravel it a bit more as he looked over at her again, and that time with a soft Mona Lisa smile.

That exact same smile from her dreams.

Sam, Aurora, and Marla all took their spots in between Kirk and Scott, the latter of whom kept a chair vacant between himself and Sam for Zelda. Meanwhile, Joey took his seat next to Scott, and then Frank and Billy took their spots next to Joey. Charlie snuck a place in between Marla and Kirk so he could be closer to her. On the other side of the table, Sam could feel Zetro's feet brush up against her own.

“Hey, watch it,” she scoffed at him, which made him and Eric both laugh out loud. Morgan, Minerva, and Rosita emerged from the front door and joined Eric at the other side of the table and that was when the big dinner party started. All the while, Sam kept her eyes glued onto Cliff, even as he remained out of earshot and he never paid much attention to her. Every so often, out of the corner of her eye, she caught him looking over at her with a thoughtful look on his face. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and she could make out the sight of a fledgling sideburn on the side of his head.

Those little moments of silence and she knew it was him. Even as the room erupted into chatter and laughter, she found her way back to the nothing that made up her dreams. The man from her dreams, right there, right down the table from her; at one point, Lars and Rosita danced together behind Zetro and Eric.

He put his arm around her lower back and swung her hips to and fro to near silence, a little amateur waltz with the noise of the restaurant as their soundtrack. She placed her floppy hat atop his head and James and Kirk both clapped at that.

“Joey, that's your fourth drink so far today,” Scott pointed out over the wall of noise around Sam; given Zelda still hadn't returned, and the whole party was holding off as a result, she could hear him loud and clear right there.

“Yeah, I know,” Joey assured him as he took a sip from the big yellow glass. Sam took a sip herself in unison with him, except she was drinking some of the sweetest pink lemonade she had ever had in her life. Pink lemonade for herself and Marla; Aurora meanwhile sipped away at her tall glass of iced tea. She held onto the lemon wedge with two fingers as if it was about to get away from her. She kept it in her fingers even as the sunlight outside waned out to the impending darkness of nightfall. The street lights came on by the time Zetro had to tell the waitress to hold off a little bit longer for a second time.

“Hey, there she is!” Frank declared. Billy clapped his big bear paws and Sam turned her head to find Zelda stumbling through the front door. She let out a low whistle and slipped past the far right end of the table; meanwhile on the other side of the table, Lars lifted the floppy brim of the hat and showed off the round apple shape of his smiling face.

“Holy shit, where've you been?” Eric asked her as she slithered behind Billy and Frank.

“I had to boogie on down to the complex to pay the rent,” she said in a curt tone; Scott moved his chair forward so she could reach the vacant chair. She wagged her finger at one of the guys at the far end of the table: Sam still needed to learn all their names. Rosita gave Lars a little kiss on the cheek and he hurried back to the other side of the table. Meanwhile, Louie said something and Zelda shook her head.

“It was hell getting a money order,” she told him. “It's kind of my fault 'cause I had been putting it off and I was waiting for the money to come through but—” She shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows in unison. “—more on that later, though.”

Zelda turned to Sam: her face had washed out to a pale milky white color and Sam knew she was hungry.

“Did we all eat yet?” she wondered aloud.

“Not yet, we've been waiting for you, sister,” Scott told her.

“Aw, that's so sweet,” she confessed as she took a big drink from the glass of ice water before her.

Indeed, that waitress returned and they all had the choice of either shepherd's pie or poached salmon; given Aurora had had that vegetarian pho, she was reticent on picking either of them.

“I'll have your fish!” Joey offered her with a lean over the table. Four drinks later and his speech was still very much intact, but if Sam didn't know any better, she could have sworn he had said “I'll have a bitch” instead. The waitress said something to Zetro, and his face lit up.

“Jon and Marsha are footing the bill,” he announced.

“So none of us have to worry 'bout pitching in!” Zelda proclaimed with a clap of her hands. Sam gave her a high five since she had a lingering doubt that she couldn't pitch much.

Within time, their dishes arrived and Zelda was quick to pick up her fork and shovel into her mashed potatoes. Sam didn't realize how hungry she was either, until those creamy potatoes hit her tongue. Quite the contrast with her pink lemonade, but she didn't mind. She was more than content to be there in that restaurant with her new gang of friends and with who may be the proverbial man of her dreams, down the table from her.

