Chapter Text
July 2018
It’s stupidly hot. As I follow Lily from one shop to another, I pull a green bandana from my purse and use it to tie up my hair. My neck is slick with sweat. As Lily tries on one hat, then another, my eyes drift to the street. A group of young men strides down the cobblestones. Camera men and staff members hover around them like bees.
Two of them are dressed all in black – quite a sight in sunny Malta. Another, the shortest of the group, looks more accustomed to the Mediterranean: blue-and-white-striped shirt, leather sandals, pretty earrings. As they pass by, I hear one of them say in accented English, “Do you know BTS?”
He’s not speaking to anyone in particular, so no one responds. And as quickly as they arrived, the group disappears around the corner.
“What’s BTS?” I ask Lily.
She shrugs and flops a hat on her head. “Is this hat too big on me?”
_____
If Lily had to get sick, I’m glad it happened now. We were already exhausted.
We barely slept our last week in London – too busy writing our final papers of the semester – and then spent a whirlwind two weeks in Italy: Venice, Milan, Florence, Rome, and Naples. By the time we reached Malta, our feet were swollen and blistered. But still, she dragged me around from shop to shop, attraction to attraction. I was happy to do it, for her, because it made her happy and I’m already dreading our inevitable goodbyes, but I’ve been craving a little relaxation. A little less go-go-go, a little more kick-back-with-a-glass-of-wine.
She thinks the shrimp are to blame. She ate a big bowl of them last night, and now she’s curled up on the couch, clutching her stomach. She says her belly’s empty, and since she’s spent the last six hours in the bathroom, I believe her.
“Leave me!” she urges now.
“I can’t – you’re sick.”
“I’m fine now, I swear,” Lily says. “I just need to rest. And I don’t want to ruin your last night in Europe.”
“Where would I even go?”
“A restaurant. A bar. Anywhere! Make a new friend.”
I groan. “But I hate talking to strangers.”
“Then go and sit by yourself,” Lily says. “Have a drink. Bring your notebook and do some writing.”
Writing might be nice. I look out the window, at the sun setting in the distance, the watercolor sky. I sigh. “But I can’t just leave you here alone.”
“I’ll just be sleeping.”
“What if you need me?”
“I’ll call. Go, Sara!”
Dinner isn’t as awkward as I imagined. I find a cozy little restaurant and sit in the corner with a book, reading until my food arrives. Amidst the clatter of silverware and the chatter of the other restaurant guests, I can hear a lovely, soulful voice singing “Sunday Morning.”
Two glasses of wine later, I’m even more relaxed and glad I came out. The streets are alive with people and music. The lights strung overhead are golden and glowing. Maybe I’ll have another drink, I think, while I write a little.
I step inside the nearest bar – or maybe it’s a restaurant. In any case, it’s called Cockney’s, which seems like a good sign after spending the last six months in London.
“Sit wherever you like,” a voice calls, and I take a seat at the end of the bar.
Looking around, I see a couple sitting near the window and an employee scrubbing an empty table. At the other end of the bar, a young man in a black baseball cap is talking to the bar owner, an older gentleman with a white beard.
The bartender appears in front of me, smiling, and I order a glass of white wine.
I pull out my notebook and pen, but I can barely think about what to write. I’m too busy listening to the conversation at the other end of the bar. In stilted English, the younger man is making friends with the Maltese bar owner. It’s incredibly endearing.
“Malta is very beautiful,” the young man says. Flaxen hair peaks out from beneath his baseball cap.
The old man nods. “Is this your first time in Malta?”
“Yes, it’s first time.”
“You enjoying it?”
“I enjoy . . . I can’t English well, so – sorry.”
“That’s okay,” the man assures him. “I can’t speak Korean.”
So he’s Korean. I take a sip of my wine and grasp my pen with no intention of writing. Instead, I discretely glance up. His white t-shirt is loose around the neck. He leans over the bar, sipping a mysterious green drink (mint-flavored, I’ll learn later), and it’s clearly not his first drink of the night. My gaze flickers over his broad shoulders, his plump pink lips, his flawless skin. Then he laughs, and I can’t help but laugh too – it’s an unusually raucous laugh for such a ridiculously handsome man.
