#chs

You felt absolutely crazy. Suspicious and completely insane. Hansol spent every free moment dancing around your mind like a ballerina, his apprehension for anything pathetically raising such big questions in your mind. 

‘What if there’s someone else?’ You whined to your best friend, Seungkwan, who had the lucky role of knowing you and Hansol a little too well. Seungkwan was sitting lazily on your loveseat, a coffee being sucked through a straw and into his lips. 

He pauses his sipping, not bothering to tear his eyes away from his phone. ‘It’s Vernon, he couldn’t be bothered to tie his shoelaces up last time I saw him, he hasn’t got the stamina to two-time.’ 

On the bed, you were religiously taking selfies, your MacBook positioned to rehearsed perfection as you leaned forward, allowing your cleavage to be almost front-and-centre in the camera’s eye. 

Seungkwan was unfazed by your faux sexiness, your pouting, jutting and head hanging, a familiar routine when you were desperate for your situationship’s attention.

‘But Kwan,’ You moan, pausing as three beeps and a camera shutter sound from your laptop, making you squint at the blurry pictures. ‘Oh, this one is good.’ 

You swivel the screen to show your best friend, whose gaze finds the selfie, ‘You’ve done better.’ 

With a vocal sigh of frustration, you strip off your cardigan and drop it to the bed, kicking it out of the view of the camera and ruffle your hair. ‘We’ve been going on dates, meeting each other’s families and fucking for months!’ 

The three beeps ring out again, the camera shutter effect flickering as you wordlessly turn the computer to Seungkwan as he holds his hand up in a ‘meh’ gesture. 

‘Chivalry is dead, my love,’ he beckons, ‘Just ask him out.’ Seungkwan continues scrolling on his feed, the conversation a carbon copy of many the two of you have had before — Hansol being lazy, you overthinking it, and thus, Seungkwan has to rush to your side whilst you whine about your boyfriend-without-a-title. 

‘I shall not!’ You feign offence, rolling to catch the lighting your fairy lights provide, your phone held centimetres from your face as you pull a sexy face. ‘I’m just getting tired of being in limbo.’ 

If Seungkwan had a penny for every time you said that, he’d be absolutely stinking fucking rich. 

‘I’m going to tell you what I tell you every time.’ He says his iced coffee finished as the bottom of the plastic cup rattles with his empty inhalation. ‘Just ask him out.’ 

‘Just ask him out.’ You mimic back, throwing your friend a dirty look as he reaches lazily for your laptop and filters through the thirst traps you’d been taking. ‘You know him better than I do-‘ 

‘Debatable.’ He retorts. 

‘Fine, you know him well enough. Tell me what he’s thinking, please.’ You beg, giving him the biggest puppy dog eyes you could physically muster, forcing him to fake a gag at you. 

‘Oh my god, stop it!’ He exclaims, ‘That might work on Vernon, but it will never work on me.’ 

You sigh loudly, flopping onto your back once again and holding the camera above you. 

‘____, you are the light of my life, my best friend on the planet, a star that shines in my galaxy, but I swear to god-‘ he pauses on a particular photo, his previous point lost in the wind as he eyes the photo up. ‘This photo!’ 

You scramble to your feet, perched on the arm of the loveseat and leaning over his shoulder. A saunter-y photo sits, your hair flowing and covering your face slightly as you pout and look away from the camera, a pencil between your lips seductively. 

‘Fuck, that is a good photo.’ You stare in disbelief at yourself and lean on Seungkwan’s shoulder to airdrop it to yourself, the long and gruelling process of picking the perfect song beginning. 

‘I just wish he’d decide what he wants.’ You say, the burst of I Don’t Understand But I Luv U by your favourite artist bouncing through the room. 

‘Too sexy.’ Seungkwan offers. ‘I don’t think he’s consciously not choosing, I just think he already thinks you’re his.’ 

‘This?’ Fast Pace, another song by one of your favourite artists, comes bounding out of your phone speaker. ‘But I’m not! I haven’t heard from him in a day, and then he comes barrelling back in like we’re in love!’

‘Break-up song, next.’ Seungkwan says, leaning on his chin to watch as you scroll mindlessly through your playlist. 

‘Ok, this?’ Spell, your most played song, rang out. 

