“I don’t even like grapes!” you shriek, forgetting one enormous problem as you swim toward the sink and the door, where the jelly level is lower. But you remember as soon as you hear pounding on said door.

“Y/n! Are you okay? I’m coming in!”

“No!” you shriek again, now panicking for a non-food-related reason. “Don’t come in! I’m—”

Wasting your breath. That’s what you’re doing. You realize that and take a huge gulp of air before diving back into the jelly, plunging into the purple depths just in time to prevent BTS from seeing anything he shouldn’t when he kicks the door down. Of course, that makes him panic because he can’t see you at all.

“Y/n! Can you hear me? Don’t worry, I’ll melt it!”

Your head pops above the surface. “Don’t you dare!”

Too late. His charcoal-black eyes are smoldering now. Smoke curls from his ears. His eyes burst into the flames of a thousand passionate, fiery suns, and you wish you had a fire extinguisher handy so you could spray his face and put him out. The never-ending font of gelatinous goo is still spraying from the showerhead, piling more gunk on one side of the bathroom while he liquifies it on the other. You grab the edge of the door that has become a surfboard and hide behind it.

“BTS! Stop! I’m not wearing any clothes!”

“Now is not the time for modesty!”

“Now is totally the time for modesty! Author, help!”

The jelly is getting hot now. You consider slamming the bottom of the door into BTS’ stomach, or chest, or head, or whatever body part presents itself, just to make him stop, and then you realize something feels different. You look down to see red spandex straps on your shoulders. A swimsuit! Huzzah!

“Grab my hand!” BTS shouts.

“Turn the heat off first!”

He douses the fire in his eyes. You release the door and swim toward him, and when you’re close enough, he grabs you and pulls you into his powerful arms and against his firm, muscular chest. Suddenly, you’re less upset with me as your author, even with grape jelly gunking up your hair.

Oops, shouldn’t have said that.

“Ew.” You pull free from BTS in the bedroom. Saccharine purple death goo is flooding out of the bathroom and onto the carpet. You’re coated in it, and you feel disgusting. You shake jelly from one hand and reach for the hallway door. “Get the tomato juice. We’re moving to another room.”

“But there are no other rooms available.”

“There’s about to be one right now.” You yank open the door and storm across the hall, tracking globs of jelly with every step. “Open up!” you shout, pounding on the nearest door. “I’m giving you three seconds! Three… two… one!”

“Y/n!”

You kick the door open before BTS can stop you. It flies off its hinges and crashes onto the floor of an empty room. You let out a wordless scream of frustration.

“He lied,” BTS mutters. “That little—”

“Get in here.” You direct BTS and the tomato juice into the room, and then you pick up the door and set it back in its frame. “You are not paying this hotel bill. Put that down and come with me.”

“Into the bathroom?” he asks, but he obeys and sets the case of tomato juice in the main room before following you into another tiny bathroom with another tiny sink, shower, and tub. You’re already twisting the shower faucet. If you turn around, you’ll see he’s blushing. He’s cute when he blushes, isn’t he?

“I need to take a shower and get this crap off me, and I have a better chance of survival when I’m with you,” you explain, not taking the bait. “So you’re staying here until I’m done.”

He gulps. “Y/n—”

“I’m wearing a swimsuit!”

“Yeah, but—”

You step into the shower and pull the curtain shut without looking at him. You’re both bright red and adorably awkward right now, and I’m loving every minute of this. It isn’t as though you’re in a teeny weenie polka-dot bikini. I gave you a simple one-piece low-rise swimsuit with a high neckline, so short of putting you in a vintage swim-dress thing from the eighteen hundreds, you’re as modest as you can get in this situation. You still shower as fast as you can, and if you’d like to know, he turns around and stares at the door for the duration of this embarrassing moment.

Oh, look. When you turned the water off, a pair of flannel pajamas appeared over the shower curtain. The pants even have red snow boots embroidered all over them. Now try asking BTS for a towel.

You won’t just give me one? you think, but you sigh and say, “Could I have a towel?”

