I found another job. Again.
This time, it was a small café tucked behind a back alley, the kind of place only regulars remembered how to find. The owner—a sharp-tongued woman in her sixties—hired me on the spot. Said she needed someone strong, someone who wouldn't break their spine lifting crates. I guess my tattoos didn't bother her, or maybe she just didn't care.
"Is that the last one?" I asked, placing the final box in the stock room.
She wiped her brow and nodded. "You hungry? Come eat with me. My nephew was supposed to join, but he flaked again."
I scoffed. "You mean you were planning to lift all that yourself if I hadn't shown up? Maybe your grandson doesn't think much of your bones."
She barked out a laugh, leaning against the table. "It's a little more complicated than that."
"Isn't it always?"
I didn't wait for her answer. I took the plates from her hands and sat her down. She'd prepared enough food for a whole table. Said her nephew worked late, that he always worked late. I didn't ask questions—I just ate. The food was good. Comforting. A kind of warmth I didn't let myself expect from anyone anymore.
Elsewhere
Yoongi barely made it out of the building after a day of shoot schedules, back-to-back meetings, and hollow greetings. He hated company mixers—he hated everything that came with fame except the music. Everything else? He could live without.
As he reached his car, Jin caught up with him, bright-eyed despite the hour.
"My aunt's café," Jin said. "She cooked a full dinner. Told me to bring someone. The others bailed. You in?"
Yoongi blinked at him. His stomach answered before he could.
They drove in silence. Yoongi let his head lean back, sleep pressing against his eyes. When Jin nudged him awake, they'd already parked.
"Let's go," Jin said, hurrying out of the car.
Yoongi rubbed his eyes. There was a motorbike parked just outside the café. Something about it made his gut twitch.
He followed inside.
The bell chimed when the door opened. I didn't turn. I just kept chewing, until I heard my boss exclaim, "Ah, Seokjin!"
So the golden boy showed up after all.
He looked surprised to see me sitting there, but I wasn't. Typical of people like him to assume they're the center of a scene. He mumbled something to his aunt, who only winked and went on serving.
Another man stepped in behind him—dark hair, black mask, tired eyes. I caught his gaze briefly before he looked away. Something about him pulled at a thread in my brain. A familiarity, but not one I could place.
"This is Rhea," the old woman said. "She's helping me at the café now. Not just a waitress—she can cook, too."
I nodded. A small one. Just enough to acknowledge. I wasn't here to make friends.
They sat. Jin next to his aunt, the other man beside me.
The air sat heavy between us. Nobody said much, except the old woman. I could feel the one next to me watching my hands. His gaze lingered too long on the tattoo across my knuckles.
I curled my fingers into a fist.
He looked away.
They left not long after dinner. Jin laughed, made some joke about the silence, then headed to the car.
But the masked one—Yoongi, she called him Suga—he took a second longer before walking out. He glanced back as I stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and leaned into the shadows.
"You see her tattoos first or her glare?" Jin asked as he drove.
Yoongi didn't respond.
He stared out the window, eyes fixed on the figure outside—the outline of a woman beneath the streetlamp, cigarette glowing between her fingers.
The same silhouette from that night outside the club.
His fingers twitched.
In his jacket pocket, a small metal lighter clicked open and shut, open and shut.
HHY.
He didn't know her name.
But he was sure.
It was her.