𝐒𝐮𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞- a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant or that has been loved then lost. "The love that remains."
a love between a hopeless girl and a hopeless boy.
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Minho convinced me to drink more of the moonshine; and now I'm wasted.
He dragged me onto the dance floor again, and the music changed to something sultrier, easier to follow.
Maybe it was the new rhythm. Maybe it was the alcohol.
Or maybe it was my attempt to focus on anything except Minho that loosened my inhibitions.
Whatever it was, it worked. I didn’t hyper focus on moving exactly the way I should, and the ironic result was that my movements flowed so much more easily.
I wouldn’t win competitions anytime soon, but I no longer resembled a malfunctioning robot, as someone had so rudely pointed out earlier.
“Much better.” Minho’s murmur grazed the nape of my neck, eliciting an involuntary shiver of pleasure. “There might be hope for you yet.”
The seeds of a witty reply died on my tongue when he lowered his headso his face came next to mine.
A delicious earthy scent seeped into my senses, heightening taste, smell, and touch until my mouth watered, and I could feel every beat of his heart against my back.
I turned my head a fraction of an inch, just enough to meet his eyes. I wished I hadn’t.
Minho's gaze smoldered like a lit match in the dark, scorching every inch of skin and any semblance of distance between us.
Beads of sweat dripped from my forehead. We were close to the fire out here, but he was so close, and my head was so light that if I just…
My lips parted.
His eyes closed, and—“Newt!” A squeal from the side tore between us. “That’s my favorite bag!”There was an indecipherable reply, followed by a riot of laughter and then…silence.
But it was too late. The interruption snapped me out of whatever trance Gally’s drinks/unholy magic/suspiciously glorious cologne put me under.
I jerked away from him, the loss of body warmth as sobering as the bowl of ice water I’d thrown on him mere days ago. (Yes, he was annoying, so I threw a cold bucket of ice water onto him.)
What was I doing? He was just a friend, maybe even less than that. (No. Friends.) and I’d almost…he’d almost…
Minho stared at me, his expression unreadable.
If it weren’t for the heavy rise and fall of his chest, I would’ve thought him unmoved by what just happened—or didn’t happen.
