19

ni-ki gets home just after nine, and the lights are low.

there’s a single lamp turned on in the living room, casting a soft yellow glow across the floorboards. the TV hums in the background — some quiet rom-com playing — and you’re there, curled up on the couch like you’ve been waiting for him all evening.

you glance up when he enters. he’s a mess — hair damp from practice, hoodie slung halfway off one shoulder, a slight sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. his cheeks are flushed from the cold air outside, and there's a tired sort of softness around his eyes.

but the second he sees you, he grins — boyish and slow, the kind of smile he saves just for you.

“you’re wearing my hoodie,” he says like it’s the most important thing in the world.

you look down at yourself — sleeves too long, hem hanging almost to your thighs. “you always leave them in the laundry basket.”

“and you always steal them,” he counters, toeing off his shoes at the door without breaking eye contact. “i should stop bringing them here.”

“you won’t.”

he doesn’t respond — just hums in quiet agreement as he makes his way over to you. his body practically folds into yours the moment he sits down, stretching out like he’s been aching to do this all day. his arm slides behind your back, his other hand lands warm on your thigh, and he exhales, like finally.

you laugh softly as he pulls you closer. “you’re gross,” you murmur, your nose brushing his cheek. “you didn’t shower.”

“too tired,” he mumbles, already pressing his face into the side of your neck, his lips grazing skin. “let me stay here like this for a bit.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t move. your fingers find their way to his hair, carding through it gently, scratching lightly at his scalp — the exact way he likes.

ni-ki melts. visibly. he breathes deeper, tighter, holding you like the world outside the apartment doesn’t exist.

“you missed me,” he says after a beat, voice muffled into your skin.

“maybe.”

“you always miss me,” he teases, now kissing lightly just beneath your jaw. his thumb strokes slow over your thigh, dangerously close to the edge of your shorts. “it’s okay. i missed you too.”

you laugh quietly, but your breath stutters when his lips find the corner of your mouth. the kiss is soft. not quite innocent.

“you’re annoying,” you say, but it’s breathy — traitorous.

he doesn’t let up. his hand slides a little higher on your leg, his nose brushing yours now. “and yet,” he whispers, “you’re climbing into my lap.”

and you are. without thinking. without meaning to. you shift, swing a leg over until you’re straddling him, your knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. the hoodie rides up a little, revealing more of your thighs than before, and ni-ki doesn’t even try to hide how his gaze flicks down — just for a second — before he’s looking at you again like he’s starving.

your hands rest on his shoulders now, fingers toying with the collar of his tank top.

“you’re gross,” you repeat, weaker this time.

“you already said that,” he says, voice low. “and you still haven’t stopped touching me.”

he leans in — slower this time — lips barely brushing yours. and when you don’t pull away, he finally kisses you, proper.

it starts gentle. soft, like the quiet hum of the movie in the background. but it builds — quickly. your lips part for him easily, and he takes his time — tilting his head, deepening it, one hand gripping your waist while the other slides up your back beneath the hoodie. your skin is warm, and his touch is reverent, almost too gentle for how dizzy the kiss is making you.

your fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. he groans softly into your mouth, his other hand slipping down to the bare skin just above the waistband of your shorts, fingers splayed against your hip.

you shift in his lap slightly — unintentionally — but it draws a quiet curse from his lips.

he pulls back for half a breath, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“you’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “i come home and you’re sitting here, wearing my hoodie, looking like that—what am i supposed to do?”

you smile, slow and smug. “kiss me again.”

and he does — harder this time. needier. his hands roam more freely, sliding up your back and down your thighs, gripping softly but possessively. the kiss gets sloppier, hungrier — teeth tugging, tongues tangling, your body pressing flush against his. the air in the room gets heavier, warmer, every sound drowned out by your breathing, the wet sound of your mouths moving together, the rustling of fabric and shifting of weight.

his hands settle on your waist again, thumbs dragging over your skin.

“stay here,” he whispers between kisses. “don’t move. don’t even think about getting up.”

you chuckle, breathless, your mouth brushing his jaw now. “clingy.”

“only with you,” he mutters, pulling you back in.

you don’t know how long you stay like that — tangled up in each other on the couch, the movie long forgotten, his lips finding yours over and over again like he can’t get enough. his hands never leave your skin, and yours never stop running through his hair, holding him close.

eventually, you both slow down — not because you want to, but because your lungs demand it. ni-ki keeps you in his lap, arms wrapped tight around your middle, his face pressed to your collarbone.

your hands stroke down his back, slow and soothing.

“you need to shower,” you whisper, lips brushing his hairline.

“you’re warm. i’m staying right here.”

you hum. “your hoodie’s gonna smell like me.”

he lifts his head, kisses your shoulder. “good. now you’ll think of me when you wear it again.”

you smile, too soft for your own good. you press one last kiss to the top of his head and settle against him, your cheek resting on his. the room is quiet, but full — warm with something that lingers in the air like love not yet said out loud.