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He’s too close.
The moon isn’t even out tonight, and your house is oddly dark with all the lights off and the clouds clogging up the heavens. In that atrament is Jimin – he is a phantom, a marble statue, a creature that moves smoothly and sprightly and capable of murdering everyone in your humble neighborhood in a matter of minutes without making a sound.
But he won’t do that. Probably.
Jimin, as it appears, is too busy forgetting any concept of personal space. You learned in quick succession that not only did he have little regard for his own well-being, but almost less for others and zero manners when it came to interpersonal interactions. Maybe that’s why he was surrounding you, craning over you with his head cocked and eyes bright and lurid even in the shadow.
“J-Jimin?”
The notes of his name came out in a breathless, shaky whisper.
His head cocked the other way. You feel your back hit the cabinets behind you with a soft rattle, and you’re officially trapped in the corner of the kitchen as Jimin regards you with an unreadable expression.
He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, he comes in closer – closer, so close you feel your entire body tense and can breathe in his odd, heady scent of petrichor. It’s the only thing you can liken it to – old, almost sweet water that’s been sitting in puddles for hours in the evening after the storm.
Funnily enough, Jimin is doing just what you are.
You can’t see his eyes shut, languid and thoughtful as he inhales through his nose and finds all the hidden, miniature notes in your natural fragrance. Things like your soap and detergent, your blood and sweat, those he all knew already.
But something else clung to you, something he couldn’t place that was dark and good.
God, how he hated humans. So fucking frustrating.
Without warning, Jimin closes the gap. One hand cradles the side of your face, cupping your jaw and fingers ensnaring in the back of your hair gently – not enough to hurt you at all. You gasp sharply and tremble at the sensation of his breathing coasting across your newly exposed neck, and numbly realize that he’s nosing against your loose strands and barely grazing your skin.
Your heart races so hard, so badly you think you might faint. You’re feeling too many things at once. Too much. And the root of it is the vampire you impulsively forced to stay with you.
The silence is broken by a murmur that leaves you boneless: “You’re warm.”
How were you supposed to respond to that? What was there to do? It takes effort to swallow thickly and answer him.
“Is that bad?”
Your voice cracks, holds almost no volume, but that doesn’t matter – he hears everything. You don’t know what you’re waiting for – part of you wants him to bite, for no reason you can identify outside of a deep, primal ache. But Jimin doesn’t do something so foolish; no, he lets you go and steps back, no longer crowding you. Cold air rushes back against your bare skin leaving gooseflesh and you ignore the distinct pang of disappointment and sadness that his distance brings.
Jimin, finally, cracks a smile, though you don’t know why, as he answers you.
“No… Not really.”
He could add more to that, if he chose to. I could even like it. But he stays quiet like that, and just focuses on your high-strung form in your loose pajamas and how delicious you still smell. Oh well. His curiousity was sated.
The next day, before work, he does what he always does and bothers you. He starts arguments he has no intention of finishing and no real stake in (no pun intended). He considers letting your toast burn, and does a good job of flitting from place to place and scaring you half to death.
It was all to sate his boredom, of course – he couldn’t rest last night. Not after what happened.
To your credit, you kept it together. Frowned, scowled, whinged and still stood tall and confident as you finished your morning routine before heading out the door. Even then, you still paused in the doorway, keys clutched in one hand as you bit your lip and wondered how to say goodbye.
“Have a good day,” Jimin drawls, and finds satisfaction in your blush.
“Bye,” you mumble back, flustered and trying not to run late.
He waits until he hears you get in the car; the engine turns; the wheels grate against concrete until they hit asphalt, and gears shift again as you drive off down your quaint street.
It is only then that he walks across the house at a normal speed, opens your room door, and climbs into your bed.
He closes his eyes, and breathes in.
A ghost of a smile reaches his lips.