Namjoon woke me gently early the following morning. Dawn had just broken, and I was rather reluctant to get up. “Zoey,” Namjoon called again, quietly so as to not wake up anyone around us. With a quiet little groan, I finally cracked my eyes open as I stretched out all of my limbs. Satisfied, Namjoon stood with a little smile, going back to his own cot to gather up what he needed to get ready. He was pretty quick in shuffling towards their shared bathroom. I had given it some thought, and I myself had some preparations to do for the day. Sneaking over towards Yoongi’s cot, I sought out the red aluminum toolbox halfway tucked underneath the steel frame. I tried to move slowly and silently, easing the box out and open. I flinched when it began to creak, and I quickly glanced up to the occupant of the bed, only tufts of black hair showing as he was curled up facing away from me. Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I got the toolbox open and thought back to the last time I fiddled with it. I needed his scissors, but I think they were buried under the top tray. Taking a slow, deep breath, I very gingerly began to apply upward pressure to the top tray, trying not to displace too many of the clunky tools below as I lifted it. Of course, that mission was bound to fail as heavy metal tools began to shift, causing an echoing clang. Tensing, I pressed my hands under the tray, trying to still the tools. Holding my breath, I waited for signs of life from the cot in front of me. I had been warned on multiple occasions that waking up Yoongi was somewhat of a death wish. He began to stir, and I chewed on my lip out of anxiety. Thankfully he seemed to simply roll over in his sleep, and I could see his face from the nose up, the rest still obscured by dull grey blanket. Being able to just look at him like that was a rare opportunity that I shamelessly took. He looked so calm and so much younger like that with no worries showing on his smooth, pale face, accented by that pitch black hair that was dangerously close to getting in his eyes. Reluctantly, I returned to my task. Now that I had moved the tray aside, I could locate the scissors. I spotted them under Yoongi’s favorite Phillips-head screwdriver. Gently I moved to retrieve my target, but the screwdriver rolled over, scraping against one of the wrenches below.

Very suddenly, the lid of the toolbox swung down violently, hitting the tray that was sticking out halfway. “The you doing to my tools?” a low growl came from in front of me. Horrified, I looked up to find Yoongi’s face resting against the frame of his bed, only his eyes visible from under his especially disheveled hair, the hand that he had used to shut the toolbox dangled limply off of the cot. I was about to snap back at him, but I noticed his eyes were barely focused and misty. It was clear he was still at least half asleep.

I thought fast on how to best handle the situation. Smiling warmly, I spoke calmly and gently, as if I were speaking to small child. “Yoongi,” I practically sang, “It’s okay, go back to sleep.” I reached out to gingerly pick up the hand he had dropped, with the intention of placing it back up on the bed for the sake of his comfort.

As soon as I touched him, I saw him blink slowly, “Zoey?” he croaked, his voice still thick from the sleep. He seemed to relax considerably, except for his hand. His fingers suddenly laced with mine and he pulled my hand with his near to his face. And then his eyes slid closed again as he let out a little sigh, his breath ghosting across the back of my hand. My heart was pounding. I wondered how much of that was the scare from the toolbox closing and how much of it was from that admittedly adorable reaction. But I didn’t have time to think about it because just like that, he was asleep again, his breathing deep and even. He had my hand as a captive, our interlocking fingers proving to be a difficult obstacle. With a little sigh of my own, I very slowly and carefully untangled myself from Yoongi’s grasp, relieved once I was finally free. Namjoon was going to kill me if I made him late. Very quickly I snatched the scissors, leaving the toolbox as it was out of fear of making any more noise.

Scampering away, I made my way back to my own bathroom, prize scissors in hand. I changed my clothes and got to work. A few cuts here and some ties there and I made my shirt a little bit more fitted to my body. The practice had been rather popular for rallies and the like at school. I had found it to be rather shallow and petty back then, but it was coming in handy now. I used a long strip of white linen from a discarded shirt as a hair ribbon, tying my black wavy hair into a high ponytail with a little bow, careful to disguise my surgical tape over my head wound. Leaving a few loose pieces up front, I used the scissors to take a little length off of them to let them frame my face slightly. I gave my face one more wash before I was satisfied. There were no cosmetics for me to use, but I made myself look as pretty and cute as I could. I also opted for shorts, thankful that I had been blessed with smooth legs. It was shameless, sure, but there was no going halfway with this plan. I needed to be charming as hell. Looking in the mirror, I took the opportunity to really inspect my face. My California sun-tanned skin was fading from all of my time spent indoors. Thankfully, all of the sleeping I did under the influence of my narcotic pain medication had gotten rid of the dark circles under my eyes. My eyes themselves were probably my greatest asset. My dad used to joke that someone somewhere in my family tree was clearly unfaithful to the Korean bloodline, because my eyes were uncharacteristically large, and instead of coal black like Yoongi or almond brown like Jin, my eyes were a slightly paler smoky grey color. While it was true that I was not as shapely as a supermodel or as pretty as an actress, I still allowed myself a brief moment of vanity.

When I was pleased, I returned to the main hall to find Namjoon waiting at the edge of his bed, tapping his foot impatiently. At the sound of the door, he looked up at me, and instantly his dark eyebrows knit together and his wide, full mouth fell open slightly as he eyed me from head to toe. After a moment of thought he stood, jerking his head to the front door. I followed obediently until we were out of the building, the door securely shut behind us. He me immediately, “Damn Zoey, good job,” he practically laughed as he spoke, his narrow, expressive eyes giving me another once-over.

Finally I grinned, giving a little pretend curtsey, “Well I said you could trust me on this one, didn’t I?” I reminded him with a little wink, “But thank you.” Namjoon gave me a wide grin, offering me his elbow. With a little chuckle of my own, I took it before we began to quietly walk together down the dirt path.

When we neared one of the many forks in the little road, Namjoon began to slow his steps slightly. “There are three government officials that I meet with on a regular basis,” he spoke rather quietly as we continued to walk. “Chairman Rho is who you and Jungkook talked to at the construction site. He’s in charge of this whole sector,” Namjoon began to tentatively explain, reaching up to habitually mess with his