Midnight | BTS

cheesecake; jimin

I must have something on my face.

His hooded brown eyes were trained on her from the chip aisle. His chin was somewhat down, the curious tilt of his head was an assumed pretense at making it less obvious that he was drilling his eyes into the curve of her cheek. She gripped her hand in a loose fist, fluttering her eyelashes to break contact and instead stare ahead at the line of freezers at the back of the convenience store.

This was a daily occurrence.

The schoolboy steps in at the same time—5 PM—and strolls around the place for a ridiculous amount of time. The majority of that time is not spent looking around, however, he spends it by watching [Name] from afar.

She blames herself for it. The first time he stepped in, she began her robotic greeting. That is until she saw his face. She hadn't noticed she stopped mid-greeting and proceeded to stare in awe at how attractive he was. His soft, black hair exposing half of his forehead, his skin radiating a healthy sheen, his pink lips, slightly gaped in mild shock, and the proportional build of his body.

She started it. Everyday.

Her breath hitched at the distinctive footsteps that approached the counter. His hand came to her view, setting a cherry chapstick tube in front of her.

"Will that be all, sir?" The [hair color] ed/ette lass asked in a mock cheerful tone. She scanned his item and registered the coins that he set down.

"Yes." He answered smoothly, the corner of his lips tugging into a smile.

After a beat, in the most veiled taunting voice she mustered, "Would you like a bag?"

The boy almost laughed. She could see it in the way he composed himself back to a grin that could make Mona Lisa lose her reputation. He shook his head, never breaking eye contact, and turned on his heel. His hands shoved into his pockets, a little jump to his step.

"You forgot your—"

"It's for you." The bell that hung above the station door rang, his retreating back all she could see.

Her fingers rushed to her lips, an angry red rushing to the [skin color] of her cheeks. Are my lips chapped? She leaned into the cash register, which had a camera that showed who was operating it. Her grainy reflection stared back at her.

"I guess my lips do feel pretty cracked." She deflated, "How embarrassing."

"The only thing that's embarrassing is you ogling a minor."

[Name]'s head jerked to the side, a wave of stuttering passing her lips. Her manager was coming towards her with a mop. He pressed it against her form, pushing her out of the counter area and shutting the gate behind her.

"I'm 17!" She collected herself, holding the mop away from her and gritting her teeth.

"Not so loud! You know you have to be 18 to work here." Her manager whispered.

[Name] looked around the empty convenience store. "I hate you . . . and I hate how we sell hot dogs for $1.25."

"Yeah, yeah." He waved her off, scribbling away on the clipboard.

[Name] started mopping the place, moving her body forwards and backwards accordingly. She knew she looked like a half-wit, dancing with the mop, but in truth, she embarrassed herself to the point of nonexistent integrity. She glanced up to her manager, slowing down her movements.

" . . . Did I make it obvious?" She hated how high-pitched the question came out.

"Obvious enough for me to see you drooling from the CCTV cameras."