Love In The Time Of Coffee | Yunho [Ongoing]

8 | drinkin' in the morning

Not resign my job. (Oh gosh no! It'll never come to that.)

But then, it wasn't like I was doing anything now.

You're not made for each other—was my excuse. A very substantiated one.

If only it put the kibosh on the allurement towards Yunho, however in that aspect I had no qualms with letting myself go, be taken by his very existence, his enthrallment by me (do I dare use the word so lightly?)—but above all, I still wouldn't make the mistake of having high hopes. Since the callow crush I once had on Seonghwa, I couldn't recall when else I'd fawned over anyone, not even for a short-lived interval. Seo Changbin from the elevator was for show. I thought I deserved running the risk.

"That's the oldest excuse in the book," San said. "Your charisma bagged from all these years serving as a model should fix you right up. I don't see people like you worried about the company you keep. It wouldn't affect anything."

I also agreed with San. Peer pressure looked like it would take flight at the sight of Mingi.

"Who said anything about modelling charisma?" He almost gaped. The look Mingi fastened on San seemed as if he would never have anticipated something quite absurd coming from the bartender. "There's no such thing. You're good or you're, you know, not good."

It started to sound like he indulged a small show of self-appraisement. For some reason it was amusing a thing to witness, whether some of said reason could be attributed to who I already knew he was, I couldn't say for sure. I almost bore out a smile. Throw in an offhanded comment that might come off deprecating at first acknowledgement without much delving into. Mingi's eyes darted over to me and I stared right back. That action alone was a magnet for chastisement. I ideated Mia in the act of kicking me in the shin, while spitting through a hushed tone that I shouldn't forget my place—who he was, who we were.

I became somewhat miffed by the imagery. That it would rule the same out here in real life.

"Do you agree with him?" Mingi asked. What did he seek, an ally or an ego boost?

I said nothing in return, favouring a shrug. Then I glanced away, strongly believing it would hinder any more questions. I didn't drink from the shot glass when I brought it up to my mouth. As if I wanted to take my time deliberating whether to settle for a meditative sip or throw my head back and toss it all down at once.

Mingi kept mum. His pensive gaze burning into the side of my head. San was the one to break the silence, breeding out what possibly went on through his friend's head.

"Another person who seems to hate your guts by the mere sight of you," the man behind the counter offered. Mingi laughed.

Although it wasn't up to a minute when his amusement waned, then melted out of sight. I'd hesitated—Mingi didn't appreciate me proving San's point. I stopped seeing the harm in him realizing the trueness in my reservations. Were Mingi to ask why I seemed to abhor his person, I wouldn't have a meaningful answer to surrender. Notwithstanding my unspoken admittance, it did nothing to his piqued interest, didn't impede on him aiming to pick at my brain with another question. This one perhaps stemmed from a refusal to admit his ego has been bruised at the verity of being short by one more fan.

"I resemble an old bully or something?" asked Mingi.

He didn't. I'd never been bullied, but I've had people take an instant dislike to me over the years and then try to be cruel or aggressive to cite a reaction. I hardly gave them what to work with, so they learned to move on. Throughout middle school down to college, I figured I didn't matter enough to steer off the wrong attention all the way. I would find myself in company all the time, it seemed to make me less significant because I always found my way around blending in with ease.