shortcake | liskook

10

Some people cannonball from the dock into a freezing lake, getting the shock over in a single breath. Other people slowly walk in from the shore, teeth chattering, feet digging into the pebbled sand, forging ahead one painful step at a time. 

I’m usually a cannonball-type girl. 

Not today. 

Not after dealing with Jungkook, who rotated between a cute sick puppy and a grumpy asshole, over the last few days. 

I’ve seen ninety-year-old men move faster than I’m moving right now. The Advil I took is doing little to dull the ache from all the rushed painting I had to do while Jungkook slept. 

I had to work while he slept because if he saw me painting, he’d grab a roller and try to help, even though he was obviously sick and utterly dead on his feet. 

And he says I’m stubborn. 

The positions I was forced to sleep in thanks to Jungkook haven’t helped the state of my stiff muscles either. Jungkook, who grumble-yelled for me whenever night fell, and when I’d walk into the room, raised his arm for me to get in. 

Yeah, that happened. 

I say positions because he moved and molded me into whatever awkward position he was comfortable in. Whenever I tried to readjust myself, he’d just grunt and hold me tighter, keeping me put. 

So, I went with it. I may have even liked him wanting me to be so close. I may have even moved a few times so he would grunt and pull me tighter against him. 

If it weren’t for the fact I woke up this morning with a desperate need for chocolate chip pancakes, I’d still be there, in his arms, under his legs, wrapped around his body, pathetically pretending. 

My mouth waters as the buttery batter starts to bubble. I sprinkle in the chocolate chips and flip them, then reach into the cabinet for a porcelain plate (no paper plate for these bad boys). My shoulder muscles burn from the movement. 

The sound of the refrigerator door causes my stomach to jump. I look to see Jungkook pulling out a bottle of water. He’s thrown on a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans. His hair is damp from a shower and sticking up everywhere since he obviously didn’t bother with a comb. 

“Can you grab the syrup?” I say, plating my perfectly fluffy pancakes. 

He grunts. 

Then I hear the fridge shut, and Jungkook walks past me, giving me a whiff of clean man. He sits down at the table, water bottle and syrup at his front. His eyes are shadowed, his lips are a little chapped, and his olive skin has a slight grayish pallor, but guess what? 

He still looks better than I do. 

His dark eyes hold mine for a moment. I shift my feet under the weight of his stare. Maybe he’s hungry. 

“Want some pancakes?” 

Say no. Say no. Say no. 

“Sounds good,” he says, his voice hoarse and gravelly. 

Shit. 

I grab another porcelain plate, hardly feeling the pain in my shoulders this time. “Do you like chocolate chips or plain,” I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice the nerves giving a slight tremble to my voice. 

Why am I nervous? Because his eyes are still on me and I can’t read his face. And it’s freaking me the hell out. 

Look away, look away… 

“However you make ’em is fine.” 

I pour some more batter onto the griddle. 

“You’re feeling better?” I ask, sprinkling on some chocolate chips. His fever broke the night before last, but whatever he has seems to be lingering.