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“Oh no,” you groaned under your breath. “I’m not going to have enough time.”
“Enough time to do what?”
Jimin had gotten into the habit of just appearing out of thin fucking air and frankly, having the living daylights scared out of you was getting old. Not that he cared.
“Nothing, Park Jimin,” you spat back, grabbing the heaps of dirty laundry with more force than was strictly necessary.
Unsurprisingly, on your way out the door he simply followed you. Less like a puppy and more like a persistent shadow that didn’t belong to you.
“Someone’s getting snippy,” he said snidely, though he wasn’t actually angry. It felt more like he just got off on conflict sometimes. What a miserable creature he was. You decidedly ignored him as you made your way to the laundry room, debating if you would take the risk of throwing the darks in with the lights to make sure your clothes would be ready on time for the conference at six.
“Is it because you’re running late?” he asked after a moment, still lingering annoyingly and watching the way you shoveled the lights into the washer first while anxiously eyeing the dark pile.
“I’m trying to not be late, thanks,” you retorted, “because not only do I need to do this laundry, I still haven’t showered, I have to pick up two other people who don’t have rides–”
“Give it.”
Nudging you out of the way with zero room for resistance, the clothes were taken from you – underwear and all – and a tendon in Jimin’s neck flexed as he heard your blood go rushing. But he ignored it. Dutifully, he stood his ground, bra hanging innocently from his elbow.
“Go shower. I’ll do laundry.”
You must have looked like an idiot standing there, gaping at him for god knows how long. He had all the room in the world to make fun of you, snap at you, say something nasty, but he didn’t do that, either; he just patiently began tossing white shirts in and turning the knob to ‘large load’.
When your soul finally reconnected to your body, you spluttered the only thing you could think to.
“Park Jimin!”
Not even a flinch. But he did give you a very ugly sidelong glance, and indignant and blushing you persevered, “You don’t have to do this. I-I’ll manage. It’s fine–”
“I don’t mind.”
More clothes went in, one after the other. Your determination died in your throat, replaced with a choked-up feeling that made you feel small and vulnerable.
“Are you sure?” you asked feebly, arms slowly falling to your sides as the washer kicked on.
“I’m not repeating myself.”
And he didn’t. Part of you was still so overwhelmed you were at a loss as to what to do, and a sudden urge to kiss him swelled up and left you shaky and more than embarrassed. That would absolutely not be okay and cross about a million lines, but you couldn’t speak right, and you needed to show him how grateful you were, somehow, and Jimin had already gone hyper-stiff at the abrupt pace of your pulse before you close the gap between you and his back.
It wasn’t a hug in the strictest sense of the word. Just a pretend one. You laid your face into the cold fabric of his shirt, cheek pressing to the hard flexing muscles in his back and movement of his shoulder blades. You kept your hands safely at your sides, and sighed very softly as you shut your eyes and allowed yourself a very small nuzzle.
You didn’t say thank you – just swallowed thickly and forced yourself to pry away from the comforting, cool place against his spine that had been so much nicer than you expected, and hurried out to the bathroom.
When Jimin was absolutely, positively sure you were under the running water, he fell to the floor, eyes bright and the color of wild strawberries as he held in a horrible sound. But his chest heaved and his jaw hung open, hungry and canines shamelessly full and sharp. Your scent still lingered in the cramped room, taunting him, and the faint pop of your conditioner being opened only served to remind him of the fact that you were undressed and wet and warm and so, so very human, so very sweet and no no no no no.
No.