Annie

Days on trial: 49

"What are you still doing in the office?!" Chloe almost shrieked as she walked in after her lunch break.

She and Namjoon had gone down to the market for street food, but I'd elected to stay couped up finishing a story that was needed for tomorrow mornings paper.

"It's Wednesday," she continued, utterly confused. "Why aren't you with Multi boy?"

Shaking my head with a laugh, bemused by her evolved choice in nickname, I felt an uncomfortable chaos unfurling in my stomach.

Airily, my shoulders shrugged, indifference dominating my poise. "I cancelled."

Chloe was sat in her desk chair within an instant.

"YOU DID WHAT?!"

"Cancelled," I repeated, voice void of emotion. "It's not a good use of company time - you should be thanking me!"

Chloe's jaw was on the floor, rendered speechless. Shoulders slumped, hands on the desk, she looked as if she was in a state of shock

"He's an interviewee, Chloe. Not my friend; not someone I should waste office hours hanging out with. It's unprofessional. What if head office ask about my missing productivity reports for Wednesday afternoons? What then?"

Stumped, Chloe didn't have anything she could respond to me with professionally.

As my friend, however, I could tell that she wanted to slap me silly.

Just as she was about to speak, her phone pinged, letting her know that Jimin had sent her through a message. 

With a slight roll of her eyes, she turned the screen to face me. I was greeted by an image of Jungkook, lying facedown on their sofa, with a caption I didn't want to acknowledge:

Annie bailed on him and now he's malfunctioning. Send help. Or Annie. Preferably Annie.

"Not friends, yeah?" Chloe teased, earning a reluctant grin from me. "Not friends, my ass."

We both knew that the issue at hand was the fact that we were friends.

But friends didn't make their other friends see colour.

That wasn't very friendly at all. 

Though Chloe didn't know that, and nor did Jungkook. 

And so, a day later, I found myself wondering down the backroads of the city centre, searching for the address listed in the directory for Jeon & Sons Mono Motors.

Wide shutters were rolled to the top of the facade, doubling the space available to work. Glossy teal paint cracked along the window frames and it was in major need of TLC, but  there was a certain nostalgia to it. It almost felt like I had known the shop my whole life. It was only a few blocks down from one of my favourite coffee spots, so I must have been past it a dozen times, never realising the significance of such a place.

The sun-kissed, slightly grey haired man working out front had a wicked smile, in the best sense of the word. Laughing at something a radio personality had said through his paint-splattered stereo, I couldn't help but grin too. It was easy to see where Jungkook got his infectious laughter from.

"Hi, sorry!" I interrupted, approaching him a little timidly. I interviewed strangers every day for my job, and yet felt nervous now. He turned towards me, wiping his dirty hands on an oil rag. "I don't suppose you're Mr Jeon?"

He took a second to look me up and down, figuring out if he could remember my face, but seemed to draw a blank. "Depends who's asking," he spoke with a smile, calm and comforting. There was no way he wasn't Jungkook's father.

"I believe I'm looking for your son, and was told I might find him here."

"You?" He seemed surprised. "You're here for my son?" He elongated our pronouns, as if it was an unbelievable statement. "God, what's he done now? I can only apologise. Do your best to raise 'em right and yet they still-"

"Oh no, no," I shook my whole entire body. "It's not like that. I'm from The Chronicle, Jungkook's helping me out with a story. I just need to ask him a few follow-up questions," I bluffed.

There was a narrowing to his eyes, a slight distrust, but I couldn't blame him - I was press. No one trusted the press.

"He's in the paint studio. Head straight through the shop, it's the door on the rear wall."

With a friendly nod, Mr Jeon got back to work, clearly having more pressing things to deal with than a girl chasing after his son. 

Approaching the door, which had been left open, I took a few shallow breaths to quell the anticipation building in my stomach. This was so stupid. There was no need for me to be feeling like this.

Leaning against the metal door frame, my posture softened, crossing one leg in front of the other. Checker plate steel stairs led down into the room, that was sunk about a foot or so deeper than the shopfront garage. An overwhelming scent of painty chemicals latched onto every soft furnishing in the room, though there were very few of those.

He was sat on one of them, an old barstool set up against a desk as he slaved painstakingly over a set of custom head lamps.