‘Yes, perfect!’ Seungkwan snaps in agreement, ‘A bit sexy, mysterious, no hidden meanings, I like it.’ 

You grumble in annoyance at his jab and press post — you’ve only put lyrics on your story, hoping Hansol would catch on like, four…maybe five times?

‘But I’m not already his, he needs to, you know, ask me?’ You complain, circling back to the previous point. ‘Oh, and maybe text me consistently, I have constant whiplash, I swear.’ You reach up to rub your neck as if you have actually been injured by Hansol’s whip-like behaviour.

Seungkwan just tuts at your complaints, his mind trailing to his other clueless best friend, who Seungkwan thinks is being very dumb at the moment. There’s only so much blame you can put on Hansol’s mindless nature before Seungkwan fears he may have to interject — and tell his best friend to get it together! 

For the first hour, you watch the likes pour through, likes from your friends, likes from random men, even a like from your own mother. Yet not a peep of Hansol, not even a view, not a message, nothing. 

‘Do you think he’s like, dead or something?’ Seungkwan was now rattling through your nail polish on the bed as you lounged with your head hanging lazily off the loveseat, your hand held up for Seungkwan to paint. 

‘You’re unbearable.’ He mutters, concentrating with precision. 

By hour five, three different guys have messaged you, including Mingyu, the guy whom you crushed on for almost a decade, yet you felt nothing but distaste and very, very intense longing — and to nullify your moaning, you and Seungkwan were both half a bottle of wine down, nattering mindlessly. 

‘I can’t believe Kim fucking Mingyu replied to my story, but Hansol hasn’t even viewed it!’ You huff, blowing your hair out of your face in frustration and dramatically dropping your head onto your best friend’s lap, expertly moving as to not spill the beverage in your hand. 

‘Shut up, he did not!’ Seungkwan gawked, watching your phone closely as you scroll through Mingyu’s account, ‘God, I think I might be drooling.’ 

‘Ew,’ you say, turning your head upwards to your best friend, who grabs your phone hastily and continues the stalk. 

‘He is so gorgeous,’ Seungkwan coos, his eyes practically heart-shaped whilst he zooms in on a shirtless photo of Mingyu. ‘With all due respect to Vernon, I can’t believe you’re here mopeing because of a guy who wears rainbow tie-dye jumpers when Prince Charming is in your DMs.’ 

‘Hey,’ you slap his chest half-heartedly, ‘I like Hansol’s jumper.’ 

‘It’s a fucking crime to fashion.’ Seungkwan deadpans, and you bite your lip so as not to let out any sign of agreement. 

By hour sixteen, you’ve woken up, bewildered and quite hungover. Seungkwan was passed out flatly next to you, just as he had many times; your teddy bear snuggled in his arms. 

Immediately, your hands shoot to your phone, all notifications rendered useless as Hansol’s name stays absent. With a frustrated huff, you scroll slowly through the views, and your heart plummets when his profile is stacked amongst all the others. No like, no reply, nothing. 

If the banging in your head wasn’t bad enough, your anxiety is now rife as you can’t help but feel sorry for yourself. Dragging yourself out of the bedroom, leaving your best friend to continue snoring, you trail to the bathroom — splashing your face to maybe ground you, brushing the stale alcohol off your tongue and attempting to tame your frizzy mane. 

With an exhale, you beeline for your coffee machine, haphazardly preparing a beverage for yourself and your best friend, your mind sadly crawling to thoughts of Hansol, bitterness penetrating your brain as you think of his smile, his warm touch, his lusty gaze as he— 

Knock knock.

Frozen, your eyes snap to the door, the coffee machine still buzzing in front of you as you eye the clock, who is knocking at 10 am on a Sunday? 

Whoever it is does not deserve to see you in this state — head practically hanging in pounding pain, legs exposed, a huge hoodie concealing your figure, and a very dead look in your eyes. 

Knock knock!

‘Get the door! It feels like someone is knocking on my brain!’ The coarse and sleepy voice of Seungkwan sounds from your bedroom, and you walk hesitantly towards the door, eyeing the wine glasses and empty bottles on the coffee table, the pillows and blankets strewn across the lounge, the dirty dishes in the sink. God, this place was a mirror of you. 

Opening the door just a crack, you peek apprehensively out, the harsh sunrays making you squint as your head rattles with the brightness. 