Holding a hand over my mouth, I look down at my notebook.
“Do you laugh at me?” the young man says.
I slowly look up, shocked to see him staring at me. The bar owner has slipped away to chat with an employee.
“No,” I say, my smile quickly fading. “Of course not. I was just reading something.” I hold up my notebook.
“A joke?”
“Ergh, not really.”
“That is shame. I love jokes.” After a moment of silence, he asks, “Do you know BTS?”
I recognize the question at once. The hat shop. The group of young men. The cameras. The cameras. Suddenly I notice the compact camera sitting on the bar.
“Is that on?” I ask, pointing to it.
“No, no. It’s off,” he says. He glances to the back corner of the restaurant, where two men are sitting. They must have been in the bathroom before. Now they’re each nursing a beer, and they have cameras too – larger, professional cameras. “They stopped too.”
“Why are they filming you? Are you a TV star or something?”
He smiles and says, “So you don’t know BTS?”
I shake my head.
“K-pop?”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of K-pop,” I say. “But I don’t really know any bands . . . EXO – is that one?”
He bursts into laughter – and once again, his laugh makes me laugh. “Yes.”
“It’s especially funny,” I say in Korean, “considering that my dad’s from Korea. I should know better.”
His jaw drops, and his face lights up. “You speak Korean!? Yah!”
I blame the wine for how long it took me to switch to Korean. Well, and the fact that I’m not exactly fluent. These days, I only speak Korean from time to time, when I’m calling my dad or Facetiming my grandparents. I’ve never even been to Korea. In fact, this last semester was my first time traveling abroad.
As I explain this, the young man comes and sits beside me, shaking his head. “Your Korean is much better than my English.”
“So BTS,” I say. “It’s a K-pop group?”
“Short for Bangtan Sonyeondan,” he says, nodding. He holds out a hand. “I’m Jin.”
I shake it. “Sara.”
“We’re filming a travel show here.”
“Where are your bandmates then?”
“A couple went to Sliema. A couple more are out exploring, I think. Jungkook’s dyeing his hair pink.” He shrugs. “And I made a new friend – Charles.” He gestures to the bar owner, who’s working again. “I was getting exhausted though, if I’m honest. My English isn’t the best. Usually I can lean on Namjoon – he’s the leader of the group. He’s fluent.”
I glance back at the two men with cameras. “They aren’t going to film us, are they?”
“No. They know better than to film me with a girl my own age.”
I wrinkle my brow. “What do you mean?”
“Oh nothing. A quirk of the industry,” he says. “What are you doing in Malta?”
“Visiting with a friend. She’s sick – hence my drinking alone.”
“Are you traveling anywhere else?”
“This is the last stop, actually. I spent the last semester in London, and we’ve been hopping around Italy ever since. I head home tomorrow, to New York.”
“Oh cool. You sure you haven’t heard of BTS? We had a big concert in Newark last year. The Wings Tour?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I don’t think so. I’ve been so busy with school lately, I haven’t explored a lot of new music.”
“Well we’ll be there again in September. In Newark. You should come.”
“You better be pretty good if I’m going to go to New Jersey.”
“We’re pretty good,” he says, smiling. Then he cups his chin in his hand and bounces his shoulders up and down. “Plus, I’m worldwide handsome.”
“Wow . . .” My eyes are wide. I’ve never met someone who’s so clearly confident about their looks. He has the charm to pull it off, but I can’t help but tease, “Worldwide handsome? That’s cocky. I’ll give you a break considering you’re clearly a few drinks into the night.”
There’s a sweetness and humor in his voice as he says, “I’m just stating facts. I’ve gone viral for my good looks, I’ll have you know.”
“Is that so?”
“Once at an awards show, I stepped onto a red carpet from a car – as everyone does – and I was so handsome, I got nicknamed ‘car door guy.’ People didn’t know my name, but I was so beautiful, I went viral anyway.”
