𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐄𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 // 𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐢𝐧

Chapter 2

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I must have scared Namjoon off last week. He hasn't over since he bolted at the sight of me, but I'm happy with my peers' company anyway. I glance at the screen and know that I'm looking at Yoongi's contact, even if I didn't program it into my phone. My hands are stopped in place, stuck on the fact I've been holding my breath to see if he leaves a message. Disgusted with myself.

"You're an idiot," I say to myself. He doesn't leave a voicemail, but seconds later a text comes in, the vibration of the phone matching the one in my chest.

We need to talk

I've got a nasty response already composed, one I've used to reject everyone but Namjoon. But my hands type something else entirely.

OK when?

I study the text a second before sending it, aware of the door it will open. My thumb makes the decision for me, hitting send before I've given full thought to what might be his response. I don't know what world he lives in, but I'm not in the universe where I met up with Min Yoongi at eleven at night on a Sunday.

I'm outside

"Bull," I say under my breath, then I hear the purr of a vehicle in the driveway. I tear my curtains out of my way to see his silhouette and it sends chills down my spine. How he found out where I live, I have no clue, but I need to get rid of him before my parents notice. I pull on some slides and a hoodie, along with my already worn shorts, poking my head into my parents' room as I head down the hall. My mother propped in bed scowling at a romance novel and doesn't notice when I click her door shut the rest of the way. As for my father who is sprawled on his recliner in the living room with his earplugs so deep they'll have to be surgically removed. The only thing standing between me and Yoongi having a conversation by the light of a full moon is common sense, and I pause with my hand on the doorknob. After the dream I had I'm not sure if I trust myself alone in the dark with him, but for some reason that feels like more of an incentive than a warning. My feet are cutting through the yard to the driveway before my brain sends them the signal to reconsider.

"Hey." His voice is low and conspiratorial, yet filled with complete familiarity, as if he has every right in the way, eyes going up and down on me while leaning against his Hyundai Palisade. I fold my arms over my chest, half because of the breeze that blows around the both of us, the other half in fear that my furiously pounding heart is about to jump out of my body.

"Hey,"

He watches me carefully, and I keep my distance.

"Why are you being so weird?" he asks.

"Me? I'm being weird? You show up at my house past bedtime"

"Bedtime?" He doesn't actually laugh, but I can hear amusement in his voice.

"You think this is funny? You somehow get my number and text me out of the blue, show up at my house in the middle of the night, and imply to Namjoon that you know what color my sheets are." I realize too late that I've crossed the space in between us while I ranted and that Yoongi is now face to face with me as I can feel our shared breath softly on my face.

"One" Yoongi holds up a finger in perfect imitation of me- "It doesn't matter how I got your number. Two," he says loudly before I can interrupt, "eleven ain't the middle night. Three, I wasn't implying anything about your sheets; I know exactly what color they are. And four, I hate it when he touches you." His voice hitches a little on that last statement, the words bouncing off a speed bump of emotion in his throat. I feel my own constriction at the idea that Yoongi would have any opinion at all on Namjoon touching me, let alone hating it. I don't have a response for this matter-of-fact statement that Yoongi throws out there without any thought.