‘_____?’ 

Every nerve in your body seemed to activate, your hairs standing as the velvety smooth voice of Chwe Hansol infiltrated your senses. Forcing yourself to focus your vision, you drink him in. 

He looked effortlessly cool, signature snapback resting on his head backwards with ease, dark wisps of hair peeking out. The brown in his eyes seemed to quiver slightly as you met them, the chocolate colour still bright even in this strange meeting. His attire was noticeably more put together, a black and red striped top and a pair of casual jeans adorning his figure — a difference from the usual sweats he showed up in. 

To be honest, you thought he looked sensational. A picture of perfect boyness that could’ve had you falling to your knees. But, the stinging in your head reminded you of his lack of commitment, lack of interest and lack of anything. 

‘What are you doing here?’ You croak out, squinting at him and attempting to conceal your unshowered and gross sweats from him. 

‘I-, uh,’ He raised his hands, a bouquet of gorgeous carnations and lilies, hand-wrapped delicately. His other hand holding a shopping bag, snacks peeking out. 

Normally you’d jump in joy and fling yourself into his arms, but that bitter taste wouldn’t budge from your tongue, the sight of him here after consistent on and off silence slightly too grating on your emotions. 

‘Look, Hansol,’ you opened the door a crack more, just to let yourself stand in front of it, carefully speaking as to not alert Seungkwan — who would tease you both and practically have you both kiss just to coo. ‘I think we need to talk.’ 

Hansol’s outstretched arms slackened, his face dropping into an unreadable expression, one you’d never seen him wear. His eyebrows creased, and not like they did when he concentrated, no, his eyes also seemed to droop, his mouth seemingly fighting off a scowl at your coldheartedness. 

‘Yeah, I also wanted to talk.’ He replies as you push the door open lightly. 

Hansol couldn’t help but admire your casual wear, the oversized jumper that fit more like a dress, making you look so undeniably adorable, your hair swept off your face, and it let Hansol see all the features he was enamoured by — your smooth skin, your long lashes, your plump lips.

This was it. Your heart was practically in your throat as you let Hansol in, now or never ringing through your head. His tall figure felt like a shadow behind you, his scent infiltrating your senses as he stepped closer to walk into your apartment. 

‘Maybe we should go to the balcony.’ You say with a quietened tone, your speech not lacking any tightness, especially as you refused to turn to speak to him. 

Hansol didn’t miss the extra pair of shoes next to the door, or the extra wine glass next to yours on the table or the pillows that had apparently been strewn across the room. Was there someone else here? Had you found someone else? 

His heart pounded in violent sprees, the hammering forcing a high-pitched ringing to pierce his eardrums. This was unfair, he shouldn’t feel like this, he shouldn’t be jealous of you and someone else — after all, he never made it official with you, he just presumed. 

The cold air hitting his face forced the noise out of his body, the sound of the city floors below grounding him to this moment. Placing the flowers and snacks down on the patio table, he took to the railing, watching the late morning sun as it made the rooftops shine.

Behind him, you looked at his figure appreciatively, cherishing what might be the last few moments between you before this all goes away — soon to feel like a distant dream.

You leant over the balcony alongside him, leaving a strangely awkward distance between your arms. With a shy gulp, you opened your mouth to speak, not sure what you were going to say, but you had to say something, anything. 

‘Is there someone else here?’ He questions with a hint of frustration. He couldn’t help himself, the thought of you with somebody else made him feel nauseous.

Your eyes practically bulge out of your head as you snap your head around to look at him. His jaw was tense, gaze unwavering as he refused to turn to look at you. 

‘What?’ You exclaim, almost speechless. 

‘I saw the shoes and the wine glasses.’ He says, forcing a monotone facade onto his voice. 

‘You’re such an idiot.’ You reply, shaking your head. ‘Seungkwan is here, we got drunk last night, and he ended up crashing here.’ 

Well, fuck. Hansol felt like a dick. An immature and insecure boy who jumped to the worst conclusion instantly.  You shifted uncomfortably — the first time he’d ever made you feel this way, as your heart panged in twisted sorrow. 

‘I’m sorry.’ He finally turned to you, you now not meeting his gaze, your hungover brain struggling to decipher whether to be pissed off or angry. 