I burst out laughing.
“Yah!” he cries, smiling through his bafflement. “Why are you laughing?”
“It’s just so ridiculous,” I say, “Especially when you’re clearly so . . . so . . .” My eyes rake over his body – long legs, small waist widening into broad shoulders, smooth collarbone, thick neck – and then his face, with those bright eyes, a perfectly triangular nose, a little dip above his pillowy peach-like lips. It’s absurd how attractive he is. “. . . when you’re so ugly.”
He cracks up again, and I wonder if he noticed how long I spent checking him out.
“So how long will you be in Malta?” I ask to change the subject.
“Just a few more days.”
“Are you having fun, or is it more of a work trip?” We both glance at the cameramen again, who are now watching a soccer game on the TV in the back corner.
“Both. It’s been fun and we’ve had a good amount of free time for exploring, but it’s hard to fully relax when you’re always on camera. At least I’m allowed to drink now – our bosses weren’t always cool with that. And I think I’m about done with work for the night. They’ll probably just film me going back to the apartment when I leave the bar.”
“Is it annoying to have cameras follow you around all the time?”
“I’m used to it. And our fans really love the show, so just knowing it’s going to make people happy – it makes it easier,” he says.
As he talks, I put my notebook back in my purse. His eyes follow the movement and, to my shock, he looks disappointed. My heart jumps in my chest.
“Are you going already?” he asks.
“Oh, no, I just – I’m not doing much writing, and I don’t want to leave it behind.”
His features relax in relief, and my heart starts to pound. Seriously? He doesn’t want me to leave?
He asks about my writing, and I explain that I’m an English and Creative Writing major, that I hope to write novels someday but I’ll be content with a creative-leaning job in Marketing or Advertising when I get back to the States. He tells me that he studied acting in school, and I think, Of course. No wonder he seems so interested in my life. He’s an actor. He’s been trained to pretend. But is he acting when he smiles at me so kindly? When he picks up my napkin for me? When he asks the bartender to give me a sample of the mint liquor and watches my lips as I drink?
And he keeps asking about me, about my semester in London, my weeks in Italy, my sick roommate. Soon I’m showing him pictures of my dog and he, excitedly, pulls out his phone to share photos of his dog, Jjangu, who passed away last year. We discuss our favorite seasons, guess each other’s Hogwarts houses, boast about our skills in Mario Kart. I tell him my favorite places to eat in New York’s K-Town, and he tells me all the things I need to do when I visit Seoul someday. Before I know it, two hours have passed.
When one of the cameramen asks Jin if he’s ready to head back, he tells them to go on without him.
“But we’ve gotta film the conclusion to this night out,” the man says.
Jin looks at me, his eyes bright. “If I run out and film an outro really quick, will you wait for me here?”
“Umm, I –“
“It’ll be 15 minutes, tops.”
“Could I just follow along?”
So that’s how I end up trailing Jin and his cameramen, giggling behind my hand as he realizes he’s locked out of the band’s apartment because he can’t remember the passcode. He thought he’d saved it on his phone, but alas.
“Please tell me the passcode,” he says to the cameramen. They grin and stare at him silently. Then he turns to me. “Sara, what’s the passcode?”
I smile and hold up my hands, shrugging.
“Don’t worry,” Jin says. “They’ll edit out this whole bit.”
Once he has the passcode, he insists on acting through the scene again, so that the crew can edit out the scene where he forgot. Then he disappears inside the apartment for a moment (saying a quick hello to Jungkook, he tells me later) before rushing back down to me, apologizing that the whole process took longer than planned. He no longer has his bag, and he’s taken off his baseball cap. He ruffles his hair with his hand a few times, saying, “Sorry. Hat hair,” despite having perfectly tousled locks.
We wave to the cameramen, who head back to their own hotel, and walk through the streets of Valletta together. Although it’s late, the main thoroughfares are still relatively active. Groups of friends sit outside cafes, and tourists wander around with ice cream cones. Music drifts through the alleys.
