"What do your tattoos mean?" Yoongi finally broke the silence.
Rhea glanced at her arms. "Sometimes they mean something, sometimes they don't. Do I look intimidating because of them?"
"Did I look intimidated?" he shot back, deadpan.
Are we going to start bickering again? Rhea thought with a small smile tugging at her lips.
"They're all connected," she said eventually. "I'll tell you the story when I've got enough energy. Right now, I'm tired."
"Coffee?" he offered, already turning the wheel.
Rhea raised a brow. "Only if you're paying."
Yoongi said nothing, just kept driving. The silence was comfortable this time.
He brought her to a quiet café he frequented for its privacy. Tucked into the hills, it had a secluded balcony overlooking a still lake and soft mountains.
"I know this place," Rhea said suddenly, sitting up straighter. "I used to work here."
"You quit?"
"Yeah. I had three jobs back then. This one had the worst schedule conflict."
"Three jobs?"
"Encoder by day, barista by noon, and I'd tutor kids on my days off."
"You're a teacher?"
"No," she said with a chuckle. "Just English. My dad was American. I lived there for 16 years. After he passed, Mom and I moved back here."
He hesitated. "Where's your mom now?"
"In an expensive jar at the coliseum."
Yoongi blinked. "I'm… sorry."
Rhea shrugged. "Don't be. I'm good on my own."
Without another word, Yoongi reached into the backseat and handed her his coat and cap. "Better they recognize me than you."
She smirked, slipping into his coat. "Are paparazzi really that obsessed?"
"It's best we stay cautious," he muttered, tugging the cap over her head. "Come on."
—
The moment they stepped inside, the warm aroma of coffee hit her, wrapping around her like a blanket. The dessert display sparkled with cakes and pastries.
"We'll get those after," Yoongi said, leading her outside. "We've got a spot on the balcony."
Rhea noticed a few wandering gazes. Despite the cap and mask, Yoongi still stood out—his entire aura screamed celebrity, especially dressed like he walked out of a high-end editorial.
She glanced at herself. Hoodie. Messy bun. And the coat? Definitely designer. She pulled it tighter, half-hiding in it.
Yoongi glanced back and saw her slowing down. Without a word, he reached back, grabbed her hand and mumbled, "Stop stalling, shorty."
He pulled her toward the corner table shielded by a cement wall and large plants. The lake glistened just beyond the railing. It was quiet. Peaceful.
He sat without waiting, flipping the menu open. She followed suit.
"You come here often?" she asked, eyes skimming the page.
"Sometimes. When I get a break."
The waitress arrived.
"I'll have the steak carbonara, iced Americano, one pump of syrup," Rhea said with a smile.
Yoongi ordered salad, steak, and coffee—unsweetened.
"You into sugar?" he asked.
"Yeah," she grinned. "I'm into Suga-r."
He choked. "What?"
"I'm hypoglycemic," she said, laughing. "If I don't get sugar, I might faint. So you better let me have that syrup."
Before he could reply, his phone rang. He answered instantly, retreating into his work voice.
Rhea leaned back, soaking in the breeze. She took out her sketchpad and started to draw, the sound of pencils scratching paper soft against the stillness.
Yoongi glanced at her—relaxed, focused. He quickly looked away when she shifted, but not before noticing what she was sketching.
"Sorry, that was work," he muttered when the call ended.
"It's fine," she said without looking up.
"What are you drawing?"
"You."
He choked again. She didn't even flinch, just kept sketching.
The waitress brought their food. Yoongi took a sip of the coffee and grimaced.
"That's probably mine," Rhea giggled, switching their cups.
He sipped again and sighed. Much better.
"You checked that yet?" he asked, pointing subtly to her hand.
"Doctors just keep saying I need Suga—" she paused dramatically, "—r."
He gave her a look, trying not to smile. She was good at teasing.
After lunch, Rhea got up to pick desserts while Yoongi dealt with another call. She returned with strawberry shortcake and matcha cheesecake, already halfway through one.
"You can rant, you know," she said without looking at him. "It's creepy when you stare at me eat. Also, I'm not sharing."
"I'm not touching those," he replied, watching her lick frosting from her fork. "I just hate being away from work for a day only to get bombarded with messages."
She waited.
"That's all?" she nudged.
He debated. She noticed. She always noticed.
"My father used to call me Butterfly," she began instead. "Na-bi in Korean. That's why there are butterflies in my tattoos. The flowers are for my mom. The skull? A replica of my dad's tattoo. The lotus on my forearm is for independence."
Yoongi stayed quiet, listening.
"I only have tattoos on my left arm. I smoke sometimes when I'm stressed. My alcohol tolerance is way too high. I'm type 1 diabetic, but I'm managing. My doctors take care of me."
"What—how—why?" he stammered.
"I saved one of them from a creep in a parking lot," she grinned.
Yoongi blinked. Relieved, a voice in his head muttered. But why am I relieved?
"You cold? Want your coat back?"
"I'm good," he said. "I like your nickname. Na-bi. It suits you."
She softened. "Yeah… No one's called me that since my dad died."
"Can I call you that?"
She searched his eyes, trying to tell if he meant it or was teasing.
"You can," she said. "If you start talking. What's been bothering you?"
He sighed. A heavy one. Not quite relief. More like surrender.
"You don't have to tell me everything," she added. "Just know you don't have to bottle it up. I see you."
Was he really that transparent?
"Alright. You got me. I've just been too absorbed with work. I thought you'd go back to your job despite the swelling hand—"
"Swelling, not broken," she interjected.
"Right. Then I got hungry and thought of this place. It's quiet. I don't talk much, but when I do… I wish someone would help me figure things out."
Rhea nodded. "I get that. Sometimes you don't need answers. Just someone to hear you ramble."
He started to explain the project he was working on, the pressure of expectations, the way ideas got stuck and deadlines hovered like smoke. She listened. She asked questions. She offered outsider insights—sometimes blunt, sometimes oddly brilliant.
He found himself laughing. Like really laughing.
He liked how she looked when she listened: wide-eyed, dimples flashing, genuinely curious.
He liked making her smile just to see them.