MATURE
what to know: yang jeongin x hairstylist!reader, sfw, mutual pining, jeongin struggling with self image a little, tiny hints that reader is older than jeongin but not explicitly stated, awkward confessions, humor/sarcasm, banter, flirting, kissing, reader thirsting a bit over jeongin's muscles
inspired by jeongin's new hair. he's just so ugh. i'd love to get my fingers in there
word count: 5.9k
recommended listening: what you waiting for - jeon somi
Someone was going to die.
Whether that ended up being your boss killing you, you strangling Yang Jeongin with your bare hands, or Jeongin simply killing you via cardiac arrest remained to be seen.
All you knew was that no good had ever come from an idol requesting an "emergency appointment" at eleven-thirty at night with absolutely no explanation beyond please don't be mad (on your day off, mind you), and you stood by that.
"Please tell me I'm dreaming," you muttered as you rounded the corner into the private styling room.
"You're dreaming," Jeongin said.
"Don't even play with me right now, Yang Jeongin," you hissed, stalking closer till you were right in front of him, eyes burning into his skull.
"But you told me to...?" he mumbled to himself.
"Now you listen to me?!" you exclaimed, smacking his arm repeatedly (why did it feel like hitting a wall?). "What about me telling you to never touch your hair unless I was present or at least gave you the go-ahead? What about that, huh?! Where were your listening ears then?"
He cringed away from your onslaught but clearly knew he deserved this as he didn't step back to put real distance between you.
"What were you thinking?" You smacked his arm again as he straightened out. "Were you thinking at all?"
"Hey!" Jeongin had the audacity to look offended.
Not offended enough to defend himself, because even he understood that he was standing on very thin ice, but offended enough that his eyebrows pulled together and his mouth dropped open.
"Are you punishing me for something?" you asked then. "Did I say or do something that would make you retaliate like this?"
"What?" he sputtered. "No! No, you didn't do anything."
"Then why?" you stressed. "What could have possibly possessed you?"
His eyes flickered away, debating something for a moment before returning back to your gaze. "Let's call it a midlife crisis."
"You're twenty-five," you deadpanned.
"I'm proactive." He shrugged.
"Yeah, proactive at giving me grey hairs," you scoffed. You sighed, squinting through a wince as you surveyed the damage. "Oh, Jeongin-ssi, just what am I to do with you?"
"Fix me?" he suggested, hands held up in a plead and bottom lip jutting out.
Oh, for heaven's sake.
You hated when he did that.
Not because it was childish. Well... maybe a little because it was childish. But mostly because he knew exactly what his facial expressions were capable of, and he chose to weaponize it.
It was blatantly manipulative. There was a reason people had been calling him a fox for years.
"I can't fix whatever is wrong in your head," you answered dully before sighing. "But let me see what I can do for what's on it."
You stepped away, almost swatting him one more time for good measure but thinking better of it. If it was true that he was having some sort of quarter-life crisis, ridiculous as the notion was, you figured he deserved some mercy and kindness (and it was also starting to make your hand ache).
"Okay," you said, reaching for the styling chair behind him and giving it a light tap. "Hoodie off. Sit."
Jeongin obeyed without argument, which, if nothing else, told you he understood the severity of the situation.
He reached both hands behind his neck and peeled the hoodie over his head in one motion before tossing it onto the empty styling station beside him. Underneath, he wore nothing more than a plain white ribbed tank top, which told you he'd likely rolled straight out of bed, thrown on the nearest pair of sweatpants and jacket, and bolted out the door before anyone could stop him from making his poor decisions your problem.
You blinked.
Since when had his arms gotten so... arm-y?
You saw Jeongin all the time. Well, almost all the time. Schedules changed by the hour, different stylists rotated through depending on the day, and there were stretches where you wouldn't see him for a week or two before suddenly spending every day together again. It shouldn't have been enough time for noticeable changes, and yet somehow, every single reunion came with another unpleasant surprise (the most recent one had been his jawline, and the time before that had been his voice being just a tad bit deeper).
His shoulders had broadened, his upper arms had filled out, even the line where his shoulder met his neck looked more defined than you remembered.
Changbin.
It had to be Changbin's fault.
Or Chan's.
Probably both, actually. Those jerks. Had they no idea what their machinations could lead to?