As Aurora stood to her feet and snuck behind the pair of chairs so as to give Joey her slab of poached salmon, Sam returned her gaze to Cliff, who had bowed his head over his plate. He held his smooth hair back with his free hand and he shoveled in his shepherd's pie. He was fixated on his plate and nothing else. The poor boy was starving to death.

Kirk said something and Eric spat out his ice water as a result; Zetro, James, and Charlie all burst out laughing at that in turn. But Cliff was focused on feeding himself. Even amongst all the chaos, there he was. Eric wiped off the front of his shirt with his cloth napkin and Kirk stared on at him as if he had just done the worst thing ever. Sam wiped her mouth with her napkin and took one final swig of her lemonade. Hit the spot.

“Now, now, you don't wanna spray out your water,” Kirk advised in a singsong voice and with a wag of his finger, “unless there's a fire. Or a wet T-shirt contest.”

Zelda giggled at that and she picked up another bite of ground beef, peas, and carrots.

“Unless Satch has an idea,” Eric followed up.

“Satch has too many of 'em,” Kirk pointed out. “Fifty of which would include that spit take, too.”

“Satch?” Marla wondered aloud.

“Joe Satriani,” he replied as he tucked a curled black lock behind his ear. “He's the guy who taught me to play guitar. All his students refer to him as 'Satch'. He also taught—” Before Sam could hear a name, Joey gagged on something. He hovered over the table and he waved his hand before his face.

“Oh, shit,” Scott groaned.

“You okay, Joe?” Charlie called out.

Joey clambered to his feet and brushed behind the chairs and the wall behind them. He kept a hand on his throat every step of the way. Sam watched him duck outside with a sickly look on his face.

“I'll go check on him,” she told all of them, and she set her napkin down on the empty plate before her. She brushed behind Zelda, Scott, the empty chair, Frank, and Billy, and she followed Joey out to the street. She caught the sound of him coughing and gagging on something.

He hovered over the storm drain. The only light came from the restaurant behind her and the street lights around them.

“Hang on, Joey—” Sam put her arms around his delicate waist. She was about to thrust back against his stomach but he caught himself.

“No, no, no, no—I got it,” he promised her, and he spat it out on the drain before him. She grimaced at the sound of it but he panted and groaned from it.

“Fish bone,” he said in a broken voice. He paused for a second. “Sump'n's not sittin' well, either.” He straightened himself up and darted up the sidewalk. Sam followed him to make sure he was alright. He ducked behind the art shop next door: even from a distance and through the darkness, she could see a bit of a stagger to his step. He needed to do what he had to do in the dark storm drain before her.

She lingered back and she brought her attention to the sketchbooks and journals and knick knacks in the front window. Like a cozier version of the shop Charlie had taken her to in her first week there in the City.

She returned her attention to the stretch of darkness before her. She had a potential future in art school and yet she needed to check on this boy in front of her. Using the light from the shop and the street lights, Sam rounded the corner to the alleyway where she caught the sight of Joey seated upon an upturned box. Even in the darkness, she could make out the sight of sweat across his brow.

“Note to self,” he started in a broken voice, “don't eat fish with four cups'a hooch at the same time.”

“I don't really think that's a tasty combination to begin with, either,” was all she could think of in response, to which he shook his head.

“Nah. The second the salmon hit my tongue, my stomach did a little turn. But I was still hungry, though. They gave us such small pieces o' fish, I'm surprised Aurora isn't beggin' 'em for a big ass salad in there.”

“Are you okay, though?” Sam took a few steps closer to him for a better look of his face. “Do you need anything?”

“An aspirin. Some mouth wash. Sump'n to settle my stomach.” He reached forward and set his hands on his knees, but then he groaned in pain.

“Oh, shit.”

“What's the matter?”

“It's those delightful pains that come after upchuckin',” he replied as he leaned back against the brick wall behind him. In the dim light, she could make out the sight of him wincing and writhing in discomfort. Those pains were going to be with him with a couple of days: a couple of days to take her mind off of school.

