In Between Tangled Lines

That night, it was in her kitchen.

You don’t remember whose idea it was to cook dinner together. Probably her, Jimin made suggestions that did not sound like suggestions work and made it happen out of the blue. I was thinking samgyeopsal tonight. And somehow that becomes you standing in her apartment at eight in the evening, your sleeves rolled up, slicing garlic while she tends the grill pan on the other side of the island.

She’s wearing an oversized shirt, where one side keeps slipping off her shoulder. You try not to think too much about it, but your eyes keep going there.

You’re doing fine. You’re completely fine. And then she rounds the island to check on the banchan in the pot beside you, leans across you to grab the ladle, her hair brushes your jaw.

You turn to her, your eyes drop to the curve of her neck, your eyes drop lower, and you notice her cleavage is showing, but does nothing to cover it.

Neither of you move.

She’s close enough that you can smell her shampoo. Her arm grazes yours, skin warm even through your sleeves.

You are definitely not fine.

She stirs the pot. Twice. Doesn’t step back.

“You’re cutting those too thin,” she says, voice low and even. You turn, knife hovering above the garlic, and catch her gaze, her pupils are dilated, but her smile's playful.

“Then cut them yourself.”

She glances at you sidelong. The corner of her mouth. “I like watching you do it wrong.”

She steps back. Just like that. Returns to the grill pan like nothing happened.

You look down at the garlic. Your knife has been still for about fifteen seconds and you both know it.

Dinner is easy after that, two bottles of soju, her legs folded under her on the couch, the TV on but unwatched.

She laughs at something you say, head tilting back, and the light catches the line of her throat.

I'm so deep in this.

“Stay,” she spoke, when you reach for your jacket.

You stay.

You don't remember who moves first. One moment you're beside her, the next her lips crash into yours, messy, warm, tasting like soju and the salt of the banchan you'd both picked at all night. She kisses like she argues: certain of herself, not asking. You kiss back and she makes a sound against your mouth that unravels something in your chest.

She pulls back, breathing hard, red across her cheeks. Her eyes are dark.

"You taste nice," she says, voice husky.

You don't answer. You pull her back in by the jaw.

Her hands find the front of your shirt and she walks you both backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed and you sit, and she follows, climbing into your lap without breaking the kiss. Her hair falls around both of you. You get a hand into it, tilt her head back, and drag your mouth down the line of her throat.

She shivers.

"Y/N—"

"Mm."

She tugs at your shirt in answer, impatient, and you let her pull it over your head. Her palms press flat against your chest, warm, and she looks at you for a moment in the lamplight, something considering in her expression, like she's deciding how much of this to let herself have. Then her jaw sets and she reaches for her own shirt and pulls it off.

Red lace. The lamp beside you still on, shading the curves of her in amber.

You go very still.

She lets you look. Her chin is up slightly, that normal composure of hers, but there's color in her cheeks and her breathing isn't quite even and she is, despite everything, not as unaffected as she wants to appear.

You reach for her slowly.

Hands on her waist first, thumbs tracing the soft skin above her waistband, and she exhales. You rise from the bed and walk her back until she's the one sitting on the edge, and then you drop to your knees in front of her and drag your mouth from her collarbone, slow, following the line of her sternum down. The red lace catches under your thumb, you slide it aside, and her breath hitches, sharp.

She arches up.

You take your time. Mouth at the curve of her breast, teeth grazing gently, your thumb still holding the lace aside. She rolls her hips once against yours, a restless shift, and her fingers slide into your hair and grip.

You take her nipple into your mouth.

"Hagh—" you lay her down on the bed.

Her back curves off the bed. Her grip in your hair tightens to the edge of pain and you feel the sound she makes more than hear it, the way it goes through her, the way she can't quite contain it. You stay there, patient, learning the sounds she tries to swallow, until she's pulling at your hair with intent.

"Up," she breathes. "Up, come here—"

You come up to her. She kisses you hard, hands framing your jaw, and you feel her working at her own bra clasp behind her back. You reach around and help her, your lips still on her, and when it falls away, you pull back to look at her and she turns her face slightly to the side, like she can't hold the eye contact right now.

"Hey." You put two fingers under her chin, gentle. Bring her back.

She meets your eyes. Something there, too full, too exposed, and then she pulls you back down by the neck and decides with her hands what she can't say out loud.

You ease her back against the pillows. She goes, arms looping around your neck. The lamp casts everything amber and warm and you look at her, really look, no pretending no looking away, and she watches you do it with that complicated expression, the one she doesn't know how to put away.

You kiss down her stomach. She tenses, then releases it deliberately, like she's making a decision to let you. When you get to the waistband of her shorts you look up at her.

She holds your gaze and lifts her hips.

You take your time with her. She tries to stay quiet and fails at it, a soft "ah—" first, bitten back, then less contained. Her hips shift under your hands, restless, and her fingers twist in the sheets when she can't reach your hair anymore. You find the spot that makes her breath stutter and stay there.

"There—"

Low. Involuntary. Like she didn't mean to say it out loud. You stay exactly where you are. Her hips roll up toward you and her grip on the sheets tightens.

"Don't stop."

Hushed. A little desperate. You don't stop. You learn every sound she tries to swallow, what makes her exhale and what makes her gasp, and what makes her say your name low and broken like that, twice, the second time softer than the first, and you take note of all of it, file it away, revisit it until she's trembling.

“Please,” she says. Her voice has gone hoarse. “Y/N, I nee—”