You turned away before your thoughts could become any more traitorous, suddenly finding your station in desperate need of organization. The combs were already lined up, the clips were already where they belonged, and your spray bottle had not moved since you'd been here a day ago.
Naturally, you adjusted all of them anyway to look busy.
It was called professionalism.
You were a professional.
You had seen shirtless idols before. You had styled people in considerably less clothing than this. A tank top should not have been enough to derail your train of thought.
And yet here you were with an overturned train.
Once you heard the chair creak beneath him and watched him settle through the mirror's reflection, you finally reached for the cape hanging from a hook on the wall. You crossed back over near-blindly, draping it around his shoulders before fastening it securely around his neck, and you couldn't help but silently thank whoever had invented the things.
Bless the cape.
It covered his shoulders. It covered his chest. Most importantly, it covered the evidence of Changbin's gym propaganda.
Now you could focus on the actual disaster sitting atop his head instead of all the other ways Yang Jeongin had decided to change while you weren't looking. That alone was going to require every ounce of your concentration.
"Music?" you asked, reaching for your phone.
It was mostly a formality.
Styling appointments were long. Color corrections, trims, touch-ups, fittings, makeup, all of it took time, and very few people enjoyed sitting in near silence while someone hovered around their head with sharp objects. The members certainly didn't. Some preferred conversation, some preferred doomscrolling until you tapped their hand away because they kept tilting their head at the wrong moment, and some simply liked having something familiar playing in the background.
Jeongin fell into that last category.
"Yeah," he answered. "I added stuff the other day."
You hummed in acknowledgement, your phone connecting to the Bluetooth speaker tucked away beneath the vanity. It paired with a chime, and you navigated to the playlist you'd made for him a while ago.
Every member had one.
It began as a practical solution after the fifteenth argument over who got to hijack the salon speakers, but somewhere along the line the playlists had taken on lives of their own. Songs would appear overnight because someone had been listening to a new artist. Others would disappear after being skipped one too many times. Sometimes you'd add something because it reminded you of them.
It was strangely intimate, now that you thought about it.
Not necessarily in a romantic sense, though it bordered on it sometimes.
You knew Jeongin had been having a bad week if melancholic indie songs started appearing near the top. You knew he was in one of his nostalgic moods whenever old second-generation K-pop found its way into the mix. You didn't know, but you had a feeling, that he was in a particularly good mood whenever love ballads played. At least, he always seemed to be happiest and extra chatty when these were on.
The first notes of a trending sad song drifted softly through the room.
Hm.
Perhaps the crisis was more serious than you thought.
Proceed with caution, your brain screamed.
You picked up your comb, stepped behind him, and finally allowed yourself to really assess the damage.
Your fingers gently combed through the front, lifting sections one by one before letting them fall naturally back into place. Every few seconds you'd separate another piece, studying the (severely split) ends, the weight distribution, the places where he'd decided to keep cutting... and then keep cutting a little more.
Your lips pressed into a thin line.
"What did you use, safety scissors?" you tutted in light horror. Under your breath, you uttered a, "Geez, this kid."
He at least had the decency to look properly chastened, slumping further in the chair till you pinched his ear and forced him back up.
Your attention drifted back to his bangs, gently pressing one section between your fingers before comparing it to the other side. Uneven, of course. And the back was its own catastrophe. That didn't surprise you. Even the best hair stylists in the world would struggle to properly cut the back of their own hair.
Thank goodness for job security.
Out of your periphery, you noticed his stare reflected in the mirror. And you couldn't quite tell for sure, but it seemed to you as if his gaze was not on his hair at all, but on you.
After a moment, he heaved a big sigh, a rather sad one that made you pause.
Having known him for some time now, and being pretty familiar with the emotions of others, you knew this wasn't just him lamenting his own bad decision (though there was probably a bit of that included). This was a sigh from the depths of his very soul.
You found yourself rounding the chair to tilt his chin ever so slightly toward the light, studying his face—his eyes, mostly—rather than his hair, though he would be none-the-wiser.
People had a funny way of telling on themselves through their eyes. You'd spent enough years standing behind salon chairs to learn that the face people presented to the world wasn't always the one they revealed in the mirror.
Jeongin had always been particularly difficult to read.
Not because he hid things well.