Sam eyed his thighs and his knobby knees in the darkness. Even shrouded in shadow and those faded black jeans, she could tell his thighs were fuller than they appeared to her. She brought her gaze to his hips, followed by his poor stomach and his chest, and then his sinewy arms.

The back door of the art shop creaked open and a tiny sliver of golden light washed over the curls matted across his dark sweaty forehead. He turned his head a bit so the thin ribbon of light spanned over the side of his neck and his collar bone. Stray pieces of his curly hair illuminated in golden yellow; she spotted a small box of old markers down by his feet. She asked him if she could do anything for him at that moment, and at that moment, she didn't have any of those things, however, there was always art. She lunged for the markers and she knelt down before him. The ribbon of light next to her served as her guide as she took out the blue marker.

“Gimme your hand,” she offered him as she squatted in front of him.

“No, Sam—no,” he begged her as he pinched his eyes shut. “I'm tipsy. You're tipsy. I can't. No.”

“Joey, I'm not asking you to kiss me,” she pointed out; gently, she held onto his right wrist with her free hand. “And I'm not tipsy, either—I had lemonade. I want to draw on you.”

“Why ya wanna run some ink over me?” he demanded.

“Because your body is art. I want to touch it and feel it and I want to bring it to the forefront of it all. Let me draw on your skin. Let me do it!”

He grimaced from the aches and pains in his back, but he held still for her. She ran the head of the marker over his hand. Even in the dim light, she could tell it still worked well enough: a band of royal blue crossed his skin, which was taut from all the alcohol and from throwing up in the storm drain. The blue ran over the fine bones making up the interior of his hand, and as a result, she drew diamonds over each of his knuckles which she then followed up with a pair of six leafed lotus flowers on the back of his hand. She filled in the petals with the red marker, which was pristine right out of the box.

“My body is ruined,” he sputtered at the point in which she reached for his left hand.

“It's not ruined,” she insisted. “It's just—dried out, is all.”

“I'm ruined. I'm washed up and already ruined.”

“No. No. Joey, listen to me—you're not ruined. Let me do it. Please—”

She held onto his left wrist with her free hand and started to do the same patterns once again but he jerked his hand back a bit.

“Shit, that tickles,” he mumbled under the blanket of black hair across his face. But she caught him and proceeded to do it again. His skin was so dried out that the head of the marker ran across the back of his hand like the needle leaving behind a tattoo. He cleared his throat and let out a long low whistle.

“You okay?” she asked him, to which she held the marker up over his hand.

“Yeah, I'm just—kinda hot.” She reached up and pushed his black curls out of his face and his eyes. She brushed his bangs back over the top of his head, but they returned into upright form right over his forehead. She held back and the light from the art shop remained over his face: Sam gazed into his large brown eyes, which were clear from his flushing the alcohol out of his system. Beads of sweat lined his brow: if only there was something to help clean him up right then and there.

“Oh, there you guys are!”

She turned her head to find Kirk walking towards them with a glass of water in hand.

“You guys still hadn't come back yet so Scott told me to get him some water if you didn't,” he explained in a single breath.

“Oh, perfect!” she declared, and he handed the glass to her. “Thank you, Kirky.”

“Kirky?” He chuckled at that, and she made out the first sprigs of a mustache forming over his top lip. She shrugged at that.

“That just kinda—slipped out,” she confessed with a shrug. “We'll be back soon enough. I just gotta—finish what I'm doing.”

He patted her on the back and then he doubled back to the sidewalk. Sam returned to him with the glass in hand.

“A guy looks at you like that again, I'm punchin' 'em in the back of the head.”

“No, Joey—please, don't.”

“I mean it,” he insisted. She capped the marker with one hand and glared at him, frustrated.

“You are so full of venom,” she whispered to him.

“For a second, I thought you were gonna say I'm full of shit,” he said, nonchalant; but it made her laugh anyway. A laugh to spite itself.

“Besides, I'm not your girlfriend,” she scoffed. “I can handle boys who look at me like the way Kirk did.” What Aurora said about him popped into her mind right then.

It wasn't the right time for that. Joey also couldn't see her pursing her lips at her own stopping herself right in her tracks, either.

He fetched up a sigh and she adjusted herself on the ground before him. She handed him the glass of water to him.

