⤷sypnosis: Kim Taehyung's worldview relies on three absolute truths: the law is malleable, his Tom Ford suits are impeccable, and every woman in the city wants him. Then he gets hijacked by a stranger who forces him to pay a luxury-car-sized vet bill for a stray puppy and looks at him like he's an annoying fly. He thinks your "mysterious intuition" is just a high-effort tactical play to get into his bed. You're just trying to survive your day job while your tarot deck screams that this idiot's logic is about to violently implode. It's fine. Everything is fine.
⤷pairing: kim taehyung x f!reader
⤷genre: lawyer!taehyung, witch!reader, rom-com, urban fantasy, workplace/legal!au, fast-paced flirtation, one-sided slowburn.
⤷warnings: corporate arrogance, heavy wealth flexing, swearing, mild supernatural peril later on, taehyung getting completely humbled. also features some highly unprofessional legal counseling that eventually violates several workspace boundaries (yes, there is smut, he's a womanizer, what did you expect?).
a/n: well hello. before reading, please remember taehyung is an elitist. that doesn’t reflect my view on things and please do not be offended by whatever he might say. do i believe there's room for character development? obviously. that’s why i write flawed characters. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t come off as a prick at times due to his limited view on things because as stated before, he’s arrogant and likes to stay in the luke warm waters of privilege that he got through his high power job.
enjoy reading! please let me know your thoughts i love reading comments.
He was literally flabbergasted.
"What..." Taehyung's voice rolled out in a low, gravelly rasp, his throat clicking as he forced himself to swallow. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Then, leaning a fraction closer, you let a wave of heavy, mock sympathy pool into your expression. You pouted your lips just enough to make it agonizing. "Oh, you poor thing. Look at your hair. How on earth did a high-powered, brilliant legal mind like you end up in a weird little niche neighborhood like this? Did you get lost?"
Taehyung's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently beneath his tan skin. He hated that look on you. You were so incredibly sure of yourself, standing in your own domain like you had been waiting for him to walk through that door all night. And the worst part?
You had known. We all knew he would end up right here.
"My vehicle experienced a geographical miscalculation due to the compromised visibility," he stated stiffly, trying to pull his shoulders back to reclaim his towering dignity. "It is an unmitigated disaster outside. First, a massive, un-forecasted volume of precipitation fell directly on my head before I could even clear the office curb. Then a three-car pileup blocked the main artery, forcing a detour, and Marcus completely missed the left turn because of the sheets of water. It was a compounding series of logistical failures."
He stared at your face—at the completely unbothered, deeply amused curve of your lips. His own words echoed back in his ears, and the logical side of his brain suddenly misfired.
Taehyung's eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. He leaned across the bar counter, his voice dropping into a low, intense whisper. "Wait a minute. How did you know?"
You blinked, your expression smoothing out into an innocent, blank canvas. You lazily tossed the bar towel over your other shoulder. "How did I know what?"
"Don't play dumb with me," he hissed, his composure completely fraying at the edges. He pointed a long, elegant finger at the fogged-up windows, then pointed it directly at you. "The... uhm, the rain? The weather app explicitly stated a zero percent chance of precipitation for forty-eight hours. Yet you stood in that clinic and told me to watch out for it. And... us meeting tonight? Or whatever the hell this is?"
You just tilted your head, watching him struggle against the cosmic absurdity of it all, looking entirely like a cat that had not only caught the canary, but had already digested it.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, counselor," you said softly, reaching down to grab a heavy rocks glass from beneath the counter. "I just told you to watch out for the weather. It's not my fault your expensive apps can't predict a basic little storm."
Taehyung didn't hear a single word of your defense.
His brain had entirely checked out of the conversation the exact moment you moved. As you reached for the bottle of gin behind you, the dim, amber pendant light caught the line of your collarbone.
Is that a low-cut shirt under there?
He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on you as his thoughts took a sudden, violently un-professional detour. You looked good. Shockingly, infuriatingly good. Delectable, even. You were wearing this completely ordinary, slightly faded bar apron, but the ugly canvas wasn't doing you justice at all—if anything, it only emphasized the way you effortlessly bodied every single person in this dimly lit room. Amidst the crowd of eccentric hipsters and weird locals, you were an absolute vision. Wow. Just so fucking good.
He forced his eyes back up to your face, his chest tightening as he tried to remember how to be an arrogant corporate attorney instead of a man who was actively drooling over his bartender.
