She’d always been known as a perfectionist, even from a young age as she’d stay back past recess to meticulously colour between the lines or the way she’d practice writing cursive for hours on end, unsatisfied by the slight unevenness to her inked letters. It was a quality that lead to her strong work ethic, admired and adored by her boss who’d always tell her how she’d make his job a lot easier by being her own critic. Park Chaeyoung is sitting in the edge of the stool, the coarse denim fabric of her jeans barely touching the leather as she calculates, revisiting each and every action, like a phantom seeking revenge of the events that had occurred within the last hour.

She’s wondering whether he could see right through her poor attempt at a poker face and whether her words and tone in themselves had given up her game, whether she’d truly gotten away from it all or whether, in the pursuit of searching for him, she’d rip her own heart from her chest with her own bare hands and left in the space between them for him to dissect and critic like a teacher to their pupil. 

Agile fingertips touch the rim of the whiskey on ice that she’d ordered but left untouched, nervously as though she were contemplating whether to take a sip or not. She’d never even had a sip of anything stronger than a beer, but remembers the countless times Jeon Jungkook would order such a drink when they’d go out.

Should she fall into the temptation of sin? 

It’s been a rough night and she thinks she deserves it.

She thinks about the rough burn that’ll sit through the back of if she chose to and whether it’ll be truly enough to dilute the sharpness consuming her like a ruthless dictator. Perhaps, she’d find another toxic addition, one to add to her lately infatuation with Jeon Jungkook.

“You don’t have to drink it, I can give you a refund, just don’t tell my boss…” 

A hoarse, almost groggy yet seemingly clear tone pulls her away from her daydream, eyes looking up to see the bartender pointing to the glass. He wears a sympathetic smile, collared shirt neatly covered with an apron, soft features sharpened by the harsh shadows of the dimly lit bar. 

Her eyes widen in embarrassment, wondering whether the other gentleman recognised her as she reaches for her bag, ready to make an escape. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s just— I couldn’t stop thinking about you since you showed me the picture of the guy you were looking for and to see you back here, I just… I’m sorry you couldn’t