Pop Star || Yoongi x Reader

42. Make Him Work

"As it happens, I am," You lift the sleeves of your sweater till your elbows, "let's do the cartons first. Empty ones there and full ones near the table -"
"Ne seonseng-nim,"
" - fold them like this," you hold back a giggle while you show him how to collapse and fold an empty carton. He observes with mock curiosity.

"Miss Y/N!"

A familiar wiry woman smiles at you from the doorway of the loft.

"Oh Imo! Annyeonghaseo!" you rush to her happily.

"Come!" she says. You follow her downstairs without a word. Behind you, Yoongi calls out in Korean, "But Imo, I need her here, what -"

"Aish, it will only take a minute!" she yells back.

"What is it?" you ask - putting your very basic Korean to some use.

"Aigoo - you speak Korean now?" her eyes go wide.

"Chogum," you answer sheepishly.

She takes you to the main restaurant where a lone customer is sitting. He's golden-haired and muscular, and dressed like a typical tourist. The sight of you makes him grin widely - it creeps you out a little so you only return a tightlipped nod.

"Order!" she says, looking at him and at you.

"Ah, hun, can you help me with this menu - I don't speak Korean and nobody here seems to get English - what is this?" the guy asks you in a smooth Texas drawl. His voice is pretty deep and rather familiar. Of course, the language barrier. English.

"Sure, sir..." You take his questions and then his order.

"Hun - where's the washroom?"

The 'hun' and especially the way he uses it is annoying, but you ignore it for the time being, "Um - Imo? Hwajangshil?" you pass on the question. She indicates the service door where you just came from.

"It's right there, sir. Next to the kitchen..."
"Thanks, hun," he grins at you again.
"Not your hun, sir. We don't talk like that here," you measure your tone. He's beginning to piss you off a little, but you don't want Imo to notice anything.
"Aw, man. What do I call you then?" he sits back into his seat, still grinning through his brilliant blue eyes.
"You say 'excuse me'. That's it," you give a formal nod and leave before he can retort.
"This one's feisty y'all..." you hear him snigger behind your back. It takes every ounce of your energy to not go back and punch him in the face.

"Kumawoyo, agasshi," Imo says.
"Gwenchansumnida..."

"Come," she orders once more. You follow her, thinking about the sleazy customer. It's not the first time someone has talked to you in a typically sexist way. Sure, hun is a common enough word where he comes from, but not here. And definitely not in that insinuating tone from a guy who's probably your age or less. Well, nothing was going to come out from thinking about this idiot except for more rage, so you try to put it out of your mind.

This time, Imo takes you to the terrace. The wind feels great in your hair even if it is a little chilly. Imo shows you two vats of washed table linen that need to be hung on the wire. Both of you get to work.

You continue to converse in broken Korean. You live alone, you miss your family sometimes, you work - yes, it's like his work - no you're not that popular haha - Indian culture and Korean culture are similar - no your parents weren't rich - your mother works in a company - (not exactly a lie there) - your father -

"I don't - remember him. He doesn't live with us - it is just me, my younger brother and my mother..."

She doesn't probe further. Instead, she shifts to general topics - the restaurant - how they need to hire help for the weekend, transport is getting costlier, and finally, husbands aren't all that helpful.

You giggle at the latter.
Then, you ask in a more serious tone, "does it help - that they are there, at least?"

"He magically vanishes when I need him!" she laughs. "In other times - sure," Imo comments. "We have to solve our own problems, agasshi. But it is good to find someone who cheers for you. And if you're lucky, he will be there when you didn't even know you needed him."

You watch her smile conspiratorially. Chuckling, you take another tablecloth and whip it open, "If I do get that lucky, Imo - I hope I can do the same for him..." your pause with the tablecloth in your hand, "I mean - life is hard!" you shrug and hang it on the wire and secure it with a clip.

Imo scrutinizes you for a moment.

"Go. I can do the rest myself. Yoongi-ah - he is lazy - make him work!" she adds.

You nod, unsure how to process the amusement in her voice. It didn't feel like a test when it began but now that the conversation is over, you have a strange feeling that you may have just passed it.

When you reach the loft, you realize how right she was about him. There is a small pile of folded cartons on the floor. Next to them is a loaded juice carton that was earlier on a chair near the window. And on the said chair, obliquely illuminated by the cool Daegu sun is Min Yoongi - fast asleep. His head is resting on the wall, so the sun rays only touch his jaw, the delicate outlines of his shoulder and his long intertwined fingers resting on his knee. Ripped jeans really suit -

"How long are you going to stare at me?" he asks, making you jump.