“I can’t believe I actually made a friend,” I say. I’m a little drunk.
He smiles. “We’re friends?”
“Sorry, I just – I meant, I’m shocked I actually spoke to a stranger tonight. A full-on conversation. More than a conversation, really . . . Lily told me to make a friend, but she knew how unlikely that was. I’m an introvert through and through.”
“I’m an introvert too,” Jin says. “It’s weird being an introverted celebrity.”
“I’m still not convinced you’re a celebrity,” I say. “I mean, you say you are, but I’d never heard of you, or this so-called BTS, before tonight. Maybe you paid those guys to pretend to be your cameramen.”
His jaw drops. “Do you want me to show you pictures?! I have evidence! I’ve been to the Billboard Music Awards! We even won an award there!”
“I don’t need to see any pictures,” I say breezily. “I believe you.”
If I’m honest, I’m still a little doubtful, but I want the mystery to linger. If I see a picture of him on a red carpet, rubbing shoulders with celebrities, I might freak out. Because that’s the thing – I’ve been feeling weirdly relaxed this entire night. He’s just so . . . so utterly normal (/insanely charming). Not that celebrities aren’t normal, but you know. You don’t expect it.
Plus, I keep imagining things. Things involving his broad shoulders, his plump lips . . . And if I get confirmation that he’s an actual superstar, I’ll probably die of embarrassment or choke on a tangle of nerves and anxiety.
So no, I don’t want to look at the pictures – if they exist at all. I’d rather just assume he’s a normal (/insanely attractive) young man who maybe, perhaps, has a small part on a minor Korean TV show (hence the cameramen). Yes. That’s all. It’s nothing.
“Fine,” Jin says. “But I’m an excellent model. You’re missing out.”
My eyes flicker over to his perfectly proportioned face, his V-shaped torso. “I’m sure . . . But you’re not a model officially. You’re a singer, right? You should sing something to prove it to me.”
He thinks for a moment and then suddenly, he stops walking and sings, “벌 받는 건 아니잖아 / Can’t close your eyes / 발버둥쳐봐도 더는 소용없을 걸 / 그냥 눈을 감고 귀 기울여봐.”
I’m speechless. I stare at him with my lips parted, dumbfounded, because his voice (which has been so bright and buoyant all night) sounded so strong and sexy.
Oh fuck. Maybe he is a superstar.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was probably a bad choice of song. Taehyung and I go back and forth at that bit, so you missed half the verses. That’s why I was humming between them. I’m sorry – it probably sounded off.”
“No, no,” I say. “It was great, really.”
“Thanks.” He smiles shyly, sticking his hands in his pockets, and we keep walking.
“If it’s K-pop, you must dance too, right?”
“Of course,” he says. He leans over, bumping my arm with his elbow. “Actually, I’m the best dancer in the group.”
“Oh really?”
“I was chosen for my dancing skills. Well, that and –“ He cups his hands beneath his chin in a flower pose.
I stop walking. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“You can’t just say that and not expect to give another mini performance! I want to see these skills, Mr. Lead Dancer.”
His ears turn red as strawberries. But despite his embarrassment, he ducks into a nearby alley and gives an impromptu, incredibly chaotic dance performance that incorporates a stiff-bodied robot move, a wild body roll, and a clumsy running man.
Okay, good. Not a superstar.
And I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. For a moment, Jin stares at me seriously, but then he smiles and that turns into a laugh and soon he’s throwing himself against the wall, squawking with laughter too.
Between laughs, I manage to say, “Wow! Wow. That was . . . something.”
Jin laughs so hard, he sounds like a scraping windshield wiper, which only makes me laugh harder. “I’m kidding! That was a joke!” he says. “I swear I’m better than that – I can show you! I’ll do the Fire choreography –“
Struggling to stifle his laughter, he puts his fists together and bounces, but before he can begin the choreography in earnest, I grab his hand and pull him out of the alley. “No, no, I believe you,” I say. “Those were some world-class moves.”