"And us meeting?" Taehyung pressed, his voice dropping an octave, thicker and much more grounded than before. He leaned his forearm against the dark wood, trying to look intimidating to mask the way his heart was hammering. "You expect me to believe it is a mere coincidence that out of every establishment in this city, my driver happens to strand me at your bar?"
You set the bottle down with a soft, deliberate clink, resting both hands on the counter as you leaned in close enough for him to catch the faint scent of vanilla and rain clinging to your skin.
"This isn't anything," you replied, your voice dropping into a smooth, teasing purr that danced right over his frayed nerves. "You're the one who ordered a new bar."
Taehyung let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his eyes locked onto yours as a dark, dangerous smirk finally broke through his confusion.
"I ordered a negroni, sweet thing," he countered softly, his gaze dropping intentionally to your lips before snapping back up. "But if you're telling me you come with the venue, then consider me a frequent customer."
You didn't rise to the bait. Instead, you smoothly grabbed a mixing glass, stirred the drink with an effortless, practiced rhythm, and strained the dark amber liquid over a single, clear block of ice. You slid the glass across the polished wood, stopping it right at his fingertips.
"Don't choke," you said softly, your eyes holding his with a dangerous amount of calm. "I made it potent. Just for you."
Taehyung's hand wrapped around the cold crystal, his fingers tapping against the glass as that familiar, arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. He leaned in a fraction of an inch, his voice dropping into a low rumble. "I'm potent too."
Typical. It was the exact kind of smooth, high-rolling line he used to dominate boardroom tables and high-end lounges.
But you didn't react. You didn't blush, you didn't stammer, and you didn't look remotely flustered. You just stared right back at him, completely unbothered.
Even more typical. It was infuriating how quickly you could defuse his charm without even trying.
But before he could open his mouth to claw back his upper hand, the space between you was violently interrupted.
A random-ass dude walked up behind the bar counter, reaching out to carelessly touch your arm. He murmured something low and indistinct to you over the roar of the music, leaning entirely too close into your personal space.
Taehyung's eyes instantly locked onto the stranger's hand, his entire body going rigid.
What is that? Who is that creature breaching your perimeter with presumably dirty hands?
Taehyung's own hands were clean. Always clean. He sanitized before court, after court, and wore bespoke fabrics that shielded him from the unwashed masses. Yet this guy was just... putting his fingers on you. Taehyung's gaze tracked up the guy's forearm, noting the scattered, tiny tattoos inked into his skin.
A poser. Taehyung scoffed internally, a wave of bitter, elite superiority washing over him. If the guy had any actual balls, he'd have a high-stakes, ruthless career that required him to hide tiny tattoos. But he was just a bartender. Pathetic.
You didn't clock the absolute internal avalanche happening on the other side of the counter. You just nodded at the guy, who finally pulled his hand away to go change a keg or wipe down a table. Turning back to Taehyung, you rested your elbows on the wood again. "So, how's Tort?"
Taehyung didn't care about the dog right now. He didn't care about the strict walking schedules, or the fresh stains on his imported upholstery. His eyes were still burning holes into the back of the bartender who had just walked away.
"Who's the guy that touched your arm?" Taehyung asked, his voice flat, demanding, and dropping into a cold, territorial tone.
You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the sharp pivot, but you didn't let it rattle you. "My co-worker. Lucas."
"Lucas," Taehyung repeated, tasting the name like it was a poorly written brief. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his potent negroni, his eyes fixated on you over the rim of the glass. "And what exactly does a Lucas do?"
You let out a dry, incredulous breath, rolling your eyes at the sheer absurdity of his tone. "I don't know. Bartend? Tending the bar? Nursing and making drinks? He's a bartender, Taehyung."
"I obviously gathered that," he snapped back instantly, his baritone sharp and laced with an icy impatience. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the clear block of ice clinking against the crystal with a rhythmic, hostile snap. "I mean in context with you. What is he to you?"
"Ah, fabulous," Taehyung murmured, a dark, bitterly sarcastic smile cutting across his face. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intense, interrogative glare. "A kissing coworker?"
"I don't date colleagues."
The words left your mouth coolly, a definitive boundary drawn across the dark wood of the bar.
Taehyung paused. The rigid, territorial tension in his shoulders didn't completely vanish, but the tight, defensive line of his jaw subtly relaxed. He took another slow, deliberate sip of his negroni, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue before that familiar, arrogant spark returned to his eyes. He leveled you with a smug, knowing look.