“Here—”

He raised his head a bit and showed her the bemused look on his face.

“You're dry as a bone, for crying out loud,” she said, “when I was drawing on your hand, the ink went on like it was nothing. Your skin is dry.”

“Dry as a bone,” he sputtered. “Dry as a boner!”

“Joey, drink this,” she persisted, unfazed.

“What is it?”

“It's water. Add to this, you're sweating like a pig and Kirk and Scott wanted to help you.”

Joey's fingers quivered and quaked as he held onto the base of the glass. Sam held onto the glass along with him so he wouldn't spill all over himself: he closed his eyes as he downed the icy cold water in four large gulps. He said he was ruined already, and she began to wonder more about his history prior to joining. She put the markers away and held onto them as she could perhaps use them for herself at some point. But then she returned to Joey as he set the glass in his lap. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and let out a low whistle.

“Why do you beat yourself up so much?” she asked him in a low voice. His brown eyes gazed on at her: in the golden light, she could make out the soft earthy brown color making up those irises. It made her think of dark chocolate.

“I'm kinda the outsider as well as the bachelor,” he explained as his face fell and he dropped his gaze to the dark ground. “I often feel like I'm not even worth it, not even as the lead singer. Like it could all come to an end for me tomorrow and I wouldn't even know how to stop it.”

“Well—you don't have to beat yourself down for it, though,” she pointed out as she shifted her weight again. “You should just enjoy yourself. Enjoy the time that you have with them.”

He raised his eyebrows and brought a thumb to the corner of his mouth.

“Well—if it makes you feel any better, I'm—feeling myself—enjoying the time I have with you,” he confessed at a deliberate rate. He lifted his right hand to the light for a better look at the makeshift tattoo she had given him on the back of his hand. “And thank you for this, too. I don't really see myself being a tattoo guy of any kind but I do like this, though.”

“You know, I have a week before I hear anything from the school if I got in or not,” she suggested, “you wanna—go hang out somewhere together? Just you and me? It won't be a date.”

“'Cause you ain't my girlfriend,” he pointed out.

“Exactly! Like we can do lunch or something. Here in the City or—you can show me a little more of upstate.”

“Oh, yeah, I can take ya to Monticello or wherever...” His voice trailed off as he turned his attention to the alleyway behind him. It was a shallow one, filled with boxes of art supplies, some of which still had that clear tape to seal them shut as it glistened in the golden light. That door never budged once in the whole time they were there.

“You wanna talk more about it on the way back to the restaurant?” he suggested to her. “I don't really feel comfortable doin' it here.”

“Sure.” She stood to her feet and tucked the markers into her pocket. She extended her arms out to help him up, and he grimaced and groaned from the aches in his back and his hips. Joey caught himself and he set his free hand on his lower back.

“You okay?” she asked him as she took the empty glass.

“Yeah, just—I'll be sore in the mornin'.”

Gingerly, Sam helped Joey to the sidewalk and they walked at a slow pace back to the restaurant. Zetro, Charlie, and Cliff congregated outside of the front door under a flood light: Charlie's hair glowed a soft silvery color in contrast to all the gold around them.

“Hey, there they are!” Zetro called out and his voice echoed over the pavement.

“Oh, shit, Joey, you alright?” Charlie hurried towards him. Indeed, as they reached better lighting, Sam noticed the color had drained out of Joey's otherwise brown face.

“He barfed but that glass of water Kirk gave him helped a bit, though,” she explained to him.

“Okay, let's get something light into him—” He put his arm around Joey and he helped him back inside there. Zetro ducked behind the corner with a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. Sam turned to Cliff, who towered over her like a giant: the light on his soft brown hair only made him appear larger than before.

“I couldn't help but notice you looking at me earlier,” he said in a big booming voice as part of his greeting.

“Well—” Sam hesitated for a second as she searched for the right words. She had only known Metallica for a single day and thus her mind fell blank at the very sight of him. There was no way she could tell him straight up that he was the man of her dreams. “—I haven't gotten a good look at you.”

He chuckled at that and the corners of his eyes crinkled up to resemble the legs of a cockroach. Her heart hammered inside of her chest at the sight of his grin and she knew it. It was him!