We'd spoken briefly about his job, only really touching on it when he told me about meeting Tiff, so it felt surreal to watch him in practice. 

Modifying Mono cars was his speciality, adding a little something more exciting to the factory standard, full-black vehicles that Monos were expected to drive. He worked exclusively with shades of grey, but that didn't really matter to Mono's - and once they became Multi's, they tended to trade their cars into dealerships for something with a little more colour on them. It was a never-ending cycle, but it also meant that Jungkook had a lot of repeat happy customers - well, happy with his work, at least. Not so much their relationships.

"You missed a bit." 

My voice darted across the room, finding its way through a maze of bolts and brushes, landing ceremoniously in his ear. His soft, concentrated movements came to a grinding halt. Raising his head ever so slightly, he elected not to face me.

"And you missed our meeting yesterday," his voice was low and dulcet, dare I say it, a growl. 

"Oh," I pouted, eyes watching his back to note any change in his demeanour. "Miss me?"

His shoulders broadened at this comment as his torso reclined into his chair. Placing his thin paintbrush behind his ear, I watched as greys and whites of the wet paint illuminated in the bright LED's that he used to help him work. He was stoic in his manners, slow and prowling, drawing out every single movement with strenuous tension. 

"No."

Icy and sterile, his voice reverberated around the paint shop studio, clattering against discarded tools and empty vehicles. 

I would have believed him, too, had it not been for the door of the Merc he was working beside resting ajar, giving me full view of its wing mirror. 

Though he was biting down on his plump bottom lip, the corners of his mouth edged upwards, forcing his cheeks to dimple. It was his eyes that surprised me most, for they were closed, relief washing over his entire body.

"Liar."

His eyes opened now, rolling, before resting sinfully on the mirror. He had wanted to be discreet, secretly look at me like I was looking at him, but as soon as he did, he knew he was caught. 

"You know it's counterproductive, right?" He turned to face me now, resting his arm on the back of his chair. His embarrassment was hidden well, just a subtle blush gracing his cheeks. There were splatters of paint on his face, soft greys against his dewy skin, and I could have sworn he looked like art himself. "Bailing on me so that you could 'focus on work', and then showing up at my place of work the next day. What if I wanted to focus on work?" He challenged.

It was a flawed logic, I had to admit. But I was proud, and amitting he was right meant admitting I was wrong.

"Tell me what you're working on, then," I shrugged, trying to pretend as if my heart wasn't beating a mile a minute. There was something about seeing him in his element, seeing him excel, that made him completely and utterly enthralling. 

Keeping his gaze on mine for a moment, he tilted his head languidly. Come here, then.

Not needing more of an invitation, I let myself be dragged closer towards him by the invisible force pulling on my chest.

Pushing his right knee outwards once I finally arrived by his side, he used yet another nod to communicate. Sit.

I did as I was told.

Perching on his knee, his strong thigh took my weight with ease, though I remained balanced on the tips of my toes just incase. My torso was shorter than his, so I didn't obstruct his view, allowing for him to keep working. His chin rested on my shoulder, keeping himself focused on the task at hand.

Intricate brush strokes trailed along the bodies of vintage teardrop headlamps. Once his carefully constructed, silver scaled, dragons were complete, they'd sit proudly on the bonnet of his clients car. Bright lights would roar from their mouths, igniting the roads for whichever wayward traveller sat behind the wheel. 

His arms stretched around my body, his left hand holding a lamp, his right hand guiding his brush. I watched him in awe as he flicked it ever so gently, creating perfectly spaced scales up the dragons back.

"Here," his voice was soft as he held the brush closer towards me. "Your go."

"I'll fuck it up."

I hadn't realised quite how timid I'd sound, my voice barely a whisper, too preoccupied by the heady atmosphere that was encapsulating us.

"No you won't, Annie. Take it," he encouraged, practically putting the brush in my hands. Tactile and direct, he clasped his fingers over mine, guiding my slowly. "Easy does it."

I was silent as our hands moved in sync, paint transferring from the brush onto the metal like butter onto a warm scone. He repeated the process, once, twice, three times before pulling his hand away. I paused.

"Keep going."

"You just want free labour," I tried to sound brash, confident, playful like I usually did, but I was hesitant. Regardless of my protest, I did as he said, continuing to fill the empty space with his pattern.