"Well," he purred, his voice dropping into a smooth, self-satisfied rumble as he gestured vaguely to his damp, immaculate suit. "Aren't you super glad I don't work in a weird bar that smells like herbs?"
You propped your elbows back on the polished dark wood, leaning forward to deliver whatever witty, sharp-tongued retort you had lined up to shut down his arrogance.
But Taehyung didn't hear a single syllable of it. His brain completely, violently checked out of the conversation the exact second you shifted your weight.
Because that was, in fact, a low-cut shirt.
And those were, in fact, boobs. Cleavage. Whichever primal, unscientific word his brilliant mind wanted to scramble for in this exact moment—they were right there. Right in his face.
Yes, he was looking. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. The supreme, unflappable corporate ace was staring directly down at the exposed skin of your chest, entirely captivated, and thoroughly enjoying every single second of it. The faded apron didn't mean a damn thing anymore. The dim, warm amber lighting of the bar traced the soft slope of your skin so perfectly it felt like a personal insult to his sanity.
The thought tore through his mind like a rogue wave, drowning out the jazz music, the chatter of the weird locals, and the sound of the rain outside. He just needed one chance. Just one single, solitary chance to prove himself to you. To tear down that unbothered, untouchable wall you always kept up between you.
God, he'd make you feel so good. He'd make you feel absolutely, utterly worshipped. He'd trace every single inch of that skin with his lips until you were the one losing your mind, the one stuttering and breathless, completely wrecked under his hands. He wanted to ruin that cool composure of yours so badly it made his chest ache.
He took a slow, heavy breath, his eyes burning as they fixed onto the dip of your collarbone, his imagination running completely wild in the middle of The Blind Newt.
Your voice broke through his haze, but it wasn't teasing anymore. It sounded weirdly paused, your brow furrowing as you stared up at his face.
He blinked, slowly dragging his dark gaze back up to your eyes, his lips still curled into a smug, confident smirk. "What?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, bedroom purr. "Am I distracting you?"
You didn't blush. Instead, you reached over, pulled a clean white napkin from the chrome dispenser on the counter, and extended it toward him with a look of disbelief.
Taehyung's smug, seductive smirk instantly vanished. He pulled his hand up to his face, his long fingers brushing against his upper lip, and when he pulled them back into the dim amber light, his pads were slick with bright, stark crimson.
Panic, sudden and violent, seized his chest. His heart did a frantic flip, not from a medical scare, but from sheer horror. His shirt. His custom-tailored, thousand-dollar egyptian cotton dress shirt was pristine, blindingly white beneath his unbuttoned charcoal jacket. If a single drop of this fell, the fabric was compromised. His dignity was already on life support, his wardrobe could not take a hit too.
"Tissues," he blurted out, his smooth voice cracking into a desperate, strangled command. "Give me... I need tissues. Now."
You didn't hesitate, though the sheer, staggering amusement dancing in your eyes was loud enough to fill the entire bar. You grabbed a thick handful of cocktail napkins from the bar caddy along with the thin one from the dispenser you previously took and shoved them across the damp mahogany into his waiting, trembling palm.
Taehyung snatched them, aggressively crushing the paper against his face. He stuffed the napkins against his nostrils until his nose literally refused to take any more paper, completely blocking his airway, and violently yanked his head backward. He stared blindly up at the cracked, tin-ceiling tiles of The Blind Newt, his throat working in a hard, panicked swallow as he tried to keep gravity from ruining his clothes.
Embarrassing was a severe, catastrophic understatement.
He got a nosebleed. After looking at boobs.
Like a juvenile, stupid, pathetic anime protagonist. Like a virgin teenager who had never seen a woman in his life. That actually just happened to him. Right now. In front of you, the one person on the planet he needed to maintain absolute, flawless superiority over.
Oh, he wanted to die. He wanted to actually, literally dig a hole beneath the sticky floorboards of this wretched bar, crawl inside, and never come out into human civilization again. Marcus could have the Mercedes. His firm could have his billable hours. He was done.
Him. Kim Taehyung. A corporate apex predator with a private lifestyle and a body count that he'd rather not say ever out loud—he loved ladies, what could he say? He was a connoisseur of beautiful women, a man who had navigated high-end hotel suites and exclusive lounges without ever losing his cool. He was supposed to be a God.
And he had just been taken down by a glimpse of cleavage through a faded bar apron.