“How 'bout you?” he offered her. “Do you need anything? Lars has your purse again.”

“Uh, yes! I'd love to have my purse.”

Cliff showed her that Mona Lisa smile yet again and he ducked into the restaurant. Her eyes wondered to the large front bay window before her, and she caught sight of the boy with the little white plume in his hair, nestled up on the cushion beneath the window. On one hand, she never said a word to him. But then again, he looked alone tucked there in the corner: once again, he sat in the corner by himself. But that time, he had brought his knees up to his chest and he held onto a glass full of lemonade in one hand. Sam peered back at the joined tables, at the four bands congregated together in one huge party, and there was that boy, that young kid, all by his lonesome still. She started to wonder about the sound of his voice again given she only heard him that one time.

It was all a dream and her memory often played with her dreams, as bizarre as they were, hence why she never finished that one drawing. A white stripe in favor of a black one, no matter how faint and buried in that lush, soft looking hair, and hence she knew why. Cliff returned outside with her purse; she thanked him and she could feel the dreams coming true right there. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him again: that time, he took a sip from his lemonade.

She still thought of kissing him. So right and yet so wrong at the same time, especially with Cliff right there.

[alwayshaveneverholdd]

As Long As It Takes Chapter 1

SO I’m just experimenting and seeing where this will go! I hope someone likes it lol. 

VernonxOC with side CoupsxOC

She was twenty-two, and she had seen things beyond any average Joe’s wildest imagination.

It started with a stock market crash, leading to the demise of many more lives than originally thought. Specifically hers. Nothing terrible had happened at that point, but it did cause her parents to give her and her sister up to an adoption agency. Not long after, they were split up, she being shipped to South Korea, their mother’s homeland. But she doesn’t like to think about that.

“Unnie!” Iseul called, eyes wide with a hunger she frequently saw whenever attractive customers were on the premises. She usually didn’t notice them since she was absorbed in her work. Iseul always did, though. And she knew that.

Even though she was only four years younger, Jangmi always saw Iseul as a kid. Iseul was a spunky eighteen-year-old waitress finishing up her senior year of high school. She frequently made suicide jokes because the workload was so much, but Jangmi knew never to take her seriously. Since they both spoke English well, they used it with each other, frequently annoying their co-workers.

“Hm?” She barely looked up from the garlic albacore roll she was preparing. Jangmi found pride in the fact that her restaurant was popular among the young people who wanted western-type sushi, something rarely practiced in Korea. It wasn’t technically her restaurant, but she’d worked there for six long years. That place wouldn’t be what it was without her.

Iseul leaned over the sushi bar, past a couple who was uncomfortable at how close she was. “Table four!” she hissed.

This happens every time, she thought. With a dramatic sigh, Jangmi pulled her head up and swiveled it toward the aforementioned table. Typically, there would be some attractive guys but nothing like the five that made her do a double-take. It wasn’t just their looks, either. There was clearly an air of confidence, brotherhood, loyalty. All things that she admired. She did notice, however, that they were much younger than her. At least two to five years. Sometimes, Iseul would pick guys closer to Jangmi’s age. It worked out, she got laid, everyone won. But that was only sometimes, and this one not one of them. She shook her head, wrapping the roll in the paper mat and grabbing her knife.

“Yes, they’re extremely attractive and I probably babysat them in junior high. All yours.”

Isuel smirked. “You see the one with kind-of sharp features?” She didn’t bother looking up. “He goes to my school, so they’re all probably around my age.” When she did look up, Iseul winked. “Wish me luck!”

She sighed as the young girl swayed away. “Yeah, sure,” she mumbled while mise-en-placing. “Just flirt your way into the top universities. That’ll get you places.”

Iseul frequently flirted with the cute customers, but she only did it for fun. She never wanted or expected it to go anywhere. Jangmi knew this as well, so her flirting with them didn’t phase her. It still didn’t bother her that much when she came back to get their drink orders after an unprofessionally long conversation and said that she learned their names and that the oldest one- two years older than her and two years younger than Jangmi -was flirting back. But when she looked up to find Iseul pointing to the sushi bar, the piercing gazes of the young boys following, she wanted to hide.

