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The first time it happens, he isn’t sure what to think. She leans in ever so slightly, stopping herself midway. She doesn’t look embarrassed - instead she smiles, her brown eyes distant, and brushes her hand against the side of his neck. He doesn’t let her know that her fingertips burn where they meet his skin and hopes that she can’t feel his pulse quicken. He feels her trace his jawline lightly with her thumb. He nearly gives in, but instead catches her hand. “Tsunemori,” he says quietly, but just sternly enough. “Don’t.” That seems to snap her out of it. Her face flushes with embarrassment and she mutters a quick apology and goodnight before leaving. He listens to her soft, quick footsteps fade.
The next time is after she’s had too much whiskey and he’s just barely sober. She plops down on the sofa next to him and pours herself another glass. She offers him one, and he shakes his head no. “Lightweight,” she says with a smile crossing her face. He knows she’s teasing him. She downs the drink in a single gulp and sets the glass down roughly on the coffee table. He lets her lean against him, his stupor making him unable to really protest anyway. He feels her turn to him and her lips brush against his cheek. He says nothing. Instead, he lets her collapse into him again. Eventually, she falls asleep.
The time after that, he knows it’s not right of him. He wonders if it’s just a lapse in judgment that drives him to return her kiss or something else. It’s both more innocent and sensual than he expected. He senses her hunger, but lets the kiss expire. Breathless, she pulls herself away from him and their eyes meet. It’s the same look she had the first time, and he feels a pang in his chest. Still, he forces a smile down at her and kisses her forehead.
He desperately wants what he knows isn’t his. He leaves a trail of kisses down her neck, tracing her clavicle with his lips before meeting hers again. She returns his kiss eagerly, her fingers intertwining in his hair. She puts more weight against him, pushing him deeper into the back cushion of the sofa. He’s too aware of her legs on either side of his and how her skirt has slid further up her thighs. His hands graze her thighs - fingertips digging into them ever so gently - the thin fabric of her tights doing little to stifle the heat radiating from her skin.
He can feel her hands, small but certain, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He puts just a bit more distance between them and she can barely free him from its confines before he’s kissing her again. Her hands explore his back, her body trembling beneath him. She fumbles with his belt.
A soft sound escapes her lips, and he remembers.
He rolls off of her and she tries to follow, but he catches her hip in a wordless protest. She looks hurt as she buttons her blouse, but he doesn’t know what to say. Guilt seeps through him as she waits for a moment, as if giving him the chance to explain. He can’t. Her expression softens as if to tell him there’s no rush, and he knows there’s no point in telling her something she’s coming to terms with on her own. She leans in - slowly this time - and kisses him. He accepts graciously. When she leaves, she’s perfectly composed.
He knows she’ll go home and light up a cigarette without fully understanding why.