After a few moments of painful silence, you speak, not allowing him to start, as you motivate yourself to tell him everything you needed to. 

‘Look, Hansol.’ You speak, your voice icy in a way he’d never heard it. It terrified him, sending anxiety pulsing through every inch of his body. ‘What we’re doing, whatever this is, has to stop.’ 

‘That’s what I came here to talk to you about.’ He replies, faux calm in his voice. 

‘So we’re in agreement?’ You push, the stinging of tears consuming you. 

‘No.’ 

Again, you were frozen, his answer numbing your senses and rendering you completely and utterly transfixed in shock. 

‘No?’ You stutter out, finally turning to face him. God, he looked so beautiful. The sun made his face glow in a way that could only be attributed to something angelic, and despite the tightness across it, a tear slipped out whilst you stared at him. 

‘Hansol, are you serious? I feel like I’ve been strung along by you for months now. One moment you make me feel like the only girl in the world, and the next I don’t hear from you for days!’ You took a sharp breath, your words ragged and pointed as they spilt out of you. ‘It’s-’A strangled sob rips its way out of your mouth. ‘I feel like I’m fucking crazy Hansol, and I won’t let this happen anymore. It’s not fair on me!’ 

You breathe heavily, your head pounding after your outburst. Hansol just sat and took it all. Took the punches. Let them weigh on him as he carefully considered his next words. 

‘You are the only girl in the world.’ He says shyly, your head still hung in an act of bitter defeat, and you scoff harshly at his words. 

He panics and holds your hand, forcing your head to turn to his, you don’t withdraw your hand yet, lathering sourly in the warmth of his fingertips against yours. ‘I’m sorry I shouldn’t have snapped like that.’ You apologise with a sadness on your lips. 

‘No, don’t apologise.’ He replies, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand tenderly. This would likely set you back months — this game of cat and mouse you fell into like a trap. ‘And I want to make this right.’ 

If your breath wasn’t hitched before, it most definitely was now. 

‘I want you to be mine, my girlfriend,’ He says, confidence backing him for once, before cowering away as he continues, ‘and I didn’t want to ask you like this, but fuck it, I guess.’ 

He turned promptly, picking up the flowers which had been discarded and shimmying a CD case out of the plastic bag. It was decorated in a way that was acutely Hansol — stickers, drawings and the scribble of words on the front.

For ______, Love Hansol x

In your wordlessness, Hansol continued, a nervous smile on his face. ‘I spent so long thinking about how to ask you, I got so in my head, and I wanted to say the right thing, but I just worried too much about the wrong thing. So I made you this.’ He rambles as you stay dead still, the gifts still outstretched in his hands. 

Hesitantly, you took the CD from his hand, looking at it closely, a few tracks on the list sticking with you: 

this is how it felt when we kissed on the hike

Pang - Caroline Polachek

this is how i feel about you (lol)

claws - Charli xcx

It was so painfully him, so painfully you and him. So perfect, it was like he had translated your love language into music. Your heart had practically leapt out of your chest at his confession and his question, all that doubt and worry slipping through your fingers like sand. 

‘Hansol,’ you say, that softness approaching like a ship sailing home. 

Hansol had never been so relieved to hear your voice quirk in its usual way; he felt every nerve in his body relaxing as your face softened, a smile beginning to break through. 

‘We’re such idiots.’ You say, your teeth shining as you smile widely and step closer to him. 

‘I’ll be anything as long as it’s with you.’ He replies with a smoothness he didn’t know he was capable of. 

With his romance, you bring your hand to the nape of his neck and tug his lips to yours. His warm, pillowy lips melt into yours instantly, adoration pouring into the kiss, like never before. Hansol’s arms found their way around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest in a swift movement, his lips not daring to leave yours. 

Hansol drank in the feeling of you against him, allowing the adrenaline to pump into you as his tongue slid skilfully into your mouth, exploring those places he’d been so many times. But this time, it was different, there were no unsaid words and no cloudy mixed messages — just pure and beautiful passion. 

‘Yes.’ You answer, ‘I’ll be your girlfriend.’ 

Hastily, you reconnect your lips, letting one of your hands cradle his jaw and cherish the smooth skin underneath, running the pad of your thumb along it like his skin was a masterpiece. Hansol’s smile penetrated the kiss, allowing you to withdraw slightly, foreheads resting against one another. 

