Stylist {j.h} A BTS Fanfiction - ON HIATUS

하나

Him

"J-Hope!"

My head jerked up at the sound of my name. My manager was striding towards me across the backstage prep room. An unfamiliar staff member was being dragged behind him by the wrist. He stopped roughly in front of my chair, huffing angrily. He released the staff member's arm. She rubbed the joint like it hurt but didn't say a word. 

"You have ten minutes, Hata, before you have to be at the platform. If you have any more questions, the others can help you as you go." He waved a hand as I opened my mouth to ask a question. "Not now, J-Hope, I have to go deal with some dancers in the practice area." 

"Where is Somin?" I asked, feeling the anxiety rising into my voice. 

"She broke her ankle at the airport." Her voice had a slight accent. Japanese, perhaps? "The fans were over-excited and crowded her into the wrong stairwell and she fell down. I was sent in as a temporary replacement." She said. Her hands didn't even tremble as she started glancing over the supplies she had to work with. 

"Oh," Somin had been my favorite stylist out of those that worked under BigHit. She was kind and sweet and reminded me of my favorite neighborhood aunty growing up. 

"Why did they decide to put you in her place instead of one of the others?" I asked as she started brushing powders and dabbing foundation onto my skin. 

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea. I'm from the photography department, not makeup." She spun my chair around and I opened my eyes. 

"Are you sure you aren't from the makeup department? This looks fantastic!" I said, admiring the work she had done. 

I turned to face her and say something and stopped when I saw her blushing at my comment. She straightened and moved towards the counter for a comb. I cleared my throat, swallowing my feelings and pushing them down to my stomach. 

Her hands gently pressed against my shoulders, making me sit up straighter. I looked up to find her face just in front of me. 

"You need to sit back more," 

Her eyes flicked up to mine. I wouldn't look away. Not now. She didn't seem to notice that I was holding my breath. I had to force myself to keep a steady breath as she moved around me doing my hair. My heart pounded in my ears like drums. Her hand covered my eyes as she sprayed hair spray on my bangs. As she did so, her skin brushed against mine. It was like the match strike to start an inferno. Every small brush or touch left my skin burning. I couldn't think straight. When she asked me something I had to ask her to repeat it. 

"What do you think? Does it need more curl?"

I glanced in the mirror and made an unintelligible sound of agreement. I told myself it wasn't because I wanted her to touch me again and that my hair did need more curls. 

I felt her hands moving through my hair, curling and spraying as efficiently as if she really was a stylist. Her fingers accidentally brushed against my shoulder, my neck, my temples. Each touch sent ripples of electricity through my body.