Chapter Eleven: Now or Never

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"She is sugar, curiosity, and rain."
— E. Lockhart, We Were Liars

You wake with the burning desire to see him. Then, as you're getting ready for the day, that burn freezes into the conviction to avoid being alone with him at all costs, because you're not sure what you might do.

If you saw him, you might just . . . kiss him.

But the day passes, uneventful. Bianca and the boys drag you along to various DC tourist traps; you and Yoongi are never alone. The day after that is much the same.

Then your last day in the city arrives, and Bianca, Alex, and Aaron depart for the MAX concert. They say their goodbyes, slip into a taxi, and leave you and Yoongi standing on the sidewalk. Alone. Feet apart. Fidgeting. Looking around at anything but each other.

"So . . . what do you want to do?" You ask him, unable to take the silence between the two of you.

I can do this. I can be around him without thinking of having his lips touch mine. I can focus.

"I actually had something . . . specific in mind," he admits, his eyes nervous but a little mischievous.

Oh, thank God above, you exhale at his words. I lied. I totally can't focus.

"Do you have better walking shoes on now?" He asks, and you try not to look too disappointed when he doesn't immediately say the word kiss.

"Um," you look down at your feet, drawing your brows together. "I mean, yeah. I do."

"Great," he smiles, his features then turning serious as he notices your expression of disappointment. "I promise you'll like where we're going."

I'd kiss you here, Yoongi, you protest inwardly. It doesn't have to be a special place. I'd kiss you anywhere.

You walk together, hands in respective jacket pockets, no part of you touching or beginning to touch. You hold it together, reminding yourself of the danger of jumping in too fast. You may know more about Yoongi than any other person in Hunsaker, but that isn't saying much, really—it's a tiny town. Yoongi's lived a whole life outside of it, and it's a life that you hardly know anything about. He was—is—a celebrity, for crying out loud. He could've lived a wild life filled with terrible decisions.

But once glance over at him fills your soul with the knowledge that that can't possibly be true. The Min Yoongi you know has layers upon layers, sure, but . . .

You trust him. More than you'd trust anyone else.

"We're here," he announces after your silent walk.

You stand in front of a bookstore that seems to have stood the test of time. It looks like something out of a British drama: piles of old books in the windows, awnings made of striped cloth covering the windows, a red door with warm, inviting light shining through its glass panels. Taking it in, you feel transported to another time, while simultaneously feeling that you've finally found home.

"Go on," you hear Yoongi's voice prompting from behind you. "Go inside."

You look back at him, a handsome figure standing there in skinny jeans and a dark gray peacoat with gold buttons, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

You're just as beautiful a sight as this bookstore, your subconscious whispers to his. Perhaps even more so.

"What's wrong?" He laughs, perplexed. "Why are you looking at me? You don't want to go in?"

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