Oddly enough, it was the opposite.
Everything seemed to pass over his face for the briefest moment before disappearing again: embarrassment, excitement, irritation, insecurity, amusement. They were all there if you happened to catch them in time, flickering across his features before he—unconsciously or knowingly—tucked them away beneath another joke or an absent shrug.
You'd become pretty good at catching those moments.
This one, however...
There was something sitting just beneath the surface of his expression. Not sadness, exactly. Not even frustration. More... uncertainty. It was not a feeling you often associated with him, if ever. To you, Jeongin was a confident guy. Sometimes to a fault.
Your thumb brushed lightly against his jaw as you turned his face a touch to the left, your gaze flicking between his eyes and the uneven fringe hanging over them.
One of the first things they drilled into you in cosmetology school, somewhere between sanitation protocols and color theory, was that people talked in salon chairs. Some clients wanted to vent about work. Others came armed with neighborhood gossip or relationship drama. There were women who scheduled trims every six weeks just to update you on their grandchildren, businessmen who somehow managed to conduct three meetings while getting a haircut, teenagers whose entire lives unfolded in forty-five minute appointments.
Hairdressers heard everything.
Sometimes whether they wanted to or not.
The trick wasn't getting people to talk.
It was making them feel like they could.
Silence, you'd learned, was just as important as conversation. If you filled every quiet moment with questions, people tended to retreat. If you left enough space, eventually they'd fill it themselves.
Most of the members were exactly like that. They liked to chat once you got them going.
Jeongin...
Jeongin joked.
He teased, you teased him back. Your humor had always connected you, being so similar.
But when it came to himself?
To the things that actually mattered?
Those conversations were rarer. Not because he was closed off. Just because he seemed content letting people assume he was.
You'd learned not to take it personally. Some people processed their thoughts out loud, while others needed to carry them around awhile before deciding whether they were worth sharing.
Jeongin had always struck you as the second kind.
So instead of asking what was wrong, you resumed combing through the uneven strands as though nothing had crossed your mind.
Maybe you were reading too much into it.
Maybe you were projecting onto a twenty-five-year-old who had simply made an impulsive decision with a pair of scissors.
Or maybe, after spending years watching people quietly reinvent themselves one haircut, one color appointment, one comeback at a time, you'd simply gotten decent at recognizing when a haircut wasn't really about the hair.
You reached for the spray bottle sitting beside the mirror, giving the nozzle a few experimental squeezes before misting the front of his hair until the uneven strands began clumping together.
You combed the fringe forward again, studying the silhouette it created before moving to the sides.
"I'm going to have to take quite a bit off," you warned as you sectioned out the front. "There's really no way around it. If I try to preserve the length, it's just going to look... unintentionally messy and asymmetrical."
Jeongin nodded. "I figured."
You picked up your scissors and began carefully evening out the first section.
Snip.
Comb.
Check.
Another snip.
"I do have a couple ideas," you said after a long moment or two of this, mostly thinking out loud as your brain pieced together possibilities. "The length isn't what concerns me. I think I can work with that."
Jeongin watched you through the mirror, one of his feet lightly swinging in a way that brushed your calf every time you moved in front of him.
"I've been wanting to try pushing more of it off your forehead anyway," you continued. "Not every day, just for schedules and shows. We'd have to use more product than you're used to, probably a stronger hold than we've been using, but..." You tipped your head, mentally picturing it. "... I think it could work really well. It would suit you."
"I trust you," he said simply. "Whatever you think is best."
"You say that," you muttered, scowling at the back of his scalp, "and then you immediately go home and butcher what I think is best."
"... I'm sorry, okay?"
The words were quiet enough that you almost wondered if you'd imagined them. You looked up to find Jeongin wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes stayed fixed on his reflection rather than yours. And his jaw was clenched, accentuating things you normally tried to avoid looking at.
"I am," he said again, rubbing absently at his knee beneath the cape. "I'm sorry."
You hesitated, having not expected an apology from him at all. Especially not one delivered as more of a snap than sheepish or amused.
Sure, you ribbed him about this, and you truly were a little annoyed over the whole ordeal. But it was mostly in jest. Though you were loathe to say it considering it was your whole world, it was just hair.
