i'm yours

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"What's with the frowny face?" You ask softly, concerned.
Berlin shakes his head. His jaw is clenched but he tries his best to smile at you. You pout at him, unconvinced, and continue down the street, his hand twined tightly with yours, almost enough to make your fingers ache.

You're on the way home from the library. Your lab partner, Dean, wanted to meet later in the evening to finish up a report of your experiments together for chemistry class, and so you'd asked Berlin to come and pick you up. You don't like walking home alone.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, worried by his evident unhappiness.

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing." He says lightly, smiling as if to say, look, I'm smiling, everything is perfect.

You're not happy with this, stepping into Berlin's path. You try for his other hand and sew your fingers together, looking up into his face patiently.

He smiles, cracking. "What's your problem?" He asks you, words brightened by his lovely laugh.

"You're my problem, Edmond," You say jokingly. He looks down at your joined hands. You watch him go through the motions, squeezing your knuckles. He brings his elbows up and pulls you closer until your converse shoes are toe to toe with his, resting your joined hands on his chest.

"I hate how your lab partner looks at you."

You blink, surprised. "Dean?"

"Dean," He repeats, voice stony.

"You're jealous?" You ask incredulously.

"Wildly." He grimaces with his confession. You frown.

"Does he perv on me?"

"You think I wouldn't break his nose if he did? No, baby, he's probably fine. But he looks at you like I look at you, and that makes me..." His fingers flex in yours, "Madder than it should."

You feel guilty for how warm your chest feels. "How do you look at me?" You ask, self-indulgent.

"You know exactly how I look at you," He says quietly, inclining his head toward yours. "Don't think I do," you whisper. He groans and drops your hands. They dangle between you for a moment as his own feel for your sternum, your neck, the pads of his fingers pushing none too gently into your trap muscles and then behind. His thumbs line your throat.

Oh, you think. That's how you look at me. His eyes are dark with the expanse of his pupil, dilated and inky black. You can see your face reflected, wide-eyed and wanting, almost pleading.

He breathes out raggedly, a little bit of that unhappy tension falling from his shoulders. This skin-on-skin contact, this hold, seems to soothe him. He tilts forward until your foreheads are pressed together, the tip of your nose flush with his. He's silent, his hands rubbing small lines up and down your neck, thumbs pushing into your throat. He swipes the tip of his thumb up into the underside of your jaw.

You hold your breath.

"You're my girl," Berlin says softly.

Your heart aches for him. You jut your chin, lips almost touching. "'M yours, Berlin." You assure him firmly.

Your own hands aim to comfort him, one pressed over the broad pec hiding his heart, the other pushed into his wrist, his pulse pounding under your fingers. "Nobody knows me like you do," You say, pushing off of your heels to press your lips together.

His bottom lip slips between your own. You kiss it firmly, pulling back to dive back in, a familiar dance. His lips parted underneath you. He tastes like something sweet as he meets you. You step back after a dizzying moment and bring your hand up to his handsome face. Jealous. You could laugh until you cry.

"I wonder how he'll look at me now," You murmur smugly.
Berlin blinks his eyes open, confused. You nod your head behind you. Berlin looks over your shoulder and must see the back of your hurried lab partner.

"You knew he was behind us?" Berlin asks you, pressing his lips together to unsuccessfully hide a smile.

You stroke his cheek. "Duh. Then, softer, "Don't be jealous, B. He's completely irrelevant to me."

"Baby, with the way you look? I'm gonna be chasing guys off my entire life. Might as well get used to it now." Berlin says though he's grinning, leaning down for another kiss.

This time, he takes the lead.

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