Her cheeks pinked as she looked back down at her board. What was she just doing? She couldn’t seem to remember. It was hard to get a good look at them- but it’s not like she wanted to. They were children. They were children and she was a grown ass woman who was too old for them. Besides the one Iseul took a particular liking to. But she didn’t think it was that one. The one that caught her eye looked especially young, maybe around sixteen. It made her cringe to think about her sick attraction to a minor. It was illegal. She could see the headlines. LOCAL SUSHI CHEF CHARGED WITH COUNTS OF PEDOPHILIA. She would be a registered sex offender for the rest of her life.

“Hey!”

She started at this, completely lost in her thoughts. “What?!”

Iseul raised an eyebrow. “You’ve just been standing there for like ten minutes. Come on, we’re busy.” Then she smirked once more, clearly a trend for that day, and slid an all-you-can-eat paper over the top of the glass case. “They’re growing boys. They need to become beefy.”

“Get outta here,” She laughed, waving her off with the paper. Her eyes widened once they rested on it. The boys really did order a lot. It was time to get to work.

“언니! Look!” After the long work day, Jangmi was unhooking her sushi chef headband. Iseul’s voice was unusually shocked with a twinge of excitement. “He actually gave me his number!” She flapped a receipt under her senior’s face. “And a twenty dollar tip!”

She tilted her head. “Who?”

“That guy! The older one from earlier?” Iseul looked down at the receipt again, reading the sloppy handwriting. “S… coups? S.Coups?”

For reasons unbeknownst to her, Jangmi snorted. “That’s an odd name.”

“Fuck off, he’s cute.”

It was silent for a moment as Iseul hung up her apron and Jangmi picked up her purse. “You gonna call him?”

“I don’t know… Should I?”

“Well, I mean, yeah.”

“But what if he thinks I’m annoying?”

“He left you his number for a reason!”

“So? He could’ve just been being nice.”

She scoffed. “Okay, Iseul, listen to me very carefully.” Jangmi took in a long breath. “Guys aren’t nice to girls unless they like them. That’s a fact.”

Iseul toyed with the idea uncomfortably. She knew that Jangmi was not only right, but had four years of experience on her. Even so, her insecurities made the situation more complicated than needed. “I’ll think about it,” she muttered, grabbing her small black backpack. “See you tomorrow, 언니.” She bowed respectfully before pushing the glass door open.

Jangmi sighed. She worried about Iseul, sometimes. She never opened herself up to love. But Jangmi figured most people didn’t. Even she was guilty of that. Occasional one night stands were the only way she’d let herself connect to another person in that way. She knew it didn’t mean anything. And that’s what made it okay.

Another day, another penny, another lonely night spent drinking wine and looking at the Seoul skyline from her apartment balcony. She teased a cigarette between her fingers, never being able to break the habit that formed at the ripe age of thirteen. The twinkling lights staring back at her were almost therapeutic. God knew she needed something like that.

All night, she couldn’t stop thinking about that kid. But morning came, and she had pushed him to the back of her mind; forgotten. I’ll probably never see him again, she thought.

Hah.

A few days later was a Monday, the worst kind for Iseul. It meant getting up at six so she could get to school by eight. She wasn’t as reluctant that morning, though. She had a connection to that guy which meant she didn’t have to go through the awkwardness of calling him. She didn’t remember his name, but he was in her homeroom class.

The teacher sat bored at her desk, clearly pondering the worth of her dead-end career. Iseul stood jittery next to her desk, already having set down her things. She was the first one there. He usually got there pretty fast as well, but as more kids trickled into the room, she stared out the big windows with disappointment. “Where is he?”

After what felt like an hour, the smiley guy waltzed in, clearly exhausted but happy as ever. “Hey!” she called him over. He looked a bit confused, but he was a friendly guy. He just figured she wanted to ask something. He wasn’t wrong. But as he got closer, he recognized her.

“Hey, you’re the waitress from Friday.”

She beamed, happy that he remembered. “I sure am. Um, listen. I just wanted to ask about one of your friends…”

“S.Coups, right?”

She stopped, the very definition of a deer in headlights. “Oh, well, um…”

He laughed. It was big and appreciative, echoing through the room. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone, though. He was a renowned happy virus. “Yeah, he said he was leaving your number. Actually made a bet that you’d call.”