Your head stylist would probably rip a new one into you during group meeting tomorrow (even if it wasn't your fault and Jeongin had blindsided you as well), but your job and livelihood was not truly at risk.
"It's okay, Jeongin-ssi," you said. "I'm mostly joking, you know that."
"I know, I know," he said quietly. "Sorry for getting snippy."
"'Snippy,'" you echoed, snorting. You clicked your scissors twice. "Good one."
"I'm here all week," he said, a light smirk decorating his face.
"Better not be," you warned him. "I have other clients, you know."
"But I'm your favorite, right?" he asked, tilting his head back into your hands to glance at you upside down.
Yes. "After this stunt you just pulled?" you threaded your fingers through his hair and tugged pointedly.
His eyes fluttered shut, and you immediately let go to fix what you just mussed up. Professional!
With a hand on either side of his head, you tilted his face back down, ignoring the sight of him suddenly biting his lip. He would be the death of you—intentionally or not—you swore it.
By the time you'd finished evening everything out, the floor around the chair looked as though a small animal had exploded. Typically, during normal hours, there would be another team member around to sweep and vacuum this up. Maybe you'd get Jeongin to clean it up, it was the least he could do.
You set the scissors down, worked a small amount of styling cream between your palms, and began pushing the front back and away from his forehead. You reached for the stronger gel next, adding just enough to create separation without making it crunchy before locking everything into place with a light mist of hairspray.
Finally, you stepped back to look it over.
"Hm," you hummed, tilting your head back and forth, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. "This kind of reminds me of Chan-ssi's hair."
Chan had come in a couple weeks past, asking for an edgier look. After a long series of discussions with the glam team and head stylists (as was the proper process), the approved solution had been to go shorter.
"The way it sits off your forehead," you explained, moving around him to adjust one stubborn piece. "Not exactly the cut, just the styling. Do you see it?"
Jeongin nodded, though it was more of an unconscious one as he looked himself over.
You reached forward again, pinching another section into place. "He'd probably have good product recommendations if you wanted to style it yourself. We've basically narrowed his routine down to a science at this point."
"You think it looks good?" He studied himself in the mirror.
"I do." What sort of hairdresser would you be if you didn't like your work?
"... You think I look like Channie-hyung?" he asked then, thoughtful.
"I mean, your hair does, yeah," you said, brows furrowing. "You still look plenty like yourself."
The tiny spark that had appeared in his eyes dimmed just as quickly. It was so subtle that someone who didn't spend half their life staring at faces in mirrors might have missed it.
He tipped his head one way and then the other. His fingers twitched beneath the cape as though he wanted to reach up and touch it but knew better.
"It's still me," he murmured in agreement.
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. Like he was resigned to the fact. As though that had been the answer he'd expected all along, but not one he'd wanted.
"What were you hoping for?" you asked, unsure.
Jeongin was quiet for several seconds. When he finally spoke, he didn't look at you. "Do you find me... desirable?"
And how glad you were that you no longer had scissors or anything else in your hand. You feared what might have happened to his precious hair.
Every cell in your body, despite the sudden shock, gave a resounding yes!
"What sort of question..." you breathed, trying to steady the sudden shake in your fingers. "'Desirable?'"
Jeongin still didn't look at you. His eyes stayed steadfastly fixed on his own reflection.
"I don't know," he admitted after a moment, a little frustration creeping into his voice. "I don't know where that came from. Forget the word."
Impossible. "Gladly."
"I just..." He bit his cheek. "When you look at me, do I still seem..."
He trailed off, and you merely waited.
"... young?" he finished.
You leaned one hip against the vanity, crossing your arms loosely as you studied him through the mirror instead of fussing with another stray piece of hair to distract yourself.
"You are young," you pointed out carefully.
"I don't really mean my age." His gaze finally met yours in the reflection. "I mean..." He searched for the words with a small grimace. "When you see me."
He gestured vaguely toward himself.
"Do you still see..." Another pause. "... the kid?"
Jeongin had never been the kid to you, despite your grieved utterances earlier. You'd only joined the team a couple of years back, long after the braces had disappeared and the baby cheeks had started giving way to sharper lines. The version of him you'd met had already been somewhere in that awkward in-between stage where adulthood had arrived before everyone else seemed willing to acknowledge it.
Still, you thought you understood what he meant.
You knew how most of his fandom viewed him.
