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It’s at 11:38 PM on a Tuesday night that Namjoon realizes he’s fucked.
It doesn’t matter that he won The Fight. It doesn’t matter that he raked in a hundred grand off the back of a dying opponent. It doesn’t matter that every illegal fighter in a fifty mile radius now knows his name and the man who created him.
It doesn’t matter, because he asked for an out and caught a brass knuckle to the jaw. It doesn’t matter, because he nursed the bloody gash with nothing but his fingers as threats battered him into the concrete below his feet. It doesn’t matter, because for the first time, he understands what it means to feel powerless.
He’s fucked at 11:38 PM on a Tuesday night, and all he wants is a cigarette.
He’s frequented the corner store across from the gym a thousand times, but tonight, Jungkook is not there. No, tonight, there is a new face behind the counter. You look up when the bell above the door chimes, and he instantly feels his heart sink. It’s not enough that you look the picture of angelic, lazing behind the counter with a messy ponytail and a sleepy smile, stalling his thoughts in their tracks as soon as he lays eyes on you. But where your face is soft and innocent, his is hard and depraved, and he thinks he should leave the moment your eyes go wide with horror.
He expects you to recoil, to ask him what he wants and call the cops. He braces himself, prepares a defense, a hurried explanation that will allow him a quick retreat, and begins to back away. But when you move, it’s not towards the phone.
“Oh my god, are you ok?”
You rush around the counter and approach him without hesitation, and he stares. He stares at the way your look of horror morphs into one of concern. He stares when you wait for an answer with bated breath, scanning his face with anxious eyes. He stares because it doesn’t make sense. He stares because his chin and hands are streaked with blood, and anyone in their right mind would have called the cops yesterday.
When he doesn’t answer, you falter, the first flicker of unease flashing across your face, and that forces the words from his lips. “I…had an accident.”
“No shit.” You brush past him, and he turns to watch as you head straight for the first-aid aisle.
You reemerge with a pack of disinfectant wipes and bandages, beckoning him towards the counter. He expects you to ring him up and push the items his way, but instead you point at the metal stool next to the register.
“Sit.”
He obeys only because he is too bewildered to process.
Your hands are gentle, cupping the unharmed side of his jaw to tilt his neck the right way as you run a wipe over his cut. It stings and he hisses, shying away from your touch, but you click your tongue and keep him still with firm fingers. As you work, he can’t help the way his eyes draw to your face. He tries to read you, tries to find the motive hidden behind your cute pout of concentration and the way your tongue pokes out between your lips. But you’re standing close enough that your flowery scent tickles his nose and floods his senses, and he comes up empty.
You meet his gaze briefly as you reach for a bandaid.
“You good?”
He doesn’t miss a beat, tracking your movements as you tear at the packaging. “Do I know you?”
Your lip twitches as you pause, thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so.” That’s all you say before pressing the patch over the worst of the cut, the smooth press of your fingertips sending tingles across his skin.
When you step back to lean against the counter, he frowns. A quick glance down reveals your name, embossed on cheap plastic, and he’s sure he’s never encountered it before. Still, you smile when he looks back at your face, and it’s infectious. A playful gesture that makes his own mouth tug faintly.
“Are you sure I don’t know you?”
You laugh, moving to toss the red-stained wipes into the trash. “I’m sure.” Producing another cloth, you motion to his soiled hands. “I just moved here.”
As he rubs away the blood, he lets the question fly. “Why didn’t you call the cops?” He almost chuckles at the way your eyebrows shoot upward.
“Why would I do that?”
Blinking, he throws the final remnants of his night out with your handiwork and shrugs. “A shady guy walked into your store at near midnight with blood all over himself. Most people would shit their pants.”
The thoughtful look returns to your face before you laugh once more, a musical sound that strikes a chord in his heart. With a shake of your head, you slide your hands into the pocket of your sweatshirt. “You’re not shady.”
It’s amusing how you look at him with complete nonchalance, wholly oblivious to how far you’ve missed the mark. He wonders how your face would change if you knew who he is. If you knew what he’s done. The thought makes him grimace.
“You don’t know that.”
Another laugh crinkles your eyes. “Trust me.” Reaching up, you tuck a tendril of hair behind your ear. “I have a radar for shady. You just looked like you needed help.”
He allows himself a lifeless smirk. Maybe you don’t know the history of this neighborhood. Maybe you haven’t heard the whispered rumors, haven’t caught on to the way people rush past certain buildings with their heads down.
Maybe no one’s told you that every other man walking the streets of this town has a bodycount. Now including himself.
It’s that sudden realization that reminds him he should leave. You’re new in town and he’s the last person you should associate with. Any realities about this city you can learn from someone else. Someone not caught in the storm. Someone without a hundred vices clamped around their throat.
Standing abruptly, he winces at the way you jump in surprise.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, stepping away from the counter. “I should get going.”
Though you blink rapidly, you nod. “Oh. Okay.” He makes to turn away, but you stop him. “Wait.” Meeting your gaze, he curses himself for the way his heart skips. You tilt your head, fidgeting with your sleeves. “Do you have a name?”
He really shouldn’t give it to you. He should turn right around and walk out the door without another word. But you’re fixing him with eyes that are far too bright, far too hopeful, far too captivating, and he can’t stop it from spilling out.
“Namjoon.”
You shake your head slowly, as if turning it over in your mind. “Namjoon.” You shift on your feet. “Will I see you around?”
There is a twinkle in your eye, an intrigue he can’t quite place but ensnares him completely. It is then that he feels the slight shift in the air, the unexplainable pull in his gut, and he knows with a resigned awareness that this is far from the end.
“I think you will.”
He forces himself to turn, to put one foot in front of the other and walk towards the exit, but the pull does not relent. Pausing with his hand against the glass, he grants himself a final look over his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Your eyes dance from across the room. “Anytime.”
He lingers a moment longer, memorizing your smile before pushing out the door.
The frigid midnight air blows back the gust of his reality, the ache in his jaw finally surfacing in the absence of distraction. He trudges towards the bus stop with a hunch in his shoulders. Angry voices echo in his mind, taunting him with the choices he’s made, reminding him of the consequences he has yet to face. For the thousandth time, he wonders when his life blurred from black and white to shades of grey. When the high of the fight gave way to the crash of the fall.
It overwhelms him. It lures the darkness into his heart and spreads the frustration under his skin. It has him clenching his jaw through the pain and itching for a cigarette. It has him ready to connect his fist to the glass of the bus stop until he thinks of your face.
Your face that cut a bright spot straight through his shitty night. Your smile that held all the simplicity he lost years ago. Your touch that reminded him kindness still exists in the dark.
It’s 12:05 AM on a Wednesday morning and he’s fucked and he never got his cigarette.
But he thinks, maybe for tonight, he doesn’t need one.