in every universe (one shot-s) | JENLISA

with wax melted, i'd meet the sea

It's hot.

Like, hot enough that the air conditioning broke four days ago and the only affordable repair person in their little coastal town is completely booked up until at least next week. The best they've got now is a couple of shitty ceiling fans that push the hot air around the store.

All the windows are open and there's a half-broken table fan attempting to vent hot air out of one of them, but Lisa's pretty sure it's just siphoning hot air into their humble little record shop.

It's a bit past five o'clock and most of the people meandering on the boardwalk have taken themselves towards the shaved ice and funnel cake stands, or are standing in line for the old wooden roller coaster that's creaking and rattling somewhere off in the distance.

None of them are being forced to stand in a muggy record shop, working for just over minimum wage.

Lisa tilts her head back and groans, shifting uncomfortably against where she's leaned up against the counter.

It's so fucking hot that she can feel herself sweating through her shirt.

"Manoban, if you're going to make this more insufferable than it already is, I'm going to make you go do inventory in the back," Irene says without looking up from the paperwork that she's handling.

There's a loud "Ha!" that comes from the other side of the shop, where Jisoo is holding a frozen water bottle to her neck as she works.

Lisa doesn't even have the energy to do more than send a mental middle-finger to her best friend before turning around to face Irene with her best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

"Iren..."

"Not my name."

"Irene, ma'am," Lisa tries again. "It's a hundred 'n ten degrees out, we're only an hour away from close—"

"Then you can wait an hour."

They don't call her Sergeant for nothing.

So Lisa, ever the respectful (ha) and obedient (ha ha) employee, resumes half-heartedly labelling records and pausing every now and again just to look at Irene and make a show out of how tiring it is to work in the stifling heat.

A sigh here, a dramatic flapping of her hand as a fan there.

Nothing ever works; Irene just rolls her eyes and turns away each time.

Lisa's ten minutes away from dropping everything and getting to leave when the bell above the door chimes cheerfully, announcing a customer.

She has to stop herself from letting out a groan of dismay, already hoping that whoever it is doesn't stay past closing. She doesn't even bother to look up from her pile of records to greet them, choosing instead to lift the edge of her shirt and use it as a rag to wipe the dots of sweat from her forehead.

It's only then that she sees who it is that's chosen to add to the body heat of the shop.

There's a taller guy, brunet, with a wide smile and sunglasses perched on his nose. He's dressed in a pair of pastel shorts and a short-sleeved button up patterned with tiny whales. Lisa recognizes him passingly – Jimin, her brain pings in recollection – he works at a flower shop down the boardwalk from them and always gives her a discount on the arrangements that she buys for her mom each month.

More importantly, however, is the person he walks in with.

For a second, Lisa forgets how to breathe.

In fact, she's sure her brain sputters out for more than a second when the thought God it's so fucking hot gives way to Holy hell, hot at the sight of the other girl.