The maknae.
Baby-bread.
The little brother of the group.
They were affectionate labels more than anything else, but after years of hearing them repeated over and over again, you supposed they had a way of sticking to a person whether they wanted them to or not.
You found yourself nodding slowly.
"I think people have a hard time letting go of the version of someone they met first," you admitted. "Once they decide who you are in their heads, they don't always notice all the little changes happening right in front of them."
Jeongin didn't answer. He just kept looking at himself.
"I just want to be seen as mature," he admitted at last. "I want to be seen as grown, as..." He hesitated long enough that you almost thought he'd abandon the sentence altogether. "... sexy."
He said the word as though it physically pained him, like a curse.
Your jaw felt a little loose, and you feared it might unhinge itself and land somewhere near the pile of freshly-cut hair on the floor.
Perhaps you really were dreaming.
"Believe me," you said after finding your voice again, "there are millions of people out there who see you as sexy, Jeongin-ssi."
The reassurance didn't have the effect you'd expected. If anything, it seemed to disappoint him. His shoulders sagged the slightest bit, and he let out a quiet breath through his nose before finally dragging his gaze away from the mirror to look at you instead.
Not at your reflection.
At you.
"What about you?" he asked.
Your stomach dropped. "... What about me?"
"When you look at me." His voice had gone quiet again, stripped of the joking tone that had carried him through most of the morning. "Do you see me as mature?"
You blinked. Before you could even begin to start sorting through an answer, he spoke again.
"Would you date me?"
Your entire train of thought promptly drove off a cliff again. You watched as it soared through the air, all its cargo spilling out, until it crashed with a boom at the bottom. You had a bad feeling that all that cargo was actually your common sense.
"Those are two totally different questions," you stammered, very aware that if your hands hadn't still been tacky with styling product, they'd probably be sweating.
"With the same answer?" he asked hopefully.
"You've certainly... matured," you said slowly. "And as for that second question... I haven't reviewed my contract in a while, but I'm almost positive there's a section about not fraternizing with the talent."
Way to sidestep the question!
"Forget legalities." He flicked his hand dismissively.
"Um," you hesitated, "I'm a law-abiding citizen...? I don't even jaywalk."
"It's just a hypothetical question," he insisted.
Was it really, though?
"Hypothetically, the economy is terrible and I enjoy remaining employed." A horrible thought suddenly struck you, and your eyes widened. "Are there cameras in here?"
You twisted and turned to look up at the corners of the room where, no, there were no cameras because it was technically a dressing room. You then started patting at the cape over Jeongin's tank top, trying to feel for a mic.
"I promise," he said, trying unsuccessfully to hide how amused he suddenly looked, "I'm not mic'd."
"My trust in your judgement after last night is on the rocks," you replied, still searching. "You'll forgive me if I verify that myself."
Just before you could shove him forward off the chair to start feeling around his waistband for the lump of a mic pack, the cape shifted and Jeongin caught your wrists. The heavy fabric bunched around his forearms as he reached out, his fingers resting lightly around your wrists before lowering your hands back toward your own sides.
"You have my word," he said, his voice calmer than it had been all morning, "this isn't being recorded."
You searched his face for any hint of mischief and found none.
"Then why are you asking me these crazy things?" you whispered, your eyes darting toward the ceiling fearfully one more time anyway. "You're going to make me develop a stress-induced heart condition."
The corners of his mouth twitched. "Is it really that crazy?"
"The questions?" You let out a breathy laugh that sounded much more nervous than amused. "Yes."
He made a face, considering this.
"If what you're looking for is an ego boost," you continued, "I could hand you my phone right now. Open literally any social media app. I promise you won't make it three posts before you find somebody thirsting over you."
Which perhaps revealed too much about how the algorithm curated your content.
"I'm gonna be honest," he said, thankfully not mentioning anything about that. "I'm not really interested in what everyone else thinks."
"... Huh?" you said, despite hearing him and understanding him clear as day.
He looked at you as though the answer were painfully obvious. "Because I'm not trying to date everyone else?"
Which implied he was trying to date you.
Now, you weren't exactly clueless.
What you had with Jeongin, from the very beginning, had been... how should you say this?
Charged?