A low, resonant sound broke through the tense silence of the bar.
You were chuckling. It wasn't a soft, polite giggle either, it was a deep, chest-deep laugh, rich and thoroughly entertained. You leaned your weight onto your palms against the bar counter, your shoulders shaking as you took in the majestic sight of the city's most formidable bachelor sitting frozen like a gargoyle, head tilted at a violent ninety-degree angle with white paper napkins comically blooming out of his face.
You really, truly found his position hilarious.
Taehyung’s jaw clenched beneath the paper, a deep, furious flush creeping up his neck that had absolutely nothing to do with high blood pressure. He was so intensely annoyed. Why the hell were you laughing? Did he look stupid? Was this funny to you?
He kept his eyes glued to the ceiling tiles, his nostrils flaring against the stuffed napkins as his chest heaved with a mix of embarrassment and wounded pride.
He had for real ruined his chances. Any shred of dark, seductive magnetism he had tried to project over his neat negroni had been systematically vaporized the second his capillaries decided to give out. How was he supposed to look like a dangerous, worldly man who could make you feel worshipped when he currently looked like a casualty of a middle school playground fight?
"Are you quite finished?" he attempted to rumble, but with his nose completely blocked, his deep voice came out sounding like a congested, petulant toddler.
You stayed still for a moment, letting the tail end of your laughter dissolve into the low hum of the bar music. Taehyung, trapped in his ridiculous posture, slowly rolled his eyes down, tracking you through the messy blur of the tissues crammed up his nose.
You leaned down, disappearing behind the dark wood of the counter. He heard the muffled sound of a drawer sliding open, wood scraping against wood as you rummaged around through whatever secrets you kept hidden beneath the bar. He couldn't tell what you were looking for.
When you straightened back up, you dropped your hand onto the polished mahogany. In the center of the dark wood sat one singular candy.
It was wrapped in a shiny cellophane packaging, the literal definition of a cheap, ordinary piece of candy. The wrapper was a stark, almost ugly shade of yellow. Lemon, probably. It looked completely out of place in a moody, atmospheric bar, let alone in front of a man who usually only consumed things that came with a premium price tag.
With a flick of your finger, you pushed the yellow wrapper across the counter, stopping it right against his knuckle.
"What's this for?" he grumbled, his voice still muffled and thick from the napkins blocking his nose. He didn't move to touch it.
"For the nasty metallic taste in your mouth," you said simply, leaning your chin back into your hand.
Taehyung scoffed internally, his stubborn pride instantly flaring up. "I don't have a metallic taste in my mouth."
But as the words left his throat, he froze. His tongue slid against the roof of his mouth, and there it was—a faint, sharp, iron-like tang pooling at the back of his throat. The unmistakable, uncomfortable aftermath of a heavy nosebleed. He hadn't even noticed it until you pointed it out, his body apparently operating on a delay because his brain was still fundamentally fried from the cleavage incident.
You didn't say a word. You just extended two fingers, tapping the edge of the candy and pushing it a millimeter closer to his hand.
Taehyung swallowed the bitter taste, his ego taking yet another microscopic hit as he finally reached down and picked up the piece of candy. He inspected it with a critical, slow scrutiny, his long fingers clumsily working the crinkling, ugly yellow cellophane. He peeled the edges back, revealing the translucent, hard yellow drop inside.
He lifted it, bringing it up to his face, but just before he popped it into his mouth, he stopped. He held the candy just shy of his parted lips, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at you through the tissues.
"Lemon?" he asked, his tone laced with absolute skepticism.
"Ginger," you replied simply, a tiny, unbothered shrug throwing off your shoulder.
Taehyung froze. He absolutely, completely hated ginger. Ginger shots, ginger tea, ginger anything—it was a personal offense to his palate. It was unnecessarily spicy, it had that horrific, muddy bleah taste, and frankly, he would use literally any other method of immune-boosting or wellness optimization before he ever touched ginger. Vitamin C, for instance, was quite effective, scientifically backed, and didn't taste like an aggressive root pulled straight out of the dirt.
Yet, his hand didn't drop back to the counter.
He stared at the translucent drop, then up at you. He took it anyway. Why?
Because you gave it to him. He didn't even know your name still—a fact that was currently grating on his highly organized mind—but his instincts whispered that rejecting a piece of candy you had specifically dug out for him would be an incredibly bad start.
So, with a quiet, internal curse, he finally popped it into his mouth.