“What?” The sudden change in Iseul’s tone made his eyes widen. She scoffed. “So he thinks I’m so desperate that I’d call a random customer who leaves his number? I mean, he’s right… But does he seriously think he’s so special? Well he’s got another thing coming!” She yanked the receipt out of her pocket.

He began waving his hands. “Wait, that’s not-”

“I can’t believe I even considered calling that jerk.” She tore the paper into a million pieces. “He’s still hot, but… god, how embarrassing.”

“I don’t think you understand-”

“No, no. It’s fine. Not your fault. Seokmin, right? It’s fine.” She started back toward her desk, humiliation pooling in her stomach.

Seokmin felt awful. Coups hadn’t meant the bet to be that way, although he could be cocky sometimes. He wanted to straighten things out with Iseul, but just as she sat down, the bell rang for class to start. I’ll tell her tomorrow, he thought.

Jangmi went into work the following week expecting the same things. Same coworkers, same rush hour, same equipment. Her life seemed to be a never ending carousel of work and sleep, round and round it went. Where was it heading? Nowhere. She began to tire of it. She longed for change.

“Table or sushi bar?” She must’ve overheard Iseul and the other waiters ask this about a hundred times a day. But for some reason, that time, she looked up to see the customers. Her eyes locked with warm pools of hazel, sending her heart into a beating frenzy. It was that damn kid again. The group was smaller, though. It was the kid, the oldest one from last time, and one she’d never seen. He looked familiar, but she saw so many faces everyday that it could’ve just been a resemblance.

She ducked her head when he smiled shyly at her, focusing on the seaweed she was marinating in sesame oil. His smile was too much for her. Last time, she caught him laughing a couple times and almost died. “Will you be doing all-you-can-eat today?” The question sounded alarmingly close, almost right in her ear. She glanced up, startled at the three boys sitting right in front of her.

“Jesus…”

“Spooked?” Iseul teased, winking and going to get some all-you-can-eat papers.

Jangmi winced, replying dryly. “Ahahahahaha.” She sighed at the orders in front of her. “You’re so funny…”

“Hey,” Iseul recoiled at the feeling of someone touching her, not expecting it to be S.Coups at all. “You totally blew me off last week.” He gave her puppy dog eyes, a cutesy manipulation tactic he often used to get his way with women. His plump lips were jutted out in a pout before he smiled at her, a small laugh escaping his lips.

She didn’t know what to do. She literally just stood there, hyper-aware of not only his gaze, but his friends’ and Jangmi’s. “Oh, I…” Words tried coming out, but she kept fumbling over them. “I lost the paper thing. I mean, I didn’t lose it. I tore it up. But that’s just because I misunderstood!” She started rambling, talking so fast that S.Coups could barely understand her. “But then Seokmin explained it and it’s all okay now but I still didn’t have your number and I just…” She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry.”

At first, he was baffled. Of course, all the while fanboying inside. He loved making girls nervous, especially ones he was interested in. He burst out in laughter, taking one of her hands and squeezing it. “You’re so cute!” Her initial reaction was to pull away, but somehow under his eyes and the way his mouth was opened in a wide grin all because of her, she just couldn’t.

A small smile fought it’s way to her face. She looked at the ground for a second before returning to him. “I should probably go get your drinks.”

“And your number, I hope?” The disrespectful bugger bit his lower lip, somehow still smiling a bit after he asked this, causing Jangmi’s jaw to drop as Iseul scurried away.

“Oh, man…” She shook her head, slicing a roll. “We’ve got a Casanova on our hands.”

The kid giggled, and it was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. She looked up at him with a smile, wondering if he spoke English. He must, she reasoned. How else would he understand what I’m saying? He smiled back, but quickly became self-conscious and looked down at the table. When she returned to her work, shaking the smile off her face, his gaze returned.

He couldn’t help but stare at her. He thought she was a very beautiful woman, but it wasn’t that that attracted him to her. She had an air of maturity, knowledge, life experience. All things he wanted. Things he wanted to be taught from someone older than him, someone who could help him grow without trying.

He wanted it to be her.