“You can tell I’ve worked with the best choreographers in the business, right?”
“Of course. What raw talent!”
Suddenly I realize that I’m still holding his hand. Shit. His skin is smooth, his palm warm. For a moment, I let myself imagine his fingers against the small of my back, pulling me in –
Biting my lip, I let go of his hand and ask, “Do you want to walk to Tritons’ Fountain? It’s near here. It looks really pretty at night.”
“Sure,” he says. Then he adds, with a shy smirk, “Your hand is really small.”
“You think?”
He stops and holds out his hand, the fingers spread. I take a breath and hold my hand up to his, pressing lightly. He curves the tops of his fingers over mine.
“See? Tiny,” he says.
“I guess.”
Warmth radiates inside me, pulsing from my core to the tips of my fingers. I hope he can’t sense it. He looks so calm. But then his eyes flicker up, meeting mine, and he swallows. We drop our hands and continue walking.
“You should see my friend Jimin’s pinky,” he says, clearly scrambling for something to say to fill the silence. “It’s ridiculously tiny. It looks like the pinky of a nine-year-old.”
When we reach the fountain, Jin asks if we can take a selca together. He’s clearly a very experienced selfie-taker, and I try not to look too hideous when I lean my head toward his. He holds up a finger heart, and I try to mimic him, but it’s my first time making a finger heart. Chuckling, he adjusts my fingers before holding out the phone. Another surge of warmth flows through me. (And stupidly, I forget to ask him to send me the photo.)
We sit on the edge of the fountain, mirroring each other with one leg curled beneath us and one hanging off. Our knees bump together, and I don’t move mine. Unconsciously, I hold my breath. Jin’s talking about the music being played by a street performer, but I’m barely paying attention.
“Oh no,” he says then, peering past me. “I think that’s Jimin and Taehyung.”
“Is it?” I look where he’s looking, but I can’t see who he means.
“Tae’s in the black shirt, loose pants. Jimin’s in the baseball cap.”
Just as I spot them, they turn away. Jin sighs, clearly relieved.
“Oh good. They’re going the other way,” he says. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to introduce you, it’s just – We’re not really encouraged to go out our own and, you know, meet strangers. Especially since we’re here for work.”
“Oh, it’s okay.”
Our knees are still touching. I’ve noticed that he has this quirk where he frequently blinks, making his eyebrows bounce. Seeing him do it now, I smile.
He notices and says, “What? Is there something on my face?”
“No, it’s perfect,” I say without thinking. Fuck.
But I don’t have a chance to feel embarrassed. Before I can, Jin says, “I know.”
I laugh. “I love how you say that so frankly. As though it’s completely obvious.”
“But it is, isn’t it?”
“Don’t you worry you’ll sound conceited?”
“But I didn’t make myself so handsome. If anything, I’m complimenting my parents for their good work combining genes.” He jumps up, grabbing my hand. “C’mon. Let’s keep walking.”
We each buy an ice cream cone, and I smile into each bite as I listen to Jin. He takes huge bites of his chocolate ice cream, bites so big they fill his cheeks, and then sighs and groans before swallowing. It’s adorable.
“Are you always so loud when you eat?” I ask.
“If the food is good – then yes, of course. It’s important to appreciate your food.”
“I guess so. This ice cream is delicious.”
“You know, I have a whole show where our fans watch me eat. It’s called Eat Jin.”
I burst out laughing again.
“Yah!” Jin yells. “Why do you keep doing that? It’s true!”
“Why would they want to watch you eat?”
“Because I’m a great eater. I always eat deliciously. And I love food.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ll accept that you’re a K-pop idol, but I can’t accept that lie.”
“It’s true! Look it up.”
“Later.”
And I mean it. Later, tomorrow, when I’m gone and this night is a memory, I’ll look up BTS and Eat Jin and their travel show in Malta. But not now, when we’re strolling along so blissfully, chewing the last bites of our ice cream cones. I don’t want to ruin it.
“Shit,” Jin says suddenly. “I see Namjoon. He and Hobi must have come back from Sliema.”
