Warm Hands (Ice Cold Heart) | Jimin x Reader

Six

The first text comes over dessert.

You've been trying your best to ignore Jungkook, pretending like every single time you happen to make eye contact is nothing but an innocent mistake, even though it just keeps 'happening.' You're attempting to project the image that you're not bothered by him as you chat with the girl to your left, Zhang-Ling, who's enthusiastically giving you advice on the best kind of gloss for your skin tone as you indulge in the tiramisu. When you feel the strong buzz of your smartwatch, you think you ought to ignore it too, but the possibility that it might be a work emergency makes you too curious to resist.

"Sorry, excuse me for a sec," you say. She nods and turns to her friend on the other side. You ease your phone out of your purse, switching it on only to blink blankly at the preview of the message from a number not saved in your contacts. It's not one you recognize off the bat either, and you squint to try and place the sequence. But what's more pressing is the text itself. A single line—

You look really beautiful tonight.

You're still trying to decide if this is creepy or flattering when a second text comes in from the same number. I always told you that red's your color.

You snap your head up as realization smacks you in the face. Jungkook's already looking at you with an inexplicable expression, all but confirming your suspicions. His eyes seem to shimmer, catching on the tenuous candlelight from the centerpiece separating you. This time, you hold the stare with what you hope is boldness in your eyes, so he won't see how he's rattled you with so little. Still, he doesn't shy away, not even when you shake your head slightly from side to side, indicating that you're not going to respond. You slide your phone beneath your leg. You can't engage in this right now. Or ever.

"Something wrong, love?" Jimin asks, leaning over to lightly tap his head against yours, like an affectionate cat. "You okay?"

"Yeah. It's nothing." Then you say, loudly enough for Jungkook to hear, "don't worry about it, babe." You scoop another bite of dessert into your mouth to mask how unfamiliar it still feels to call him that, even though the weirdness lessens an inch with every repetition. Practice makes perfect, right?

But Jungkook just keeps looking at you. He seems to cycle between that and staring at his crotch, which never means anything good because then your phone inevitably vibrates with a new text a few moments later. It's fucking with your head and your natural curiosity as you try to do anything but think about the unread messages. But as you listen to Natacha talk about their new puppy while Nikita lists all the reasons they should have gotten a snake instead, your mind is still completely tied down to the vibrations beneath your thigh.

Your resolve is breaking with each new text. You know he can tell, and he's always been persistent. Was when he first pursued you too, which is what had won you over in the first place. Fuck. Fuck. During the ruckus as the dessert dishes are taken away, you flip your phone over, hating that he still has this power over you.

Remember when we used to get ice cream by the docks?

You close your eyes for a second longer than a blink. You don't want those memories. Don't need them crowding your poor mind with flashes of scattered flower petals and kisses where your teeth knocked together because you were both laughing so hard, but you read on.

I went last week

The old man asked about you.

I pretended you were tired at home.

Dunno know why I did that.

Nice to imagine for a second, I guess.

When you used to be waiting for me in our bed.

Your heart does backflips, but shitty ones. The ones where your arms shake and crumble when you're in the air no matter how you strain and you end up collapsing in a heap, slamming into the floor with the force of gravity and your own weakness.

The last text comes in as you try to swallow regret as fast as it surfaces, willing the tears not to come out.

I miss you.

That does it. You can't do this... whatever this is... all night. You have to take care of this like adults. No longer the college kids you were when you met. You swipe your finger across the screen and send your own three-word-text, though one not nearly as devastating.

Upstairs. Ten minutes.