𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝐦.𝐲𝐠 ✓

Chapter: 11

"Pardon?" My mind scrambles for words in it's chaotic state, not understanding the situation at hand.

I've only just become friends with him. And I definitely can't see him wanting any sort of intimate partnership with me, or anyone for that matter. Of course, I could be wrong, but based on his naturally non-affectionate and cold mannerisms—chances are slim.

Friends. Even that word is a stretch to describe whatever relationship the two of us share.

He scratches his ear, which has turned a flush red.

"Temporary girlfriend," he finally clarifies, "Fake girlfriend. Just for a night." Now his entire face beams like a peach—a pretty pink to match his lips. Although, I'm almost positive mine resembles a strawberry. "It's just, my parents. They come to check up on me every so often and...they're expecting someone this time." He clears his throat. "A special someone."

Oh my. As if watching him work on music all day isn't awkward enough for me.

But why this time?

I try to rid myself of the ridiculing glare I'm shooting him, seeing that he's just as nervous as I am right now and I'm probably only making matters worse.

Closing my slack-jawed mouth, I consider the favor.

Has he really been kind enough for me to do something like this for him?

Definitely not.

However, I have noticed a significant change in his attitude and treatment toward me: now, he gladly accepts the coffee-filled white cup, sometimes even with a faint smile.

He also allows me to hang out in his private studio, just so that I don't have to die of boredom at reception. And maybe, also, to provide himself a source of anxiety-less entertainment.

But beyond our day jobs, the two of us have zero correlation. Does that mean to start now? Or just continue on as cordial co-workers?

I'm not sure. So, I make use of one of my few talents—stubbornness.

Crossing my legs and straightening out my back, I cool away the warmth in my cheeks and falsify a self-confidence.

"What do I get out of it?"

His movements pause for a few seconds, surprised at the bold, yet fair, question.

"Hm," he hums, eyebrows angling over his eyes as his fingers come up to lightly pinch his chin.

His eyes raise to the ceiling in thought, before looking back to me with a sort of slyness.

"V.I.P."

"What?"

"To my concert."

I cross my arms, holding a tone of sarcasm as I speak. Though a part of me is certainly eager to know.

"Now why would I want that?"

Yoongi copies my teasing expression and posture—folding arms and squinting eyes.

"Because," he starts, imitating my own jeering sarcasm at first, as if we were siblings mocking each other. Then he drops the scorn and contempt in his face, rolling back in his chair slightly and speaking with a quiet and sincere tone. "So that you can hear the songs I've been working on in here. The full versions."

Oh.

Undoubtedly, I am interested. I've only heard the abbreviated synopsis's of them. Not to mention that I've even helped him with a good few. Also, I haven't been to a concert before, let alone Min Yoongi's. Even if I didn't like him, it's not an offer I'd want to pass up.

It's just one night. What could possibly happen?

Plus, free food.

"Deal."

A side smirk unravels on his face, making his cheek more apple-like then it already is. His arms stay intersected as he comfortably leans back in the chair, refusing to remove his gaze from me.

Having no idea what his intimidating glare intends, I decide to hold it—except, more innocently stupefied rather than daunting.

"There is one more condition," he lowly declares.

Of course there is. Because for some reason, the ice cream-headed, arrogant little jerk can't ever just say 'thank you' and be done with it.

"...which is?"

"You'll find out later." He turns his chair back toward the piano, surely giggling to himself.

"That's not fair," I remark, but he ignores, studying the keys in preparation to play. Wait a second. "Later?"

Still no answer. "Hey. What makes you think I have to do this for you?" I finally blurt, a pestered attitude in my voice.

Yoongi abruptly spins around his chair to me. A powerful stare reflecting in his eyes, along with a certain closeness to me as he juts out his neck.

"You said deal."

He's right, but still, I never agreed to whatever condition he has yet to tell me.

My mouth parts to defend my nervous-self, until the jerk stands out of the black chair—it lurching up in response.

Stepping through the half-opened door, Yoongi turns his head to side, but not enough to make eye contact with me.

"See you at eight."

[A/N]
:)
Still editing the next chapters ;)

MINT.

xoxo
GentleKissu