“Where?”
“They’re walking this way. I don’t think they’ve seen me. C’mere.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me into a slender alley. It smells like rosemary and basil, the scents drifting down from the balconies overhead. With his hands on my elbows, Jin shuffles me over to a shadowed spot, hidden from the glow of the streetlamps. We both hold our breath as he glances toward the street.
A dog runs past, a breeze makes the hems of our shirts dance, moonlight trickles past the rooftops, but all I can think is – he’s standing so close to me. If I leaned my head forward, my nose would touch his shoulder. I look at his dark eyebrows peeking out from beneath his fair hair, at the little divot of his philtrum, at his smooth collarbone.
When I look back to his face, our eyes meet. His eyes flicker down to my mouth – the movement so slight, so infinitesimally small, I almost don’t notice. But I do. And I hear his slight intake of breath.
Without thinking, I close my eyes.
And wait.
Oh shit. The milliseconds feel like seconds. I think I’ve misread everything, everything from the moment he asked if I was leaving the bar, and I squeeze my eyes tight. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
But then I feel the slightest pressure against my lips – soft, warm, barely there. Just a tiny peck, but I can feel it in my toes. He pulls away and exhales. I open my eyes.
“Was that okay?” Jin whispers.
“Yeah.”
“Can I kiss you again?”
A shiver runs through me. I want to quell his hesitancy, to squash it like a bug. But I’m in such a state of shock, all I can do is nod. He nods too and then we close our eyes and our lips find each other again.
His bottom lip slots between mine, soft but firm as an apricot. I can feel his hands drifting to my waist, his fingertips pressing to my sides and then curling around to my back. When they run along my spine, I whimper deep in my chest. My nose brushes against his as our lips meet again and again, and I marvel at how flawlessly they seem to fit together. Okay, maybe not flawlessly. Our mouths are a little clumsy, sure, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. My hands travel up to his shoulders and his neck.
Breathlessly he murmurs, “I really like you.”
My heart threatens to burst through my chest. “I like you so much.”
When we kiss again, we’re smiling, so our teeth clatter together. His tongue slides between my lips, and he tastes like chocolate ice cream. I clutch at his neck, scratch my fingers through his hair. When he groans, I feel like I might melt, but his arms are there to hold me up.
I glide my tongue along his bottom lip, and God, I hope I’m doing this right. I’ve been in a dry spell since I broke up with my last boyfriend over a year ago. Sure, I kissed a guy in London, but I was drunk and he was slobbery and Lily steered me out of the pub shortly thereafter. Luckily, Jin isn’t slobbery. He’s warm and gentle but a little rough too, pressing me against the wall as our lips slot together.
When our mouths temporarily part, Jin keeps his forehead pressed against mine.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he murmurs.
“All night?”
“Well, ever since you guessed I’m a Gryffindor.”
“I almost said Hufflepuff.”
“Fuck you.”
I grin, and he’s kissing me again.
Maybe my past boyfriends weren’t the best kissers or maybe this is just different, but I can’t believe how good it feels to just kiss. We’re practically ravenous. When I slip my tongue in Jin’s mouth, he sucks on it. When his bottom lip comes between mine, I nibble and he moans. If I’m honest, I’m shocked at my daring, but it comes so naturally. I feel his fingertips teasing the hem of my shirt, slipping beneath it, pressing hot against the bottom of my back.
But then a cat screeches in the alley behind us.
I gasp, and Jin jumps and shouts, “Whoah!”
I love how his expression can flip from serious and sexy to unbridled in the blink of an eye. I grab for his waist, wanting to pull him in for another kiss, but he seizes my hand and steers me out of the alley.
“There’s no time for that now,” he says. “We gotta get out of here. I hate cats.”
I smile. “Really? Me too.”
“Vile beasts.”
We must have been there longer than I realized because the streets are emptier now. Most of the cafes have closed, and only a few tourists are still wandering around. Jin must assume his friends have all gone home because he doesn’t hesitate to hold my hand as we walk, interlocking our fingers. Occasionally he squeezes my hand and I squeeze back.