The immediate burst of sharp, burning ginger hit his tongue, and Taehyung instantly grimaced, his entire face contorting as he fought the urge to spit it right back out into his napkin. It was exactly as awful as he remembered.
"It's for protecting," you murmured, watching his struggle with a look that was entirely too knowing.
Taehyung managed a heavy, congested swallow, his jaw tight as the heat of the candy burned the back of his throat. He leaned forward, glaring at you through the white tissues still blooming from his nose. "Protecting against what? Bad taste?"
"No," you said, your voice dropping into a quiet, enigmatic cadence.
But you didn't elaborate. You just kept your chin resting in your hand, a faint, secret little smile playing on your lips as you watched him suffer through the spice.
The silence stretched between you, thick with the smell of wet wool, rain, and the faint, earthy sting of ginger, leaving Taehyung stranded in the dark matrix of your bar, completely at your mercy.
Taehyung finally took the tissues out of his nose, pulling them free with a tight, measured slow motion. He carefully rolled the crumpled paper into a tight ball, his eyes hyper-focused on his fingers to ensure not a single stray smear of his own blood stained his skin.
He looked around the immediate perimeter of the bar counter, spotted the small, plastic-lined trashcan tucked neatly near the end of your workstation, and leaned over to toss the bloody ball right into the bag.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The words cut through the jazz music so sharply you almost yelped, your hand shooting out to physically block him from dropping the paper into the bin.
Taehyung froze, his hand suspended in mid-air over the trashcan. He blinked at you, completely bewildered, before gesturing toward the plastic bag with an incredulous flick of his wrist. Because what else was he supposed to do with it? Take it home as a souvenir?
You frowned, your brows knitting together as you stared at the small white ball in his palm like it was a live explosive. "You’re not supposed to leave your blood anywhere you please," you told him, your voice dropping into a stern serious register. "It’s not good."
Now he was for sure confused. In fact, he was so profoundly, thoroughly confused that he hadn't even attempted to hit on you or drop a smooth line in a solid ten minutes. His entire brain—a machine built on strict logic, rules, and cold reality—was grinding to a screeching halt.
"I'm not?" he asked, his baritone sounding flatly incredulous as he held the bloody tissue ball between his thumb and forefinger. "Then where exactly do you expect me to put a fistful of bloody tissues?"
Taehyung stared at you. "What ?"
"Burn them," you repeated, your voice deadpan, your eyes entirely serious under the dim pendant lights.
Taehyung let out a sharp, disbelief-laden huff, the little ginger candy clicking against his molars.
"Well, aren't you a little ball of crazy," he muttered, that familiar, arrogant smirk trying to find its way back onto his face. He expected you to roll your eyes, to admit it was a weird joke, or at least break that eerie composure.
You however, didn’t budge. You actually extended your palm, waiting patiently for him to drop the crumpled paper.
To his own surprise, his brain didn't form an objection. He placed the bloody tissues into your open hand without a second question. The moment the paper left his fingers, you commented again, your voice dropping to a quiet, warning murmur.
"You shouldn't give your blood up so easy."
Taehyung leaned his forearms against the dark mahogany bar, tilting his head with a look of mock intrigue. "Fascinating. And are you perhaps a vampire?"
You didn't even dignify it with a response. You just turned slightly, your attention already shifting to a small inox bowl sitting on the back counter.
Watching you, Taehyung grew a bit weirded out. The initial charm of your confidence was suddenly twisting into something entirely unpredictable. Were you into blood? Was this some dark, alternative subculture thing?
Should you be medicated, and if so, are you? He was a man of ironclad laws and predictable logic, and you were actively defying every framework he had for human behavior.
What was this insane, baffling game you were playing with him?
First, you refuse to give him a name or a phone number, leaving him nothing but a date and an hour to show up at a vet clinic. Then, you casually unload a literal puppy on him, turning a high-rolling, child-free corporate defense attorney into a stressed-out single father. Then you tell him to mind the rain on a perfectly clear afternoon.
And now? The rain does come, his driver somehow strands him at this exact hidden location, you still haven't given him a name or a phone number, and you’re actively pestering him about the spiritual sanctity of bodily fluids because his nose decided it was time for fountains after he got a glimpse of your boobs.
It was so profoundly peculiar. He was simultaneously captivated and completely off-balance.
Before he could demand a straight answer, you dropped the ball of bloody tissues into the inox bowl with a soft thud.