From the first meeting, you guys had engaged in what you considered 'recreational flirting.' It was fun, it was easygoing, it was low stakes. It had always felt harmless, if a little hollow because it felt a little like an endless road. Because there had been an unspoken understanding that it wasn't actually going anywhere.
Neither of you acknowledged the occasional flutter in your stomach when he'd grin after successfully making you laugh, or the fact that he actively sought you out over the other stylists even when another was available, or how your eyes had developed a habit of seeking him out whenever the group walked into a room.
Those things were... manageable. They stayed neatly tucked away in the little compartment of your brain labeled Absolutely Not Happening (...Unless?).
Not because you had never considered it.
You had considered it plenty.
You had just also considered the very real possibility of losing your job, creating an awkward environment for everyone involved, and having to face the rest of the team after making the world's most questionable career decision. There were certain lines you did not cross when you worked with people, and dating one of your clients was very firmly printed in bold letters somewhere near the top of that list.
So, for everyone's sake, you had simply decided that whatever this was stayed exactly where it was in the do-not-touch box.
It had been working surprisingly well.
And now Yang Jeongin had broken into that compartment with a crowbar.
"The contract?" was all you managed to weakly get out.
"A mere piece of paper?" he replied, leaving off the obvious You think that's enough to stop me? Really?
"I signed a digital copy," you murmured, doing your utmost to wrestle your rapidly unraveling thoughts back into something resembling order.
"So a couple pixels then?" he asked, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.
You stared at him for a long moment, and, frankly, the way your heartrate spiked was your own fault. You had done entirely too good of a job. You had absolutely cooked.
The haircut sat exactly how you'd imagined it would. The product caught the light just enough to emphasize the sharper angles of his face, his forehead no longer hidden away behind soft bangs, his eyes somehow looking even larger despite there being less hair around them.
This was your worst nightmare and greatest dream all wrapped into one. A magnum opus, you might call this.
The only thing preserving your professionalism at present was the salon cape wrapped around him. It was difficult to impulsively climb into someone's lap when they looked like a disjointed head.
Thank God for hygiene and cleanliness.
"Why do you insist on putting me in these tough spots?" you sighed.
"I didn't think this one would be that tough." He frowned at you, genuine confusion softening his features.
A tiny, disbelieving laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Once again," you said, pinching the bridge of your nose, "I have to ask... were you thinking at all?"
"I thought about it for a long time, actually," he balked. "It's all I've been thinking about. You're all I've been thinking about."
Oh.
Oh, hell.
Every sensible thought you'd painstakingly attempted to gather over the last several minutes packed up their little briefcases, wished you the best of luck, and walked clean out of your brain.
You didn't even realize you'd moved until you were standing between his knees.
Jeongin blinked up at you, clearly startled by the sudden lack of distance.
"You..." he started carefully.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say anything else."
"Why?"
"Because if you keep talking, my common sense might come back."
He looked adorably confused by that. Unfortunately, you found confused Jeongin almost as endearing as smug Jeongin.
Your hands found the fastening at the back of his neck.
Rrrrip.
The Velcro came undone, the cape slipping from his shoulders and sliding into an unceremonious heap on the floor.
His wide eyes followed it just for a millisecond before lifting back up to yours.
And that's when you kissed him.
It was the culmination of every lingering glance caught in mirrors, every teasing comment that had simultaneously frustrated and titillated you, every almost that had quietly accumulated between styling appointments and late-night schedules until there simply wasn't room for another one.
Jeongin made the softest sound of surprise against your lips before instinct took over. His hands found your waist, and you could feel him start to rise from the chair on pure reflex, nearly taking you with him.
"Mm mm," you refused against his lips, one hand pressing firmly against his shoulder to keep him seated.
He didn't fight back, but he was considerably more upright in the chair than he had been before, craning his neck to be more level with you. You could feel the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth against yours.
Trust him.
Trust Yang Jeongin to adorably dimple-smile into his first kiss with you.
One of your hands came up to cup his jaw, and you could feel him slightly cringe away from the stickiness you'd yet to wipe off, but he didn't get far before deciding he didn't care.
Your other hand drifted almost absentmindedly to his shoulder, a shoulder you'd been thankfully able to ignore till this point.
Your fingertips brushed over the fabric of his tank top, feeling the solid warmth beneath it before they slid higher, catching briefly on the layered necklaces resting against his collarbone. One of the pendants had twisted sideways sometime during the session, and without thinking you straightened it.