‘Took you long enough.’ A muffled voice rings out, and both of your heads snap to the sliding glass door. Seungkwan posed with a knowing attitude as he looked at you both, entangled with each other. 

Giggles erupt between you as your lip gets caught between your teeth, and you turn your attention back to your boyfriend. 

‘In my defence, I wanted to ask you months ago.’ He replies to Seungkwan’s jab, kissing your forehead. 

‘Well, boyfriend, I’ve got a slightly less killer hangover. What do you want to do?’ You question with happiness dripping off every word.

‘Well, girlfriend, first, I want you to take the medicine I packed,’ He tilts his head to the plastic bag, ‘then, I want to sit and watch a movie with you whilst you recover,’ he teases, ‘and then when Seungkwan gets grossed out about how coupley we are and leaves, I want to make all of these months where you could’ve been mine up to you. How’s that sound?’ 

His proposal is a dream, and you nod. ‘I was always yours, you just couldn’t see it.’ 

‘Well, fuck me then.’ He jokes. 

His hand flattens against your stomach. There’s no rush to the movement—just his palm, warm and broad, fingers splayed so that his pinky grazes the waistband of your panties. You’re suddenly aware of how little you’re wearing. The tank top you’d pulled on before collapsing into bed last night, the plain cotton panties, the complete absence of a bra. Your nipples tighten against the fabric, and you know, you know he can feel it because his chest is pressed right against your shoulder blades.

“You’ve been waiting?” you whisper.

A soft laugh. His thumb traces a slow arc just below your navel. “You have no idea.”

Over the years, the two of you have built a whole language out of almosts. The way he’d tickle your sides until you gasped, and then his hands would linger. The afternoons you’d sit on his lap while watching a movie, and you’d shift just slightly and feel him hard beneath you, and neither of you would say a word. The nights he’d kiss your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, and you’d pretend not to notice how his breathing changed.

A small furrow forms between your brows as the numbers click together in your mind. You twist your head slightly, trying to look back at him over your shoulder.

"Why now? Why nineteen?" you ask, the words soft but curious. "Why not... last year? When I turned eighteen?"

Vernon doesn't answer right away. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if soaking in the sheer reality that he doesn't have to pull away anymore. His grip on your waist tightens, just a fraction, anchoring you against him.

"Still too young, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin that sends a shiver straight down your spine. His thumb resumes its slow, torturous stroke across your stomach. "Eighteen is just a number on a piece of paper. You were still a kid to me. I needed you to grow up just a little bit more before I let myself have this."

Today, that language is about to become something else entirely.

Vernon shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you. His dark eyes move over your face with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter. “Turn around,” he says, and it’s gentle but not a question.

You do. The sheets rustle as you roll onto your back, and now he’s hovering above you, one arm bracketing your head, his knees on either side of your thighs. The morning light catches the angles of his face—the sharp jaw, the full lips you’ve been stealing glances at for years, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead. He’s still smiling, but there’s something else underneath it now. A focus. A hunger held carefully in check.

“There you are,” he murmurs. His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, and then his knuckles trail down, over your cheek, the side of your neck, the dip between your collarbones. “I’ve been thinking about this morning for months.”

“Months?” Your voice comes out breathier than you intend.

“Years.” He corrects himself with a quiet shake of his head. “Since before it was okay to think about. And today it’s okay.”

Vernon leans down, and his lips meet yours. Not the chaste pecks he’s given you before, this is different. Slower. His mouth moves against yours with a deliberateness that makes your thoughts scatter, and when his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open for him without hesitation. The kiss deepens, and his hand slides from your collarbone down to the hem of your tank top.

He doesn’t push it up. Not yet. Instead, his fingers find the edge of the fabric and trace along it, back and forth, until you’re arching slightly, a silent plea. Only then does he break the kiss, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod. Words feel like too much right now.

His smile flickers. “I need to hear you say it.”

The consideration, even in this moment, sends a pulse of warmth through you. “Yes,” you say. “Please.”

The first touch of his fingers against your bare stomach makes you inhale sharply. He pushes the tank top up slowly—agonizingly slowly—revealing inch after inch of skin. When the fabric bunches just below your breasts, he pauses, and his gaze drops.

