What the ?

Silence. With a thrum of anticipation in the air.

A moment passed, and another, and another until Jimin’s shaky hands left his face. His eyes then panned the hallway, as he attempted to locate the source of the mysterious yet admittedly butterfly-inducing voice. All whilst ignoring Mr.pink-jacket-who-wears-actual-Gucci-sunglasses-on-his-shirt towering over him. Because there was no way that voice came out of the brunet.

Anyways, who even wears Gucci to school?

Before Jimin could ponder the logistics of being able to afford and flaunt designer brands without being mugged by high school students who were essentially a crazed pack of hyenas with a penchant for materialism, someone coughed.

'I'm here, you know.' 

Jimin glanced upwards, and his mouth went slack. A flattering expression, once described by a Min Yoongi as that of a camel midway through fervently chewing grass in which Jimin had retorted ‘ you, hyung. Your is grass.' to Hoseok’s shrill laughter in the background. Or perhaps, Hoseok hadn’t been there at all. Perhaps, Hoseok wasn't a voyeur and facilitator of his bruised ego, and it had only been in his head. Either way, Jimin couldn’t tell because his mind had short-circuited.

For instead of the forty-year old chainsmoker he’d imagined, Jimin was confronted with Mr. Gucci whom upon close inspection, was an attractive guy with autumn eyes and a summery smile he was sure could melt all the Antarctic icecaps.

Holy . Scratch that.

This guy wasn’t attractive, he was ing hot with a capital H. Inhumanly Hot. Jimin was convinced he was the fairy child of an angel, the adonis and every one of the most attractive men in 2020 on steroids. And for once, he was sure that his demonic of a friend, Hoe-Hoseok, would agree. So, as a completely normal person, who hadn't been checking the brunet out, and definitely wasn't writing sonnets in his mind dedicated to the guy's godlike attractiveness, Jimin replied with a polite 'excuse me'.

In English.