shortcake | liskook

2

My body hums with a burst of nervous energy. I decide to make good use of it for the rest of the afternoon and do what I should have done last week… clean. 

Starting with the kitchen.

After scrubbing the dishes for almost an hour, because Yeong Ok halmeoni drilled into me that dishwashers are for “special occasions,” I head down the hall to clean her room.

A barrage of family pictures and portraits line the walls. I guess if you go back far enough in any dysfunctional family, you’ll find the before. And if you’re lucky you can capture it. I have no pictures from my before. Only fading memories. 

Gentle light seeps from her bedroom doorway, casting shadows in the hallway. The sight replaces my waning energy with a hollow sadness. If it weren’t for the fact she would never want people to see her room in such disarray, I don’t think I’d be able to go in there, let alone touch her things. Not yet. 

I step inside, and what I see steals my breath and causes my stomach to drop. 

Her bed is made. 

Perfectly. 

The corners of her mauve duvet are creased, pillows sit under a smooth mound, just like she did it every morning. 

I look at the nightstand to see the medication is gone. Everything is put away the way she liked it. My eyes sting, and my heart feels heavy. 

Jungkook must’ve cleaned. 

I feel guilty knowing he made her bed. And embarrassed that he had to. 

Closing her door behind me, I slowly head to my room, which is down the hall and around the corner from halmeoni’s, needing to take a moment to digest it all. 

I’m thankful for the numbness that starts to take hold. There are just so many emotions your body can handle, and, it seems, I’ve hit my quota. 

As I reach my room, the bathroom door at the end of the hall swings open. Jungkook emerges, shirtless, wearing low-slung jeans and holding a small towel. Or maybe it just looks small compared to his hand. He’s looking down as he dries his hair, walking my way. 

I must make a sound because his eyes slice to mine, stealing my breath. 

I should say something. 

I should apologize for earlier. 

I should at least stop staring…

He continues drying his hair, causing perfectly cut stomach muscles to tighten and move under olive skin, and my words are lost. 

I quickly snap my eyes back to his. My face goes red hot for the second time today. It’s official: I’m going to hell for ogling halmeoni’s grandson. 

He stops at my front, so close I have to crane my neck back to maintain eye contact. He smells like my vanilla body wash and glorious man. 

The musk-spiced scent wakes my long-dormant body. My traitorous, highly inappropriate body, that is. I blame grief for my out-of-control hormones because I’ve never acted like this before. I don’t ogle men. I discreetly sneak a peek here and there because I’m classy like that. Or at least I used to be. 

“You done?” he says, his baritone voice thick with annoyance. 

“Excuse me?” I say, afraid I might have actually sniffed him. 

“You done checking me out, so I can get dressed.” 

Yep. Straight to hell. 

“What?” I say, taking a step back, against the door. “I wasn’t… I mean… I wasn’t looking at you in that way…”