“God,” he breathes.

Your nipples are visible through the thin cotton, tight peaks pressing against the white fabric. The color beneath shows faintly—that pink with a hint of coral, like the inside of a seashell—and he stares as if he’s trying to memorize it.

“I’ve caught glimpses before,” Vernon says, his voice rougher now. “When you wear those thin tops. When you get out of the shower. I’d look away so fast.” His thumb brushes over one nipple through the tank top, and your back bows. A sound escapes you—small, caught in your throat. “But I always wondered.”

He pushes the fabric higher, and then your breasts are bare to the morning air and to his dark, wondering eyes.

Vernon doesn’t rush. He lowers his head, but instead of taking a nipple into his mouth immediately, he simply breathes against you. The warmth of his exhale draws a shiver across your skin, and your fingers twist into the sheets at your sides. When he finally, finally closes his lips around one tight peak, you make a noise that’s half his name and half something wordless.

His tongue circles slowly. Lazy, almost, if not for the way his other hand has come up to cup your neglected breast, his thumb mimicking the motion. The sensation threads through you—down your sternum, into the pit of your stomach, lower. Your hips shift without your permission, pressing up into the solid heat of his thigh.

“So responsive,” he murmurs against your skin, and the vibration of his voice makes you gasp. He switches sides, giving the same patient attention to your other nipple, and now both of his hands are roaming—your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip. Everywhere but where you suddenly, desperately want him.

“Vernon.” His name comes out as a plea.

He lifts his head. His lips are slightly swollen, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I know, baby. But I’m going to take my time with you. I’ve waited too long to rush.”

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and he looks at you again—that same silent question. You answer with a nod and a whispered “yes,” and then he’s peeling the damp cotton down your legs. You lift your hips to help him, and the fabric slides away, leaving you utterly exposed.

The sound he makes is low in his throat. A groan that seems pulled from somewhere deep.

“Look at you,” he says, and his voice is almost reverent. He settles between your thighs, and you feel the brush of his shoulders against your inner knees. His gaze fixes on the center of you—bare, pink, already glistening in the morning light. “I didn’t know. I mean, I hoped, but…”

His thumb traces along your outer lips, feather-light, and your breath catches. He parts you gently, and the cool air against your slick heat makes you clench around nothing.

“Hairless,” he murmurs, and the word thrums through you. “And so pink. Like the inside of a rose.”

You want to say something—to tell him how long you’ve imagined this, how many nights you’ve touched yourself thinking about exactly this moment—but then his thumb finds your clit, and language dissolves.

He circles it with the same torturous slowness he’s shown everything else. Not pressing, not rushing, just tracing the shape of you until you’re trembling. Your thighs try to close, but his shoulders hold them open.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says, and it’s almost stern. “I want to see everything.”

His thumb presses just slightly—a question—and your hips buck up into his hand. The sound that escapes you is sharp, and he smiles, that same focused hunger flickering across his face.

“There. Right there.”

He lowers his head, and the first touch of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out. It’s not the broad, flat stroke you expected—he’s precise, deliberate, using just the tip to trace patterns that make your vision blur at the edges. One of his hands slides up your stomach to cup your breast again, thumb rolling your nipple in time with the motions of his tongue.

The dual sensation is too much and not enough. Your fingers find their way into his hair—finally, finally—and you tug, and he groans against you, the vibration ricocheting through every nerve ending you possess.

“You taste,” he says, lifting his head just long enough to speak, “exactly how I imagined. Exactly.” Then his mouth is on you again, and now he’s not teasing. His tongue curls, flattens, dips inside you and then returns to your clit with a rhythm that your body answers instinctively. Your hips roll against his face, and he lets you, one hand moving to grip your thigh and hold you steady as he works you closer and closer to the edge.

The pressure builds—not the cliché coil, but a stretching tightness, like something being wound past its limit. Your thighs shake. Your breath turns ragged. Every muscle in your body draws taut as Vernon’s tongue continues its devastating, patient work.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please, Vernon, I’m—”

He hums against you—a single, resonant note—and you shatter.

The orgasm rips through you in pulses, each one wringing a sound from your throat that you don’t recognize. Your back arches off the mattress, and his arm bands across your hips, holding you in place as he rides out every last wave. When the tremors finally subside, you’re left gasping, fingers still tangled in his hair, thighs slick and shaking.