Confident that he could trust my hand - which was taking all of my strength to prevent from shaking -, he retracted his fully now, letting it sit comfortably on my hip.

"You're different today," he whispered like a secret only meant for the two of us.

It had barely been five days since the incident at the beach. I'd avoided him like the plague, because I was scared of what would happen to my vision if I gave him any more attention, and yet here I was practically begging for his.

I wanted something tangible; a sign from him that he wasn't interested.

I wanted him to tell me to stop flirting. I wanted him to look at me with flat eyes and a heavy sigh. I wanted his cheeks to stay neutral as I batted my lashes.

I wanted him to outwardly reject me so that I could just get over this stupid crush.

But he never told me to stop flirting. His eyes were always cosmic and cheeks permanently rosy.

It was making it so much harder to ignore the colours that he'd begun to spark in my vision. 

Each one entered my life slowly and then, suddenly, they're inescapable. Like quicksand, they were pulling me under and soon enough I wouldn't be able to breathe.  

The was a symbiotic ease to our rhetoric, each one of us adding a building block on to the other ones banter. We'd elevate it each and every time, heightening the tension until one of us got scared and sent the whole thing crashing down. 

Like a game of chicken, we wanted to see who would crack first. Part of me thought we'd still be playing until we were grey.

I twisted my body until our faces were just a matter of inches apart. The hand of his that had rested on my hip stayed put as I moved, finding its new home on the small of my back. With one hand holding his paintbrush, I used my other hand to gently clasp at his jaw.

Angular and defined, I was almost surprised at how sharp it was. I could feel his stubble, the result of him skipping a shave that morning, and I wondered if this was what he'd always feel like in the mornings.

It was a dangerous concept; bedheaded, sleepy Jungkook. If I thought about it for too long, I would have had no choice but to kiss him.

His darting eyes and the frail lick of his lips were almost enough to make me do it, regardless. 

But I was a chicken.

So focused on keeping his breathing controlled, he was following my lead, accepting all my movements - even the swish and flick of the paintbrush in my hand, as it drew a cartoon moustache on his upper lip. 

By the time he realised what I'd done, I'd already darted to the far side of the room. 

"I TAKE IT BACK," he roared furiously, but I could see it in his smile that he wasn't angry at all. "You're not different at all," he got to his feet, picking up the paintbrush I had thrown down on the desk and chasing my around the car. "You're just as fucking annoying," he laughed.

He'd caught me in no time, ignoring my protests as I giggled and struggled against his bear grip. Arms tight around me, his chest was to my back, as he began to inflict the same faux facial hair fate to me.

"Missed a bit," He teased, placing a final stroke between my brows.

"Ahem."

A cough by the doorway drew both of our attention upwards, though Jungkook didn't let his grip loosen - not even when his dad raised his eyebrow and gave a knowing smile. 

"Make sure you lock up, son," he gave a curt nod, before glancing in my direction. "Funny looking interview technique."   

My face must have matched the scarlet toolbox that he had in his hand, packed up and ready to go.

"Will do, Pa. See you tomorrow," Jungkook was stifling a laugh, which he let out as soon as his dad closed the door behind him.

"Well that was mortifying!" I almost shrieked, pushing Jungkook away from me in good favour. 

"Would now be a bad time to remind you that I gave you a monobrow?" He couldn't contain himself at he looked at me, admiring his handy work. I scrambled to the car door to study myself in the mirror, groaning in horror as I did so. "The paint's oil-based, so you'll need white spirit to get it off. Sorry to your skincare routine in advanced."

"It's fine," I shrugged, leaning against the metal frame of the Merc, watching him as he went to fetch a bottle of the magic potion. 

There was a ping behind my eyes. 

Not now, not now, I cursed at myself, closing them firmly shut.

"Uhh, Annie," the worry in Jungkook's voice forced my eyes open without a second thought. He was crouched by the desk, peering underneath it, tapping his fingers in a puddle of water. Holding his arm up, there was a clear bottle gripped tightly in his palm. So distracted by the jade green label, which had looked grey to me earlier, I didn't realise the significance of it. "One of us kicked it over. I'm out of white spirit."

"Oh fuck."

"Oh fuck indeed, Miss Annie."