He hummed sweetly against your lips to the rhythm of 'Thank you.'
Your hand at his jaw eventually found its way into his freshly styled hair, and the product gave beneath your fingers.
Some detached, horrified little corner of your brain registered the fact that you were ruining your own artwork.
The rest of you couldn't have cared less.
Your fingers threaded through the shorter strands, feeling them catch slightly against your knuckles as you gently combed them back, only to have them spring forward again when you loosened your grip.
Jeongin made another soft sound against your lips, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, his forehead bumping lightly against yours as he chased after you when you pulled back only an inch for air.
His hands, which had settled carefully at your waist as though still asking permission even after you'd kissed him first, finally grew bolder. They slid around to the small of your back, fingertips pressing gently through the fabric of your shirt before traveling higher, slow enough that you could feel every inch of their path. There was a hesitation to the movement.
He wasn't uncertain.
He was making sure you wanted this just as much as he did.
You answered by kissing him again.
Any remaining restraint he'd been clinging to seemed to dissolve beneath the reassurance. One hand spread comfortably between your shoulder blades while the other wandered only as far as propriety and the awkward angle of the styling chair allowed, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small arcs against your side.
You'd never realized how warm he was.
Or perhaps you'd always known, years spent fussing around his face and neck putting you close enough to notice, but never close enough to linger on it.
Now you felt everything.
The faint scent of whatever body wash he'd used the day before, only partially masked by hairspray and styling cream. The cool brush of his necklaces whenever you leaned closer, the pendants occasionally catching against the back of your hand. The way his shoulders seemed even broader without the cape hiding them, your palm naturally settling there before drifting lazily over the firm line where his shoulder met his neck.
Your thumb swept across the edge of his collarbone.
He inhaled quietly, and your lips curved. "Ticklish?"
He answered by burying his face briefly against the side of your neck, and you felt his laugh more than you heard it. Such a pretty sound.
The laughter quickly died as he found a newfound interest in tracing his lips against your pulse point. The hand behind your shoulder blades slowly pushed and pushed, silently telling you that he needed you closer, until you had no choice but to support yourself on the chair somehow.
While one of your legs bent at the knee and rested on one side of his thighs, the other resolutely stayed grounded on the floor. You were a bit up in the clouds, but not enough to forget this was your place of work. And though you had established and reaffirmed that there were no cameras, that did not stop the slight edge to your nerves that told you to be on the lookout for any colleagues coming in on their day off.
The hand he'd been using to keep you steady on your hip slipped down to squeeze your thigh pointedly, pleased with its placement. It slid higher and higher until he met the crease of your work pants, settling there permanently.
Had his hands always been this big?
He pulled back after making a particularly squelchy sounding kiss under your jaw, lips pink and cheeks pink and ears pink. You glanced over your shoulder at the mirror, finding yourself in similar straits. When you turned back to face him, he was merely staring up at you, breathing heavily.
Your eyes drifted up to the mess you'd made. All this because he'd freaked out over the way people—namely you—viewed him. You had to make sure it didn't happen again.
"So this crisis..." you started, clearing your throat.
"You know what?" he cut in, tugging you closer again. "We don't have to talk about that anymore. I think I got my answers."
"Hey," you resisted his pull, though it took tremendous effort both mentally and physically, "I need to make sure you don't do anything drastic like this again. Last thing I need is you buzzing everything off without warning."
"So long as you keep kissing me, that's not going to be a problem," he assured, smiling cheekily.
And, really, it was only logical (a reminder that all your logical reasoning and common sense skills had vacated the premises).
From a professional standpoint, it was in your best interest to continue kissing him. It was in the best interest of your job, because you would prefer never to experience a damage-control emergency again. It was in the best interest of his career, because you were fairly certain the stylist team would collectively expire if they received another message that began with Jeongin has made a decision without consulting anyone.
Therefore, by all accounts, you were simply doing your duty.
You were a hero, really.
A very irresponsible, contract-breaking hero.
And with that perfectly sound reasoning in mind, your mouth was back on his, all remaining thoughts of professionalism, common sense, and consequences temporarily forgotten somewhere beneath the pile of hair and cape on the floor.
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