Before he could even gather his thoughts or formulate a single logical cross-examination, you reached beneath the counter again and started... garnishing the tissues?
Taehyung’s brow furrowed so deeply a sharp line formed between his eyes. He leaned over the polished wood, staring in absolute bewilderment as your fingers deftly shook something over the bloody ball of paper.
"What is that?" he asked, his baritone dry and entirely flat.
"Cinnamon," you murmured, not even looking up.
A beat of stunned silence passed. "Are you trying to make dessert out of my medical anomaly?"
You didn't reply. Again. You just reached into your apron pocket, pulled out a sleek, matte black lighter, and flicked the wheel. The small spark caught the edge of the napkins instantly.
The flame wasn't too big—just a contained, low-burning amber flare licking at the edges of the inox bowl—but the sudden, warm light illuminated your face beautifully. The shadows of the dim bar danced across your cheekbones, and the flickering reflection of the fire caught in your eyes in a way that made them absolutely pop. It cast a rich, glowing warmth over your skin, making you look less like a bartender in an ugly apron and more like something ancient, mesmerizing, and completely dangerous.
And now, right on cue, his brain was entirely compromised again.
Here he was, a man who built his entire life on cold, hard evidence, actively fantasizing about Mrs. Crazy Pants over here setting things on fire. He was watching the smoke curl upward, carrying the sweet, woody, slightly spicy scent of toasted cinnamon over the counter, and all he could think about was how incredible you looked bathed in firelight.
The sheer absurdity of the situation—the bleeding, the ginger candy, the impromptu arson—faded into the background, completely overridden by the primal, heavy thud of his heart.
God, you're insane, he thought, his eyes tracking the line of your jaw as you watched the embers burn out. Insane, and so fucking gorgeous it’s a crime.
Once the flame died down, reducing the paper and cinnamon to a neat pile of harmless grey ash, it was like a sudden switch flipped inside you. The eerie, mesmerizing atmosphere broke, and you wiped your hands casually on your apron before looking back up at him.
"So... Tort?" you asked, your voice returning to that cool, unbothered, casual tone.
Taehyung blinked, shaking his head as if trying to clear a physical fog. "No, no, no. What was that? Are you going to explain what you just did?"
You simply shrugged, leaning back against the bar's back shelf. "What’s there to explain?"
"You just set my bloody tissues on fire," he stated, his voice flat, demanding the rationality he was desperately clinging to.
"Because I needed to," you replied simply. "You were gonna leave them in this bar."
"So," you said, your eyes locking onto his with genuine disbelief. "Do you not know?"
You furrowed your brows, staring at him intensely as a sudden realization seemed to dawn on you. Taehyung, however, was still entirely confused, his chest tight as he tried to decipher the invisible rules of your world. Know what? What is this state secret?
His eyes tracked the sharp, deep little fold forming between your eyebrows. He was so distracted by it that his thoughts took another completely unhinged detour. Why wasn't he on top of this situation? In fact, he found himself wondering if he should just reach across the bar and lick right between your brows just so you wouldn't furrow them at him anymore.
"Know what ?" he pressed, his voice dropping into a rough, demanding rumble to cover up his chaotic thoughts.
You let out a slow, quiet breath, looking at him like he was a toddler who had somehow wandered onto a high-stakes battlefield.
"Taehyung," you said softly, leaning over the counter so your voice wouldn't carry over the low jazz music. "This is a witch bar."
Taehyung stared at you for a long, quiet beat, his dark eyes wide as the words hung in the dim air between you.
Then, his chest heaved, and he started laughing.
It wasn't a quiet chuckle this time. It was a full-body, head-tossed-back laugh, his shoulders moving as the pure absurdity of your words washed over him. He found this deeply, deeply amusing.
"Witches?" he finally managed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, his voice thick with rich, condescending mirth. "Really? Did you really go that far to get a reaction out of me?"
He leaned both elbows on the mahogany, a massive, arrogant grin splitting his handsome face. You were not only implying that witches existed, but that you knew of their existence, believed in it, and actively clocked into a shift in close quarters with them every night. Which was insane and simply not possible.
He had met a lot of unhinged, delusional people back when he was still cutting his teeth in criminal law—compulsive liars, paranoid sovereign citizens, people who thought the government was reading their grocery lists. But not once in his entire career had he met an adult who genuinely believed in broomsticks and cauldrons.
"Okay, yeah, sure," he purred, lifting his long, elegant fingers to mockingly trace air quotations in the space between you. "Witches. Absolutely. Tell me, how exactly did you escape Salem, Hex ?"
