Disclaimer: Digimon does not belong to me.

[12/01/16]

Title: Crush
Rating: M, for implied sexual content
Genre: Friendship, romance
Pairing: Ken/Mimi, background Ken/Miyako & Mimi/Yamato
Summary: It's just a silly crush, something she entertains mostly because she's bored. [AU]

All these little boys you're chasing, did they break your heart?

"Crush", Yuna

His skin is pale like winter mornings and the column of his neck smells like the first snow of the year. His hair, deep like midnight, tickles her cheeks in her sleep. She stirs, mumbling against the nape of his neck and gently untangles her legs from his, shuffling over to the cool side of the bed. Up until now, she hadn't taken the time to observe the room they're in but she's awake and doesn't think it likely she'll fall back asleep. The light filters in through the large windows, white and bright. Mimi rubs at her eyes absently, yawning like a sleepy kitten, in that way she knows makes men's mouth hang open and their loins stir. She needn't do it; he's fast asleep on the opposite end of the bed, one arm under the pillow, the other hanging limply off the edge, but it has become second-nature and she's in the mood.

Goose-down pillows, hypoallergenic, and 1200-thread count Egyptian cotton make up the softer, less impressive aspect of her evening and she settles in her pillows lazily, allowing the sheets their leisure around her naked body. In a few minutes she's back in that place between sleep and awake and it's only when the bed dips that she remembers she needs to get up. She pads across the room towards his modest closet, picking a long kimono robe that he probably has no use for. The silk is cool on her skin and she shivers lightly, padding now to his bathroom and taking her purse on the way.

The first thing she does is wash her face with warm water, then dabs just a hint of vaseline on her eyelashes and brushes her teeth. She finds a thick hairbrush and runs it along her curls, detangling. Only then does she go back to bed, eyes heavy-lidded, lips rosy as she yawns and her robe slides down one shoulder, exposing the creamy flesh of her ample bossom.

The young man turns on his bed, momentarily confused. Was he alone or ...? Then he looks up and the image of her, all tousled hair and exposed collarbones, stirs him back to life. He raises an eyebrow at her choice of wardrobe — a dark, silk thing he wasn't even supposed to have after all these years and for once, is grateful he never got rid of it.

"I hope you don't mind," she says, pouting.

He keeps watching, then shakes his head as he sighs. He reaches for a pair of trunks — he needn't bother but the fact is that he's a little shy now the sun's out and she can definitely see his face.

She walks back to bed just as he leaves, her touch missing him by mere seconds. He doesn't look back at her or answer her soft 'oh', but walks in fast, long strides and locks himself in the washing room. In the minutes between this and the door creaking open, Mimi almost wishes she could fall asleep.

He emerges fresh faced, (ah, yes, spearmint), and finds her delicately splayed in the middle of his bed. Her hair curls naturally at the tips, something he has heard her friends coo over and her lips are tinted the colour of summer red wine. She has done nothing to hide the nudity that hints from behind his silk robe, not to cover her bare legs or tie the ribbon more securely around her waist. Instead, she rests her head on her palm, her whole weight on her right elbow.

(The neck of the robe inches that much lower and he swallows, hard.)

He doesn't really know what to say now that he's here, in front of her. Should he wave? Get them breakfast? It all seems so surreal and maybe she senses his hesitation in the way he can't really tear her eyes from her but can't really look her in the face either, so she smiles and then lets out a soft, breathy laugh.

"We don't have to..." she begins, more gently than he would have expected (then again, why is he surprised? She's always been so gentle), sitting up to coyly look at him. "But I'd really like to go back to bed."

The invitation is there, open, a hint of a promise that, like her cleavage, he can't ignore. Doesn't want to ignore. Can't ignore.

Without an answer, she stands, brushes her hair off her shoulder and smiles dazzlingly. He expects a cheeky retort, teasing, but all she does is climb out of bed and move towards the various discarded items of clothing thrown haphazardly around the room. The sight of his bed, now empty of her, is decidedly upsetting.

With her back turned to him (why is it so much easier, this way?), he approaches her hesitantly, still a little embarrassed to be taking this long but unable to do more than place his hands on her shoulders and lean into her, whispering against her ear:

"Stay."

Author's Note: I wonder if I should change my title to queen of sinking ships, as none of them seem to sail. This is purely experimental and while several chapters are already written (it's a really short story), I'm not sure how it ends. I wrote this exclusively for the fact that there isn't enough KenxMimi in this world.