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Summary
Kim nudges Kenta’s leg with his own, keeps it pressed close. Kenta’s warm. He smells vaguely like cinnamon—like nutmeg, almost smoked, rich with the dry waft of tobacco. Kim has to stop himself from leaning in—has to stop himself from taking in deep lungfuls of Kenta’s scent if only to try to figure out just what it is, in there, that seems to call out to him.
or: just me trying to give kimkenta's relationship more flavor