“Do you really have to leave tomorrow?” he asks.
“Lily would kill me. And I can’t afford another plane ticket.”
“I can afford it,” Jin says straightaway.
“Don’t you have a travel show to shoot?”
“Oh right. Damn it.”
We’ve only walked a few blocks, but he pulls me into another alley, pressing me against the bricks, kissing me desperately. I instinctively match his fervor. It’s as if we’ve both realized that this is it: this one night. How likely is it that a Korean idol and an American student will meet again?
“Will your friend worry if you don’t go back soon?” he asks between kisses.
“No, I’m sure she’s sleeping.”
“Good.”
As his lips trail down my jaw, I murmur, “What about your friends?”
“I told Jungkook I was going for a long walk.”
I bite my lip. “Good.”
He cups my cheeks, diving in for another kiss. I feel his thigh press between my legs, and fuck. It’s only a slight pressure – as though he wasn’t even trying to touch me there, as though it just happened as he reshuffled his feet – but it sparks a pleasure there, a kindling. Our tongues meet again and the pleasure grows. Warmth surges through me.
I want him to feel good too, so when I suck on his bottom lip, I pull his hips against mine. I’m simultaneously relieved and nervous when I feel the hardness between his legs press against my belly. He draws in a breath and when he kisses me again, he whimpers into my mouth. Oh God.
“We should stop,” he whispers.
I nod and agree, “We should.”
But we don’t stop. If anything, the urgency grows. His hand glides up from my waist, just barely touching the side of my breast with his thumb. Emboldened, I let my hand veer from his hip to his butt cheek. He peppers kisses along my neck and sucks there, the sensation making my toes curl, and his thigh continues to press between my legs.
By the time his lips find mine again, I’m gasping into his mouth, breathless, desperate. My hands slip beneath his t-shirt, lightly scratching at his back, as the warmth between my legs grows. A sort of cycle begins: our lips crashing together, his tongue, my tongue, our hips and thighs moving faster and faster, the hunger growing. The friction of the fabric between us is tantalizing.
We both know the inevitable outcome of what we’re doing, but when it comes, it still seems to surprise us. The ache between my legs grows and then crescendos. I fall into him, my mouth open against his shoulder as the pleasure rocks through me. He dips his head and kisses me through the last echoes of my orgasm. He comes a few moments later, squeezing me tight and burying his lips in my hair.
His breath is hot against my forehead when he murmurs, “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, you?”
He looks down at his crotch. “Yeah. Just a little embarrassed . . . and messy.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t exactly expect, or think ahead . . . I feel like I’m 15 years old or something.“
“I have a tissue,” I offer, and he smiles.
“Thanks.”
While I keep lookout, he cleans himself off in the back of the alley. I don’t hear him come up behind me, but I feel his lips pressing gently at the base of my neck. I close my eyes as his arms encircle me, and I might melt to the ground but I feel a vibration in my pocket.
My phone.
When I open it, I’m shocked to see nine messages from Lily. The first few congratulate me for staying out late and having some fun, but the last five turn frantic:
1:30 AM: You okay? Where are you? Found a hot guy? Text me!
2:32 AM: When will you be back? ETA?
2:50 AM: Just let me know you’re okay!
3:13 AM: IT’S PAST 3! WERE YOU ABDUCTED? SHOULD I CALL THE POLICE?
3:20 AM: TEXT OR I’M GONNA CALL!
I’m not sure if she means call me or the police, but I type back at once:
3:21 AM: I’m fine!
3:22 AM: Sorry for worrying you! Be back soon! :-)
As I’m texting Lily, I hear another vibration and Jin sighs. He holds his phone to his ear and says, “Hey Jimin. Yeah, I’m fine . . . I’ve just been walking around. I got a little lost, but I know where I am now . . . Yeah . . . Tell him I’m fine. I won’t be much longer, really . . . Yeah, I know . . . Nine?”