Wow. That’s a lot of banging and crashing in an empty bathroom. But then again, he has his eyes squeezed shut, and he’s running into everything while he feels around for a towel. He somehow finds one, and then he fumbles his way toward the shower and sticks his hand around the curtain. “Here.”

“Thanks. You’re next.”

“No way! I’m not showering with you in here!”

“Well, I’m not sleeping with a guy who’s covered in grape jelly!” you reply, toweling dry so fast that you almost forget about removing the swimsuit before putting on the pajamas.

“You’re not sleeping with me at all! I’ll sleep in another room!”

You button the last button on your comfy flannel shirt and yank open the shower curtain, about to make a pithy remark, but then you see that he’s wearing red swim trunks, and your jaw drops. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him shirtless. Three days, to be precise. He’s still cut, defined, chiseled, and drool-worthy. Mm, six-pack…

He looks down at himself and then jumps into the shower, pulling the curtain shut to prevent further ogling. “I hate this author.”

You don’t. Aside from giving you a gorgeous, morally upright male love interest, I also cured your sunburn. Your skin now has a violet tint to it, though. Maybe if you’d taken more time in the shower. Oh, well. You take your turn staring at the door while BTS showers and puts on the matching flannel pajamas I so generously provided him, and then the two of you make your way into the bedroom, unable to meet each other’s eyes.

“Um… what about Luna?” BTS asks.

“The author will tell her where to find us,” you say as you climb into bed.

“What if she doesn’t?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Look, I’m tired, I’m cranky, and I just want to go to sleep. If you’re hungry, I guess you can drink some of my tomato juice.”

“And then what?”

You’re doing your best not to look at him. “Then come to bed. No reason for you to stay up all night. Nobody will do anything to you.”

“I’m not sleeping with you, Y/n.”

You sit up and glare at him. “Weren’t you the one who suggested I become your secret mistress not so long ago? And now you won’t even sleep with me?”

His face is almost as red as his pajamas. “I was trying to make you leave! I knew you wouldn’t go for that!”

“So you know I won’t try anything with you tonight!”

“Of course!”

“So, what’s the problem?”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, rubs the back of his head, and turns his back on you. “I guess nothing.” He opens a bottle of tomato juice and downs it in a few chugs. “Yuck. This is what you live off of?”

You flop back into bed and roll onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your flushed ear. “It beats having a criminal record.”

“You really hate being a vampire, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

“How do you feel about being a werewolf?”

“I don’t know. There hasn’t been a full moon yet in this story.” You hear fabric rustle as he pulls the blanket back on the other side of the bed. Your heart skips a few beats when you feel the mattress shift underneath his weight.

“There’s one tomorrow night.”

“Of course there is.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Goodnight, BTS.”

You lay in silence for a few minutes. This is no good. You’ll never fall asleep this way. And there’s still a good chance that even if you do, someone will sneak into the room and stab you in your sleep. What letter comes next in the alphabet? K. K for knife? You don’t want to be knifed. And you’re pretty sure BTS also opposes the idea.

Oh, what the heck?

You roll toward him and hug him. He squeaks in surprise. You snuggle up to his warm back, crossing your arms over his ripped stomach.

“Y/n!”

“You’re my hostage. As long as we’re like this, nobody will try to kill me, because they can’t risk hurting you.”

He sighs. “Someone could still try to kill you, you know.”

“Yes, but it’s less likely now.”

“Yeah, but there’s still a chance, and I really don’t want you suing me because someone affiliated with me tries to kill you. So, since there’s no deeper meaning to all this…” He rolls over to face you and hugs you. Your heart does a few more non-cardiologist-approved heart palpitations. Your face is in his chest now. It’s a nice place to be. You discovered that when you discovered your fear of being underground, and now that you aren’t on the verge of insanity, you can appreciate this better.

“I want to avoid legal action, too, so I'll allow this. For now,” you tell him.

“It’s a one-time thing.”

“Exactly.”

