Bts imagines PT.3

Suga

"Just one date."

"Why are you so insistent?"

"Come on! One date isn't going to kill you."

"I think it just might."

"Stop being dramatic. I'll take you out for a movie and dinner, no funny business. Sound good?"

"If I say yes will you stop bugging me?"

"Yes."

"...Fine."

"Great! Pick you up at 2."

Why had I agreed to such a ludicrous idea? Sure, Yoongi was a cool guy I guess. He's reserved but sometimes spontaneous, quiet but sometimes loud, serious but sometimes funny. Yoongi really is good guy, despite his seemingly rough outer exterior. To others, his epidermis may have looked as rough as cacti, it's prickly spines jutting out as a warning to those who dared to challenge it, but in reality Yoongi's skin was more like a soft teddy bear's, warm and fresh as a mother pulls it out of a dryer and gives it back to her young child, who waited patiently and eagerly for his little companion to emerge from his bath and be revived from the days of being dragged around the sandbox and getting unidentifiable sludge in its fur.

It wasn't a weird thing to go on a date, to be pampered by the possibly one person who would ever treat your body like the temple it was. It wasn't a weird thing to love and desire to be loved, to be engulfed in a passion so fiery anyone who tried to interfere would get third-degree burns.

It was all so normal; nothing was out of the ordinary in any of this. Despite it, I couldn't find myself feeling okay with it, distancing myself more at the thought of anyone ever loving me. Why me? I wasn't necessarily pretty, talented, charismatic. Was it all just a hoax? Was he just fulfilling a dare? That made more sense. Why would he be into me anyway?

I told myself this over and over again, reiterating these words until they became a part of me and gave me the excuse to ignore his advances. I used anything it took to convince me of this notion, and unfortunately it worked a little too well.

Still, when Yoongi asked again and again, I finally caved in and let him fulfill his dare or whatever it was, just so he could collect his reward of getting me out of the house and into a dark room where he could try and make an advance on me, though I wouldn't let him.

But he never tried to do anything like that.

He was a gentleman, never stretching his arm or legs farther than my invisible shields allowed. There was no mischievous smiles or glanes, just genuine gummy smiles of happiness and gratitude. No side glances in hopes to get a view of the forbidden fruits of my body as I bent over to tie my shoe, just a polite offer to tie it to save me the burden of my knees touching the rough carpet of the cinema.

What was he up to?

There had to be a hidden agenda. He was being too nice to me, too kind and gentle and caring. Did he slip something in my drink? He did pay for it after all, and carried it. His excuse was that he didn't my hands to get the clammy sweat condensating on the cup to get onto my hands, making them feel sticky and gross, almost making you want to rip your skin off in an effort to escape the sensation. Still, I watched carefully when he stopped to grab straws and napkins, and I never saw him do anything suspicious.

Just what was this man up to?

In the shadows of the theatre, where eyes were glued to the silver screen playing an eventful action film, as I wasn't one for cheesy romance films (and apparently neither was he), he had every chance to test the waters, stretch his arm over my shoulder in one of those cliche moves in an effort to bring the date closer to their chest. He could've watched my movements in his peripheral, planning the perfect moment to "accidentally" reach into the popcorn bag at the same moment as me, where our fingers could have gotten tangled up and his excuse could've been "Sorry, I thought I was grabbing the popcorn", though he wouldn't try to untangle our digits, now clasped in a tight embrace as they settled from their tango and reveled in their success to become one.