nevertheless,

she can hardly recognize her own voice slipping in and out of a daze. too focused on hearing the way his breath carries his words. she doesn’t have to look to know his eyes are on the slope of her nose, the curl of her lips. to feel them drawing across the skin of her cheek, invisible trails that stir the subtle burn underneath.

she decides, as she takes another swig, that she’ll blame it on the alcohol. she always does.

“could be. that’s a story for another day.” she shrugs, wishing every tail-end of her sentence wouldn’t reveal the flustered stammer of her heartbeat. she purses her lips again, as if holding the very thin layer of determination she’s got left in between. eyes dark and heady with a slight whiskey haze as she finally cocks her head. props a heated cheek in one palm and drags her gaze across his lips. it’s a while before she can tear it away to meet his eyes again.

“that’s alright with me. as long as your friend won’t mind.” now, she’s fighting it. the smile that threatens to splay across her lips, resolve whittled down to a mere particle of dust as a clumsy laugh leaves her instead. stunned. confused. eyes blown wide as though fate has just clocked her upside the head.

“is that.. is that a butterfly tattoo on the back of your neck?”

she takes another long sip of her drink and he watches her lips, her neck. watches her glass leave her mouth wet. 

watches her swallow. 

“a story for another day, huh?” haru is smiling -- harmless -- as he leans forward against the bar counter. rests his cheek in his palm as he watches her openly, now. pleased. “are we already planning for the next time we meet then? i haven’t even finished my first drink yet.”

there’s a teasing lilt to his voice. the air is heavy with his gaze and that wine and whiskey-charge. he had meant to lighten it now. or -- well, at least that had been the plan. 

(but then her eyes meet his: cheeks flushed the softest pink and haru wonders if there’s something else of interest that she finds there instead. he licks his lips. he makes sure she’s watching.)

“she won’t. she’s not that kind of friend,” he replies distractedly, leaning forward. just a fraction. not enough for anyone to notice. not unless they’re paying attention. haru hopes she is. haru hopes... 

is that a butterfly?

he stops short, at this. it feels too routine. laughably cliché. a bit that had been recycled and reused too many times, a line that he had never intended on using on her. haru considers brushing it off as she had. a story for another day, maybe. they could laugh about it. she probably wouldn’t pry. she didn’t look the type. 

but -- ...but her eyes are wide and the surprise in her face is so painfully sincere that haru cannot find it in himself to say no.

he moves with practiced ease as he slides onto the stool, his eyes slipping from her gaze. tension lines the thinning of her lips, following the curve of her shoulders. then down to the fingertips that press gingerly into the outside of her glass. she thinks of dohyun and their blurred lines — a momentary lapse into confusion until she realizes that she owes him absolutely fucking nothing.

she sits up a little straighter then, clears her throat and allows the teasing pull of his voice draw a careful smile across her lips. tension melts into a subtle buzz of something else. rivulets of electricity cast across the distance between them every time she catches his eye.

“no, not normally.” she begins quietly, wet fingertips fiddling idly with the corner of her napkin. when her gaze flutters from his glass to the wine-stained edge of his lower lip, she draws the color across her mind. cherry and streaks of deep burgundy. but nothing compares to the way his eyes dip behind curtains of dark chestnut brown every time he smiles.

“nabi… it’s nabi.” electricity pulls at her skin and she catches herself just as she starts to lean over, hips shifting from midline over to the edge of her stool. quickly, she looks away, bringing her glass up to her lips before she echoes after him, feels the way his name rolls off her own tongue. whiskey coats over the temptation and she subdues the rest of it with a little laugh. “i don’t have a boyfriend, by the way.”

( “what are we then?” ) nothing. nothing anymore.

“and you? aren’t you here with somebody?”

it takes a moment for the fog to clear. 

but then she straightens in her seat -- all narrow shoulders and clearer eyes -- and haru knows. there will be no cavalry standing between them tonight. there is only this breath of space that separates them; so close that his knee could brush against hers if he turned just right.

he can smell her perfume, from where he sits. her gaze drops to his mouth. 

the air crackles with electricity, still. 

