#elast timestamp

You head is still tilted down towards your book, but you’re watching him move about the bedroom under your lashes. He tugs the curtain across your window for just a moment, looking out to see the way the droplets hit against the pane, illuminated by the street lamps below and occasional flashes of lightning. Low thunder rolls overhead, but it’s peaceful in some way, especially as the two of you continue to not say anything to each other.  You watch the way he digs through a drawer after pulling the curtain back closed, and he doesn’t hear the way your book closes when he tugs the tee-shirt he’s been wearing all day over his head to pull on a dark tank top instead and you can almost hear the way he says it gets hot at night when you ask him about it just by watching him. The drawer rolls shut and you place you book on the bedside table in the same place it’s sat for a good week.

He turns around to see you looking at him, Choi In gets an embarrassed smile on his face, wondering how long you’ve been watching him. He loves the way your eyes glitter from the dim light bouncing around the room, captivated by your gaze as he wanders over to the bed and places his hands against the duvet, still perfectly made on his side, as his knee finds the edge of the bed to climb up. He’s slithering over to you, and you barely have enough breath to say his name before one of his tender hands takes your chin and tilts you lips up into his.

It’s almost a protest, the way your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder with the intent of giving yourself enough room to say what you were going to say, but for some reason, when his lips finally depart yours as slowly as cold molasses, dripping away from yours with the brush of his nose against your cheek, you find that your hand is furling against his shoulder and sliding to the back of his neck to pull him back. The way his lips curl up into a smile lets the butterflies loose in your stomach, accompanied with the soft sigh the exhales through his nose—a warm breath against your face while his hand leaves your chin to take purchase of the mattress on the other side of your hip to come in a little deeper.  

“In,” you finally whine when you tilt your head away, but he’s made it clear he’s not done with you. He places a few lingering kisses down your neck, that hand previously in the mattress tugs at your side. When he finally pulls away for a second, he recognizes the shirt that’s hanging over your shoulders, swallowing your body—a shirt that belongs to him and it only brings that smile back to his face.

“You wearing my clothes is about the most adorable thing I can think of,” he tells you sweetly, quietly, almost getting lost in the sound of the rain and rolling thunder and perhaps would have if he didn’t whisper it right next to your ear. He’s progressively pushing you over until you finally plant your hands behind you and move your legs out to get some leverage to fight against him.

You find your way to your knees as if you’re going to put him back a bit, but soon realize it’s a mistake, the way his warm hands slide against your legs and under his shirt you’re donning and against your hips to tug you over his lap just far enough that he can fall onto his rear and encase you between his legs. His arms lay loosely around your waist when he feels you’re adequately tugged up to him, which is usually never close enough, and proceeds to place chaste kisses against every inch of your face only punctuated by the soft looks he gives you in between until you quietly request he stop for a moment.