Love In The Time Of Coffee | Yunho [Ongoing]

1 | b.u.s.y.b.o.d.i.e.s

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IT WAS FACTUAL THAT I hated my job, and I loved it. It's evened out. I resided in a cerebrate fix because, like it or yes, there would always be that moment for sitting to ... think, ponder, mull over: Where did it go wrong? What did I do?

Eventually, the answer would come. For me, it turned up at twenty-three in a spontaneous variegation of brown, onyx and red. They were the embodiments of everything detrimental, circumvent, and beleaguering.

Hovering above me, their eyes as sharp as glass—a poor picture of Big Brother is watching—teeth barbed and ready to sink into anything favourable in sight. It was me this afternoon. I knew I was in trouble, however, it didn't come off as a shocker. At some point, I learned to adapt. These days, I went through each with the one prayer that I didn't jump off a roof.

Many would be happy, though.

"He's been silent for almost two years, and the moment he comes out of hibernation, Rolling-fricking-Stones goes after him. Dude turns them down. Lang tries his luck once and wins the jackpot? What kind of a lucky bastard is he?"

"The one that signs your paychecks," I reminded the fool with the onyx hair. The same simplistic colour you could find on all nearly every head you pass on the street, he still made it look so far-out.

My eyes had shot imaginary daggers he was sure not to miss. Bad mouth the boss, I didn't care, just don't do it at the comfort of my desk. After twenty five months of working under Lang, I realized the walls didn't just have ears, they had mouths, too.

They were dangerous.

They hit once, one knows they've hit.

They hit Park Seonghwa, I know I've been hit.

"Please, have this discussion someplace else." It was far from a discussion. This was a whispering campaign.

No one listened and I watched my roommate pick up from where her counterpart ended. "I heard he decided on the break after the horrible breakup. With the way it ended between them, it would be difficult to pull himself out of his fink. Poor guy." For Mia, this was the sob story of the decade.

"As if you're not happy that's happened," I snorted a retort, by a narrow escape, missing a hand that appeared out of nowhere. It belonged to Mia.

"Under normal circumstances, yes," she said. At least she didn't deny it. "However, I do not find pleasure in exulting over another's anguish."

That didn't even make any sense, but I nodded instead. Right-palming my chin, I hummed, expressing a twitting smile and hoping she knew I did nothing but mocked her. "Enlighten me."

Mia took six seconds to scoff and say, "who even included you in this talk?"

"Then get the hell off my desk and go gossip somewhere else. Leave my office," I offered a weak demand. Each word seeped through tight gaps, in between clamped teeth, failing to pass on its message: I'm mad, fear me.

I traced focus back to Seonghwa, he who just belittled my growing annoyance with a snort, and decided the afternoon heat which couldn't penetrate through the ACed office was getting to me when I had begun thinking he definitely looked good in green. Like his eyes suddenly accentuated in a way I never took notice of before.

Bottom line: I thought he was breath-stealingly handsome, a common logic I momentarily shared with above fifty percent of my coworkers. But then, I did think like them. Once. Back when anything affiliated to stupidity could be used to nail me down, and the next polka-dotted sweater at Forever 21 appealed to me more than food ever could. (And that is saying something). In the first few months I started work here, caught up with reeling in the reality of landing my dream job at XL, I was an outcast. Displaced. And before I knew it, I agreed with them; considered myself an expatriate in some foreign land where its dwellers were anything but affable people. Of course, there was Mia, the dependable companion, to remind me I was something when no one else could see it; I'm beautiful and other absurd shit.

Sad and alone, I was friendless ... with a friend. But these day when I reminisce, I couldn't bring myself to be mad at them. I would have been repulsed by me, too.

Enter Park Seonghwa, resident dimwit and manwhore of the twenty-fifth floor. His first words to me: You've got a little ... something between your teeth. There was a spinach chunk wedged ungracefully when I had offered a smile. But Seonghwa was decorous enough to hide his disgust, except I wouldn't have minded. I was disgusted with myself as well, pleasantly embarrassed that the very same person I had begun harbouring substantial feelings for was the first I made a bad impression on. But that was yesterday—two years ago—now the only thing my heart finds itself capable of feeling for the idiot is frustration.

He's a piece of work.

"You're cute when you try to be mad," Seonghwa said with a megawatt grin. Ducking to my eye level, he pulled at one reddened cheek. I slapped his hand away. "But don't talk like that, hm?" He stood to his full length, tilted his head to the side and just ... studied me. "Urbane people don't gossip. We analyse."

At that, it was only natural to roll my eyes—plus it fell under the most pleasant thing anyone would do to convey just how irritated they were—and didn't say anything. I had begun to see red, which slowly blended in with my skin. My entire head felt hot and I was left to imagine just how much steam could shoot out through each hole.

"Then go analyse somewhere else," I said. "When he arrives, he'll answer all your burning questions that I could care less about. I need to—"

"Take that back!" Mia had cut me off with a gasp. "I say you take that back this instant. Do you have even the tinniest idea who Yunho is? For as long as you consider yourself upscale in the fashion industry, you're obligated to care."

I had never thought of placing such labels on myself, even less, thought I was upscale in the industry. None of that, really. I'd watched people let it define them, Mia inclusively, and that just had me believing I might forever remain content with being Lang Xaoi's personal assistant at this point.

"Many strive for this kind of opportunity, and here we are, minutes or seconds away from calling him coworker for the entirety of a year and you don't care? I'm disappointed, Kim."

How do I respond to that? I realised I didn't have to when someone hummed from behind. It reminded me that I initially had to deal with three people.

Yerim blessed me with a grin when I looked at her. The only reason why I smiled back was because she happened to be the most tolerable out of the trio. The smile faltered a second later when it dawned on me that she just agreed with Mia. I scowled, it increased.

The redhead had never been much of a talker. One would think they had to pay to hear a word. Yerim didn't believe anyone had to talk if unnecessary and between the time I had known her and now—also, two years—I could probably count how many words we had exchanged over that period. "He's a photographer; he's hot."

"Not you too."

"Admit it, Kim. He's a looker." Mia wasn't willing to let this drop to the ground and stay there. I soon cognized that that might have been where I erred.

"Yes. Yes, he is," I concurred. No doubts there. "All I'm trying to say is, let's not get in over our heads. Looks could be deceiving. He could walk through that elevator door and you would be disappointed. And I bet all he hopes for is the chance to be a part of a work environment where he doesn't have to worry about signing autographs or kissing babies."

"Then why come here?" Seonghwa piped, then he chortled. "That doesn't even make any sense."

I said nothing. Dimwits won't understand.