"Trust me, babygirl. You don't want to start a war with me."
___________
Park Jimin = biggest fuckboy on the planet.
You're a new student in his class. You don't how to play his games, you don't know the rules.
He drives you mad and you drive him ma...
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This time it's not you who's waiting impatiently for their partner to show up for practice.
It's Jimin.
Instead of sitting on the icy wooden floor, he paces himself around the studio, steering his fingers through his hair every so often while he thinks profoundly of what he's going to say.
There is really nothing to say though....
He didn't want to believe you, but you were so convincing in the way you had reacted yesterday. As if you really don't care if he sleeps with any other girl.... but you.
Racking his brain, he questions all the times when he had touched you and the way you had touched him. No one had ever felt so perfect in his arms, missing the way your velvet skin was traced by his fervent fingertips. Lips demanding to feel each other as if it was a sin for them to be apart. Your curves matching his muscles, as if his body's purpose was solely to embrace you, keeping your figure against his forever.
The door opens soundlessly, whisking away Jimin's enthralling thoughts. You strut into the studio, your hair styled into perfect Dutch braids, black hair matching your black leggings and black Adidas shirt. The color of your outfit signifies your mood, matching the bland expression on your face as you dump your bag on the floor, not sparing a single glance his way.
He watches you silently, cracking his knuckles while he joblessly plays with his hands, waiting for you to acknowledge his presence.
You were always unmistakeably a cold person, especially towards him but magnificently today he senses a stronger vibe evaporating off your skin. You whip out your phone, checking your screen quickly before tossing it onto your bag.
Finally, you look at him, taking your time to walk up to him slowly as your expression doesn't waver. For a second, he feels intimidated, thinking about running away before you about to slap him.
But all you do is fold your arms and ask, "Are we going to dance or what?"
.
Steam. Hot. Sweat.
The three words no longer sum up Jimin's workout but the hard work of two dedicated students, driven by the love of dancing. The world cascades heavily onto the movements of each other's bodies, minds focusing solely on the strength of muscles, flow of limbs.
You aren't going to lie. Salsa is hard.
And at first you were a bit stubborn to listen and obey what Jimin was instructing you to do, but after a while an interest grew in you and you became determined to master the style no matter what.
Which meant you had to be keen to let him touch you and willing to touch him back, prying past events out of mind. He was right, you did have to trust your partner, you had to be comfortable. While all those things seemed impossible considering what occurred yesterday, you forced yourself to focus on the factual reason you were here, giving up hours of your free time to spend it with a man you told yourself you despised.