It was clear to him that she was older, and that did make him nervous. But she seemed kind. He needed that kind of energy. Things were stressful since he and the boys were about to debut in a few months. They stayed up all night practicing, sometimes not getting sleep for as much as thirty-six hours.

“Excuse me.” Jangmi looked up at the familiar boy sitting between the two others. “Do I know you?”

She tilted her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I was thinking you look familiar-”

“Wait!” His eyes lit up, finally recognizing his old babysitter. “I got it! Victoria!”

Her heart sank into her stomach at the mention of her birth name. But she tried to play it cool. She did remember him, after all. “Little Boo Seungkwan!”

“You know everybody on Jeju is looking for you, right?”

She scoffed uncomfortably, working on some food. “Please. I left ten years ago.”

“Left?” Seungkwan sassed. “You disappeared! We all thought you were dead.”

And sometimes she wished she was. “Hardly disappeared… I just decided to leave. And that was just my English name. I go by Jangmi now.”

He scrunched up his face. “Really? You look more like a Victoria.”

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt your bro bonding time,” she cut the conversation short, returning full focus to her duties.

“Vernonie,” Seungkwan said, turning his head to the idiot who couldn’t stop staring at her.

He turned to him, a  bit startled. “Huh?”

“Don’t you think noona looks more like a Victoria?”

She sighed exasperatedly, setting her knife down and trying to ignore that she now knew his name. “You know…”

“Two sodas and an iced milk tea,” Iseul announced, coming up with a tray and setting the drinks down.

Jangmi eyed the sodas through slits, silently judging S.Coups and Seungkwan. “Who drinks soda with sushi?”

“Who doesn’t drink soda with sushi?” Seungkwan retorted.

“Smart people.”

“Ouch,” Vernon commented, sipping at his milk tea with amusement.

“Soda completely destroys your palette. There’s no way you can fully appreciate the flavor with a shot of pepsi between every bite.”

S.Coups held up the wasabi and ginger plate condescendingly. “That’s what the ginger is for.”

“If you did a little more studying instead of flirting, you would know that ginger doesn’t compensate for carbonation remapping your tastebuds, hot shot.”

He just gaped at her while Seungkwan’s jaw dropped and Vernon lost it. “You’re on fire,” Iseul said, high fiving her.

“What are you laughing at?” she asked Vernon teasingly. “Milk tea is creamy and aromatic, so while it may not demolish your tongue, it definitely does make it hard to fully taste.” She ended the little culinary lesson with a smile directed at him. He took the jab surprisingly well, just smiling back. It was probably just because she was looking at him and he thought she was pretty and nice and he was on cloud nine, being the stupid teenager he was. Besides, that just proved that he was right. She did know more than him. Intelligent, beautiful, and kind. There was no way he’d give up on this one.

“After debut, we’ll definitely tell the story of the chef who wrecked us,” Seungkwan snorted.

“Oh, don’t even get me started on you, Seungkwannie.” She chuckled. “What do you mean, debut?”

S.Coups, looking pretty proud, took it upon himself to answer that question. “Well, we’re training to be idols in a group called Seventeen. Debut is in five months.”

“Oh! That’s why you’re all so attractive.” The second Iseul said that, she clamped a hand over her mouth, rushing away to refill some waters.

It was after that, Jangmi noticed them coming in way more. They weren’t always the same guys. Coups missed a couple times, but Vernon was always there. S.Coups would still flirt with Iseul, to which she got used to as the weeks went on, and began a sort of banter response that he absolutely loved.

On free days, they came in. Sometimes it was just Vernon by himself, but only later down the line. Weeks turned into months, shy smiles and small comments turned into conversations that lasted until closing and sometimes even past. It was rare, but when that happened, she would have to snap her fingers under Vernon’s exhausted face. Come on, kid. I’ll take you home. His exasperated sigh as she grabbed the keys to close down. Noona, please. I’m not a kid. Her fingers flicking his skin lightly with a little smile. I’m sure your parents are worried sick. He raised an eyebrow. I don’t live at home. You know that. She stood on her tippy-toes to get an arm around his neck, leading him to the back door. And you’re barely an inch taller than me. You know that?

On those nights, she slept better. She didn’t feel the need to smoke, either. But as stated above, that was rare, because the morning always came. And with it, a new sense of fear and shame.

And hopelessness.