He tilted his head, his eyes glittering with a smug satisfaction, entirely convinced he had just dismantled your little gothic mind game with a single, sharp blow of standard legal skepticism.
You ignored the entire lecture on reality, focusing entirely on the absurd word that had just left his mouth. "Hex?" you questioned, eyebrows raising slightly at the choice.
"Well, yeah. Hex," he said smoothly, leaning his jaw into his palm. "Witches, curses, spells, etcetera. Since I still don't know your real name, I have to call you something. What, would giving me your name grant me some sort of ancient power over you?" He wiggles his brows at you, his eyes brimming with a lazy, mocking amusement.
You stared at him, your expression entirely flat. "You're ignorant."
"I am a realist," he countered instantly, his tone sharpening with that effortless boardroom authority. "And this is reality, voodoo baby. Not a fairy tale."
"I can prove it to you," you said quietly.
Taehyung let out a low, vibrant purr, his eyes dropping to your lips before sliding back up. "How? Are you going to magically blood-bend something for me? Because I can assure you, you can make things work for me without having to lift a single finger."
You rolled your eyes so hard it practically physically pained him, completely cutting through his cheap, heavy flirtation.
Amused by his own joke, Taehyung glanced down, flicking his wrist to check his luxury watch. The twenty minutes he had promised himself were long gone. He was officially late for whatever post-work wind-down he had planned, but he couldn't bring himself to peel his body off this bar stool. Not when you had just gotten ten times more interesting, even if you were completely out of your mind.
"I still have a shift to finish," you told him, straightening up and grabbing a clean rag to wipe down a perfectly clean spot on the counter. "I can't continue with your shenanigans."
"Then you should respect your end of our little deal," Taehyung murmured, his voice dropping into that demanding, territorial register as he tapped his long fingers against the wood. "Give me your phone number."
You didn't reach for a pen, and you didn't ask for his phone. Instead, you just gave him a knowing look and gestured with your chin toward his chest.
Taehyung slid his fingers into his lapel pocket, and low and behold—his fingertips brushed against a crisp, folded edge of paper. He pulled it out, staring down at a neat slip of paper with a row of handwritten digits scrawled across it.
His brain immediately scrambled for a logical defense. How did you do that? It had to have been some clever, old-school sleight of hand. A classic pickpocket trick executed while he was entirely distracted by your collarbone.
A slow, impressed smirk spread across his face as he tucked the paper safely into his wallet. He looked back up, ready to deliver a smooth critique. "Well, I see you know a couple of old tri—"
He blinked, cut off entirely. "What? You just said you would prove yourself, Hex."
"Not now," you said, your tone thoroughly professional and entirely done with him. "I’m busy now."
You flicked your eyes past his shoulder toward the heavy front door. Taehyung turned his head slightly, noticing a new wave of incoming clients shaking out their umbrellas and heading toward the counter.
He let out a heavy, defeated sigh. You were always shooing him away like a stray cat. But sure, he’d throw you a bone tonight. He had your phone number now, which meant you were officially within his reach. He could finally afford to leave.
Besides, it was still pouring outside, he had a grueling, full day of billable hours tomorrow, and he felt distinctly icky from the damp air and the aftermath of that humiliating nosebleed. He desperately needed a steaming hot shower and maybe some ridiculously expensive cheese and grapes in bed.
"Goodbye, Hex," he murmured, sliding off the barstool and buttoning his charcoal jacket. He slipped the money for his drink too.
He turned to make his exit, but just before he reached the door, he spotted another bartender—a girl with a high ponytail who had just walked out from the back supply room.
Taehyung paused, stepping right into her path. He lightly touched her shoulder to catch her attention, turning on the charm instantly. He flashed her a dazzling, brilliant, panty-dropper smile that he usually reserved for winning over difficult juries, and delivered his closing act for the night.
"What’s her name?" he asked smoothly, his baritone dropping to a confidential whisper as he vaguely gestured over his shoulder toward you, where you were already busy taking orders from a man wearing a tie-dye poncho.
The coworker swung her ponytail, her eyes darting from Taehyung’s handsome face, over to you at the registers, and then back to him. A knowing, amused smile broke across her face.
tags: @daisydi23 @thedelulusafespace @tan-veee @taevescence @devilzliaison @rainv-days @fadedmixedtape @dltyum @yukina0521 @forelskoo261