I can see he’s still a bit breathless and weak, which thrills me. As he talks, he slumps against the brick wall, sated.
“I will,” he says into the phone. “You’re one to talk . . . You can’t talk to your hyung like that! . . . Good . . . Okay. ‘Night.”
He slips the phone back into his pocket and pushes his bangs off his forehead.
“Everything alright?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. Is Lily worried?”
I nod. “I told her I’d be back soon.”
“Jimin just called because Namjoon’s concerned I won’t get enough sleep. We start shooting at nine.”
“We should go,” I say softly.
Jin doesn’t respond for a moment. His head falls to the side, and he rubs his brow as though he has a headache. Finally he says, “I wish we could stay.”
“I know.”
He stares at me hard and then steps toward me, placing his hands on my shoulders and kissing me again. We both look utterly miserable. He takes my hand and I lead him toward the little hotel where I’m staying. The streets are completely empty now. A few scattered streetlamps light our way.
“Should we exchange email addresses?” Jin asks.
“We could.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“It’s just . . .”
I almost tell him the truth. That I’m worried he’s just being nice – that he doesn’t really plan to email me, that I’m just another girl for him, not someone special the way he is for me. That I couldn’t bear to refresh my email inbox every day, waiting and hoping for him to send me a message. And even if he did email me, when could we see each other? He lives in Seoul. I live in New York. And assuming he really is a famous musician, how could he possibly have time for me? Between the concerts and photoshoots and dance practices and interviews and everything else?
I almost let myself break down and confess everything, but instead I smile.
“Let me guess. [email protected]?”
“It was already taken,” he says. “But seriously. Do you want to? I mean, I know it’s highly unlikely, but . . . These days, we tour North America at least once a year. Maybe I could see you when I’m in New York.”
I can’t bear the way my hopes rise as he says it. I can’t live with that sort of anticipation. I can’t trust him. And I know that might sound crazy, but it is what it is.
So, though I’m desperate to say yes, instead I say, “Maybe we should leave it in the hands of fate. If we’re meant to see each other again, we will.”
As I say it, I glance at him. For a split second, I see his eyes fall and his shoulders drop. Or at least, I think I do. But then he smiles – just a small, sweet smile – and says, or sings, rather, “운명이 우릴 자꾸 질투해서.”
Because fate keeps getting jealous of us.
“Is that a lyric?”
“It’s from one of Jimin’s songs,” Jin says. “You know, if we leave it in fate’s hands, I’ll be looking for you everywhere. Surely we’ll be in the same place again someday.”
“You think? I hope so,” I say, and I pray he doesn’t hear my voice quake.
We’ve reached my hotel. We stand to the side of the entrance, and he holds my hands, pressing his thumbs into my palms.
“When you look for me out there,” he says. “Don’t pay attention to the hair. It changes a lot.”
“Okay,” I say, and I take a moment to soak in this memory of him here, now. I love how his dark, thick eyebrows contrast with his light, feathery hair. I reach out a hand, pushing his bangs off his forehead again. “But I do like you blonde.”
“Don’t tell my stylists. I’m hoping I can go back to black soon.”
My eyes drift down to his lips, which are pinker now, almost bruised, and I savor the fact that that’s my doing. I brush his bottom lip with my finger, and he bites it playfully. I’m grateful that it makes me smile. Although I can feel my heart breaking, I don’t want this goodbye to feel like a tragic end.
“I’m really glad I met you,” he says.
“I know. Me too.”
“Goodbye, Sara.”
“Goodbye, Jin.”
We kiss one last time – slowly, gently, taking our time – and then he steps away.
I climb up the stairs to the front door and put my key in the lock. When I’ve opened the door a crack, I look back. Jin is standing there with his hands in his pockets. I almost wave, but before I can, Jin places a hand on his mouth, kisses it, and sends the kiss my way. It’s so exaggerated and dramatic, I can’t help but laugh. I send him a hand kiss back, and he pretends to grab it and slip it into his pocket.
Then he smiles again, nods, and disappears around the corner.
The end.
(or so I thought . . .)