“nabi...” he repeats, voice quiet. haru wonders if she’s seen the butterfly he carries with him, yet. wonders if she doesn’t believe in fate also. he licks his lips again. wine clings to the backs of his teeth but it’s more for show, really. haru makes sure she’s still watching. he takes another slow sip. “is there a story behind that?”

she shifts in her stool. haru shifts with her. when his knee knocks against hers, he doesn’t move away. 

i don’t have a boyfriend, she says. how could you do this to me? the memory rings clear in his ears. good. haru doesn’t blame her.

it had been the third time this week.

his voice catches in her ear even now — shrill and demanding and just unhappy. dohyun had promised to come pick her up after classes. sweet words of dinner and a movie date that had held her over all afternoon. he had bailed last minute for practice with his team — unscheduled and too abrupt, but she had remembered the way he had sounded over the phone. shrill, demanding, unhappy.

( “why don’t you ever fucking trust me?” )

on her way off campus, she sees him leaning against a towering tree, a subtle breeze picking up hushed murmurs and softer giggles. unmistakable and loud in nabi’s ears. third year eunah lays in his arms, looking as though she’s got the whole entire world right in the palm of her hand.

( “this. this is why. we’re fucking done. don’t call me.” )

it had been the third time this week.  and it was only wednesday.

she blinks through a heady daze now. whiskey laces through the sigh she emits every time her finger makes a full circle around the rim of the glass she’s nursing. an old fashioned halfway gone, weeping through the napkin it sits on. her phone lights up again and she catches dohyun’s name in her peripheral. she feels empty, drained. mind thoughtless yet swarming with colors muted and dark.

then the distraction comes in a mellow voice. so distant and far from her clouded headspace, that she almost looks around to make sure she’s the one being addressed. “me?” she asks anyway, eyes blinking wide open as she looks at his face. gaze drifting over his features and flickering over his cupid’s bow unintentionally. “no, it’s not.” comes after a brief pause. something catches in her throat and it isn’t until she tears her gaze away that she realizes it’s her own breath. “i mean,” she looks at him again and the colors drain from her mind. whitespace, and still completely thoughtless. “i’m not here with anyone.”

me? she asks out loud, eyes searching his. 

you. his smile, haru hopes, is answer enough. he holds her gaze. patient. watches hers drop to his mouth for the briefest moment. as if it could be anyone else here.

her reply comes as an invitation and he hopes (he knows --) he’s read the room correctly. 

sliding onto the bar stool beside her, he shifts out of his coat. wonders if she’s tracking his motions as he’s tracking hers. there is electricity under his skin, crackling in the room, illuminating this space between them.  

haru orders a glass of wine. he tries not to stare at her mouth.

“do you normally come to drink alone?” there’s a teasing lilt to his voice. casual. easy. harmless. out of the corner of his eye, he can see her hands, small and pale, curled around her whiskey glass. he only allows himself to turn towards her after his own drink has arrived. “your boyfriend doesn’t mind it?”

(nabi, you came! the voice had said. why can’t you just support my art? the voice had demanded in the stairwell.)

haru’s question is a thinly-veiled opportunity. a chance for her to slip through. a chance for her to put up walls, a fence, a fucking cavalry -- between haru and herself. boundaries. he knows she will understand. most of the girls he asks this to do. 

he takes a long sip of his wine.

he had seen her, first, in january.

the exhibit had been lame and yoonjung had ditched him last minute for a date that promised to end in sex, rather than shared cigarettes in haru’s shitty studio apartment. he hadn’t blamed her. a part of him had been in the middle of wishing he had chosen sex over the exhibit, too (christ, it had been boring) -- when he saw her.

he saw her.

(he would draw her, days later. paint her, sketch her, mold her. a face frozen in shock. soft hair, pale thighs, pink knees. flowers in her arms. a sculpture in front of her that meant nothing, because she was the most breathtaking piece of art in that entire gallery that night. nabi, you came! haru remembered hearing a voice greet her. but how could you do this to me? he had listened to her cry in the stairwell.)

he sees her, again, tonight.

like fate. like a vision. 

she’s alone and she isn’t crying, and she’s all the more beautiful for it. but haru knows he ought to walk away. haru knows there’s no such thing as fate. haru knows --

“are you here with anyone?” he asks, despite himself. motions at the empty seat beside her. lets his gaze drop briefly to her wet mouth. her glass is almost empty. “is this seat taken?”