It was nearly 9 p.m. when Yoongi finally peeled himself away from the screen. His stomach had been grumbling for hours, but it wasn't until he checked the clock that he realized it was already 10:45 PM.
He groaned, stretching for the first time since 9 that morning. A satisfying crack echoed from his spine as he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders. He dug his phone out of his pocket. The wallpaper blinked back at him, but the screen was empty—no messages, no calls.
With a sigh, he opened his delivery app and placed an order, then tossed the phone onto the desk and closed his eyes. Just a few minutes of quiet.
A soft knock startled him awake. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep.
He rubbed his eyes, stood up, and rolled out his stiff limbs before opening the door.
There, clad in black from head to toe—leather jacket, fitted pants, boots, and a helmet—stood a petite figure holding his delivery bag.
The helmet tilted slightly. "Oh! You're Sugar, right? My boss' nephew talks about you."
Yoongi tilted his head, her voice ringing vaguely familiar.
"Ah—sorry." The woman popped off her helmet, revealing a small face framed with loose, wind-tousled strands. Her eyes flicked up to him, grinning—then her smile dropped.
"You look pale. Do you have a fever?" she asked, lifting a hand to feel his forehead.
Startled, Yoongi flinched back, and the girl stepped away just as quickly, mortified.
"Sorry," she said, her voice shrinking.
Yoongi blinked, realizing he had zoned out again. A pang of guilt bloomed in his chest.
"It's fine," he mumbled. "Come in for a second."
She hesitated but stepped inside and set the delivery down.
"Thanks for ordering. You should rest more—and maybe get some sunlight now and then." She gave him a gentle smirk, then picked up her helmet again.
"You still work with Jin's aunt?" Yoongi asked as she turned to leave.
"I do. Just helping a friend with deliveries tonight. He's short-staffed."
"You eaten yet?"
She looked surprised. "Hmm… Not yet. But I'll eat at home."
Yoongi stepped forward, almost impulsively. "Wait."
His hand wrapped around her wrist before he could stop himself. She glanced down at his grip, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.
"Is something wrong?"
Realizing his own behavior, Yoongi pulled back quickly. What the hell was that?
"Would you… like to eat with me?"
She blinked. "Okay."
She followed him to the low table by the sofa as he unpacked the delivery.
"Sorry if that was sudden," he muttered, setting out bowls. "Just… wanted some company. We've eaten together before, haven't we?"
She quirked a brow. "Have we?"
"Twice." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar object—her lighter.
Her eyes widened. "Wait… You were the guy I asked for a cigarette outside that café?"
Yoongi smirked, placing a bowl of jjajangmyeon in front of her. "What, I'm not allowed to smoke too?"
"No, it's just… God, the things I must have said that night." She groaned, hiding her face in her hands.
Yoongi chuckled quietly. "Let's eat."
They ate in comfortable silence. Afterward, she stood, preparing to leave. Yoongi followed and offered her a cigarette. She accepted and lit it using her now-recovered lighter.
"I didn't expect you to be a smoker," she said, lighting his next. "Though I guess I shouldn't be surprised. This industry's heavy."
Yoongi didn't reply, only looked out over the balcony. She joined him, letting the breeze tousle her hair.
A moment later, she flinched as his hand brushed her back.
"I was going to tie your hair," he said, holding up a black hair tie.
She turned to face him, blinking.
"But if you'd rather do it—"
"No, it's okay. I'm still smoking. Don't want the smell in it." She took a long drag.
Yoongi gathered her hair with quiet gentleness. His fingers worked smoothly, the warmth of his presence brushing against her skin. She could feel every breath he took behind her, each movement tender and deliberate.
When he was done, he stepped back.
"I tried my best."
"You did well," she said softly, turning toward him.
Her eyes dropped to his hands—pale, veined, expressive. One thumb twitched, and he curled his fingers self-consciously.
"Your hands are attractive," she said.
Yoongi raised an eyebrow.
"I mean—" she laughed, holding up her hands. "I sketch. Hands are my favorite subject. Yours are kind of perfect for it."
"You draw?"
"Little things. Mostly hands, though. Want to see?"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small sketchpad. Yoongi took it carefully, flipping through the pages. There were glimpses of smiles, eyes, coffee shops—but mostly hands. Hands holding flowers. Touching lips. Interlaced fingers.
"The details are beautiful," he said, handing it back.
"Can I draw yours sometime?"
He smiled, shy and small. His eyes flitted around the room like a cat avoiding direct attention.
She grinned. "Another time, then. I'll get going. You don't need to walk me out."
Yoongi watched her leave.
Downstairs, the studio suddenly felt bigger than she remembered. She had no idea which way the guard had led her in earlier.
Turning a corner too quickly, she bumped into someone stepping out of the washroom.
She stumbled back and fell to the floor.
"Oh! Sorry—are you okay?"
The man bent down quickly and took her hand, helping her up with surprising care. He was taller than Yoongi, broad-shouldered, dressed in black from head to toe.
"Thanks," she muttered, steadying herself.
"You sure you're alright?" he asked, eyes scanning her for any signs of injury. Then he smiled—soft, bunny-like.
His presence was warm, radiant, striking. Even without knowing who he was, Rhea could tell—he was someone important.
"Actually… could you point me to the exit? I got a little lost."
He laughed, bright and easy. "You're headed toward the practice studio. Exit's the other way. I'll walk you there."
"Thanks. What's your name?"
"Jung Kook," he said, offering his hand.
"Rhea."
He glanced at her arm. "Nice tattoos."
"Just a few here and there," she said casually. He was still holding her hand, gently inspecting the mandala on her palm.
"People don't give you trouble for these?" he asked.
"They do." She shrugged. "But when I got my first, I told myself: Fuck what they think. Every piece marks something I've survived. People judge what they don't understand. But the cleanest skins can hide the darkest hearts."
Jungkook grinned. "Fuck what they think," he echoed, amused.
They reached the exit. He gestured toward it. "This is as far as I go."
"Appreciate it, Jung Kook."
She walked out.
Jungkook stood in the elevator as it closed, eyes drifting to the window overlooking the bike lot.
There she was—helmet on, gloves tight, legs swinging over a massive black bike.
A girl like that. Small in size. Loud in presence. Mysterious in nature.
He smiled, watching her speed away into the night.
"Rhea," he repeated to himself.
He didn't know much, but something about her felt like something he'd want to know again.