You can hear his heart beating. It’s a little fast for a healthy young man who’s supposed to be relaxing and falling asleep. Yours is looking to break a few records on the racetrack, too. But it’s early in the evening, and you’re both doing your utmost to deny the attraction that makes your inner wolves howl and prance like puppies. Maybe if you talked for a while, you’d settle down and fall asleep.

You swallow. “Um… do you know what I’m like when I’m a werewolf?”

“I’ve only heard rumors.”

“That’s more than I know. Anything would help.”

“Well… you sometimes raid shoe stores. I heard they had to call the National Guard out once.”

You wince. “Great. I turn into a shoe thief. Just great.”

“Maybe that’s why you live out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Maybe.”

Silence. This is not relaxing you. Neither is him sniffing you.

“What are you doing?” you demand, glaring up at him. That was a mistake. He’s smiling. Your insides melt into a puddle of organic goo.

“Your hair still smells like grapes.”

You bury your face in his chest, determined not to look at him for the rest of the night. “That’s because I had to use cheap hotel shampoo.”

“Is that why your skin is purple, too? Cheap hotel soap?”

“Leave my skin alone! Maybe I want it to be purple!”

He laughs. The sound rumbles through his chest and sends ripples through your inner puddle to your spine, which is the next essential body part to liquify. This was a bad idea. Maybe a night stabbing would be better than this. Because the longer you stay in his embrace, the more aware you are of him, and your goal is to leave this story and him. Right?

“We should get some sleep,” he says.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

I could subject the readers to your butterfly-inducing, torturous night, but I would only bore them, because nothing happens. You and BTS count lawsuits jumping over courthouses until you fall asleep, and when morning dawns, you wake up in his arms, somehow well-rested.

You pull free from him and stretch. It’s good to feel good. You don’t think you got much sleep, though, which is odd. You sit up, yawning. Why does it feel as if you slept for twelve hours? Then you look down at him, and your stomach lurches. There’s dried blood on his neck.

“BTS! BTS!” You shake him, frantic, and then you press your fingers to his neck. There’s a pulse. When you hold your hand in front of his nose, you feel him breathing. He’s alive, at least. You sigh in relief and shake him again. “Wake up!”

“I don’t wanna wake up yet,” he mumbles. He has bedhead. Aw, he’s so cute!

Stop trying to distract me! you think in my direction as you continue shaking him. “Get up! Now!”

He rolls onto his back, yawning, and opens his bleary eyes. “What’s the big deal?”

“I—” You stop, staring at him. Should you tell him? There’s no hiding the puncture wounds in his neck, though. You rub your chin with your hand, and you feel something crusted there. Dried blood. “I bit you!”

His eyes fly wide open as he sits bolt upright. “You what?”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t even know I did it!”

“You bit me?” He leaps out of bed and bolts to the bathroom, and you follow him with a string of apologies. He stares at the mirror and touches the scabs on his neck. The brown crust on your chin is right there, plain as day for all to see. You turn the water on in the sink and scrub until your chin is a nice shade of crimson. Then he shoves you aside and scrubs at his neck.

“Not so hard! You’ll reopen the wounds!” you warn him.

“Don’t you want breakfast?” he accuses you.

You cover your face with your hands. “I’m so sorry!”

“Wait. Did you hear that? It sounds like someone knocked at the—” The door crashes to the floor, interrupting BTS before he can finish speaking. You broke it, remember?

“BTS? Y/n?”

“Luna!” You run out of the bathroom to greet her. “Where have you been? Are you okay?”

“Stay back or she’ll bite you,” BTS warns her.

Luna, who is wearing a stylish black snowsuit tailored to fit her marvelous figure, is holding something behind her back. “I have a surprise for you, Y/n.”

You wince. “No more surprises. I don’t like surprises anymore.”

“Too bad.” She pulls a basket out from behind her back. Four balls of fuzzy cuteness peek over the edge and mew at you. “Deploy Plan K!”

The kittens narrow their big round eyes and launch at your face, tiny claws extended, sharp little fangs bared, their high-pitched mews reaching an angry fever-pitch, and your shoulders slump. This is not your day.