“Don’t fall in love with me.”

It’s the first thing he tells you after he catches you staring a bit too long. But who could resist that adorable cupid bow of his lips when he smirks, those pretty waves of messy dark locks as they fall into his eyes and the thousands of flowers that bloom on his skin? Who could tear their gaze away from such a sight, a young man, barely twenty but tall and lean and toned? Muscly thighs hugged by tight jeans, white shirts - he always seems to wear - tucked in and those leather jackets, always those midnight black leather jackets, culprits of hiding the beauty underneath. Because there is a garden, prettier than those French jardins, there is a museum, full of art just as gorgeous as Monet paintings and there is an unsolved mystery under those clothes. Secrets just like his eyes, those enthralling orbs you have never once seen because his hair has grown a bit too long - or more like perfectly long if they asked you -, so you have only caught the flutter of his eyelashes and those dangerous smiles playing on his lips. But his eyes, mirrors of his soul, are unknown to you still.

So when he tells you not to fall in love with him, you can only blink at him stupidly, coffee cup shaking slightly in your hand.

“Why?” The dumb question falls off your lips mindlessly, not even a What?, not even a protest but a direct demand.

And the boy, Jungkook, whose name you only know because the café you work at has the policy of writing the customers names on the cups, he grins, dangerously so and he leans closer, over the counter until his fingers brush against yours around his coffee.

“Because I’m that kind of boy your mother warned you to stay away from,” he replies casually and then he turns taking his coffee with him and a little bit of your heart.

What an insolent lie, you think because your mother only warned you about boys who smoke, do drugs and such things. She has never told you anything about boys whose eyes are secrets, whose hair is long like those characters’ from Japanese mangas and who wear no other colour than black and white.

Next time Jungkook comes to the café, you daringly scribble ‘I think you are lying’ under his name on the coffee cup and he raises an eyebrow looking at you a bit surprised and a lot amused. You don’t miss the way he smiles back at you when he gets on his Harley Davidson to leave.

You don’t expect to meet him anywhere else that’s not the café but if you did, a place like this would probably be your first guess. However, the chances to meet in the one your friend chose to get her new piercing out of all the tattoo parlors in Seoul are relatively low. Yet, while Sooyoung is giggling under the skilled hands of the minty haired guy, claiming that she’s ticklish around her belly button where she wants to put a jewel, you are looking around in the parlor marvelling at the fascinating drawings plastered on the wall. They are not the usual symbols people without better ideas would ink onto their skin. These are basically artworks: sunset colored seas, a bleeding moon, the whole damn sky full of stars, silhouettes of birds and flowers painted in myriad of colours, oh so many pretty flowers. The style is unique, so delicate yet firm. It’s strangely familiar but you can’t quite put your finger on it, not really until a voice startles you out of your wondering thoughts.

“Do you want to get a tattoo?”

“Uh,” you whip around quickly grabbing at the nearby chair to prevent yourself from falling. Or from fainting. Because it’s Jungkook with his hair in a ponytail and in a tank top that showcases his arms on full display. You almost gape at him as he wears his tattoos like accessories, his body as a canvas for pretty patterns: flowers, lyrics, non-figurative elements, all so him and beautiful. With his hair out of his way, you can see the dangling earring in one lobe but his fringe still hovers over his eyes. You have to physically suppress the urge to brush it away just so you can look him in the eye finally, for crying out loud.

“I’m not sure… about things so permanent,” you say with a shy shrug.

“Interesting,” he muses with a frivolous smile adorning his pouty lips. “I like to have things and keep them.”

They shouldn’t, yet his words make your heart skip a beat.

You silently watch him work, the way he tucks his hair behind his ears, a concentrating frown on his forehead as he holds the tool and his tongue a slightly bit stuck out while drawing. He has the fingers of an artist, thin and long, so you wonder if he ever tried to play piano. Even in the plastic gloves his touch is gentle, it gives you goosebumps and by the time your friend has finished flirting with the mint haired guy, you end up with a tiny butterfly drawing on your right ankle. Not a tattoo - not yet, Jungkook corrected you - but still a temporary reminder of his hands’ work on your skin.

“Do you need a ride home?” he offers when you finally leave and you give a side-eye to your friend who is currently exchanging numbers with the older boy.

“Nah, we will get going soon. But thanks anyway,” you shake your head, smiling to yourself. He isn’t nearly as bad as he wants to seem.

Your mother has never warned you about guys who has motorbikes but gives you their jackets to make sure you don’t catch cold. Neither about those criminal boys who steal your heart just to keep it. Nor the ones who love you so well you think you are dreaming.

Truth to be told, you have never been one to obey anyway and Jungkook has to learn that at first hand quite quickly. Because it doesn’t take too long and you do the one thing he specifically asked you not to do: you fall head-first in love with him.

(He doesn’t complain though.)