If You Could Go Back (Taekook)
Chapter 3
I nodded absently in greeting to the same men I passed as I boarded the train most mornings, finding my seat in the last Cart.
A flash of black and neon blue caught my eye, and I looked out the
window. That guy again. I narrowed my eyes, then shook my head and
refused to 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑚𝑖𝑡, I was going to want to know regardless of how hard I
tried not to
The man stepped on right before we rolled away from the platform and
took his seat across from me.
He nodded hello then got lost in a book.
I didn’t pretend to work. Since the first time he’d sat down there two
weeks ago, he’d become my puzzle. It frustrated me, and I knew my
questions would sound elitist and judgmental, but he didn’t fit. He was
around my age, I was fairly sure, yet he wore ratty jeans and hoodies that
belonged to a teenager. For the record, no, I didn’t want to “Go fuck a
Monday,” as his hoodie had suggested one day, “because they’re always
hard.”
When the sorry men and women wearing similar suits to what I wore
guzzled their coffee and tried to work, he sat there in his uniform and a pair
of headphones. Sometimes, he had a book, like today
It was when the weather was particularly cold that he wore his holey
jeans over his bike shorts. Or so I assumed, since the body-hugging uniform
shirt was always there, with or without an unzipped hoodie.
Late August was giving us heat, so today it was all uniform and…form.
The stretchy fabric showcased his physique and made my gut tighten with
envy. I hadn’t been that in shape since high school.
I sipped my coffee and discreetly smoothed down my tie. My stomach
was showing the results of back-to-back breakfast and lunch meetings.
There was no muscle definition, and I could stand to lose five or six
pounds. The man across from me had definition everywhere. Nothing too
much in a relaxed state, just enough to see it was very there. Biceps, abs,
thighs…
His hair was perhaps a shade or two darker than my own, and his
streaks were disheveled where mine were neat. His eyes, even when he was
visibly tired, were captivating. Even I could admit that. Green met deep
blue and muddled with a little bit of gray. I couldn’t say anything remotely
interesting about my eyes. Brown. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛. The man had some scars
too. A couple small ones on his jaw, more pronounced when he’d forgotten
to shave. Another scar cut into his left eyebrow
I shook my head. Perhaps one day I’d give up on my frustration and
simply ask him. How would that go? I’d sound like an utter fool. "Excuse
me. I was wondering…how does a bike messenger afford business class
every day? While you’re at it, can you tell me your life story? Much
appreciated".
No, I couldn’t very well do that.
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