Vernon crawls up your body, pressing kisses as he goes—your hipbone, your navel, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. When he finally kisses you properly, you can taste yourself on his lips, and the intimacy of it makes something crack open inside your chest.

“I wanted to do that,” he says against your mouth, “the first time I saw you in that little white bikini. You were sixteen, and I had to go take a very cold shower.”

You laugh, and the sound is watery and surprised. “You never said anything.”

“I couldn’t.” He pulls back to look at you, and his expression is serious now, the playfulness banked behind something deeper. “Not until today. Not until you were of age, and it was real, and you could choose.”

The word choose lands softly. You reach up and cup his face, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I’ve been choosing this since I was old enough to understand what choosing meant. I just didn’t know if you felt the same.”

His answer is a kiss, deeper and hungrier than before. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and this time there’s nothing restrained about it. His body settles against yours, and through the thin fabric of his boxers, you can feel how hard he is—the length of him pressing against your thigh, hot even through the cotton.

You reach down, your fingers finding the waistband of his boxers, and he breaks the kiss to let you push them down. He helps, shoving the fabric aside until he’s as bare as you are, and then he’s above you again, and you can’t help but look.

The sight of him makes your stomach tighten with a fresh wave of want. He’s beautiful—long and thick, the tip flushed a deep rose, a bead of moisture glistening at the slit. Your hand moves before you can think, wrapping around him, and his whole body tenses.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to yours.

You stroke him once, twice, learning the weight and heat of him. His breath comes in harsh bursts against your cheek, and his hips twitch forward into your grip. But then his hand closes over yours, stilling the motion.

“If you keep doing that,” he says, his voice strained, “I won’t last. And I need to be inside you.”

The words send a shiver straight to your core. You release him, and he positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Even that slight pressure makes you ache with emptiness.

“Look at me,” Vernon says.

You meet his eyes. The morning light has shifted, painting his skin in shades of gold and shadow. There’s a vulnerability in his expression that you’ve never seen before—something raw and unguarded.

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “In my bed at night. In the shower. Every time you sat on my lap and pretended not to notice what you were doing to me. I’d imagine what it would feel like to finally, finally be inside you.”

His hips shift, and the head of him pushes just barely past your entrance. A gasp tears from your throat at the stretch—the sweet, burning pressure of him.

“Tell me you want it,” he says, holding himself there at the threshold. “Tell me you’ve wanted it too.”

“I want it.” The words come out in a rush. “I want you, Vernon. I’ve always wanted you.”

He pushes forward.

The sensation blooms through you in slow motion—the incremental parting of your body around his, the impossible fullness as inch after inch sinks deeper. Your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there, and he groans, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours.

“So tight,” he manages, his voice wrecked. “So warm. I—”

He stops moving when he’s fully seated, giving you a moment to adjust, and the world narrows to the point where your bodies are joined. You can feel every heartbeat, yours and his, a syncopated rhythm that seems to echo in the space between your ribs.

“Are you okay?” The question is strained but sincere, his eyes searching your face.

You nod, not trusting your voice. The stretch has eased into something deeper—a fullness that feels necessary, like something you’ve been missing your whole life has finally clicked into place.

“Good,” he breathes. “Because I don’t think I can hold still much longer.”

He withdraws slightly—just a fraction—and then pushes back in, and the drag of him against your inner walls makes you moan. His rhythm starts slow, each thrust a deliberate, rolling motion that grinds against your clit. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he makes a sound that’s half laugh and half groan.

“Needy,” he murmurs, and the teasing note is back, even through the wrecked quality of his voice. “All those times I kept my hands to myself, and this is what you wanted. My good girl just needed to be filled up.”

The phrase good girl sparks something electric in your spine. Your hips buck up to meet his next thrust, and he rewards you with a sharper, deeper stroke that punches the air from your lungs.

“Like that?” he asks, and the hunger in his eyes is back, burning bright.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, like that. Please—”

He gives it to you. His pace quickens, the slow, patient rhythm giving way to something more urgent. The sounds in the room are obscene—the slick slide of your bodies, the creak of the mattress, the mingled gasps and moans that neither of you can contain. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together beside your head, and the tenderness of that gesture, even in the midst of such raw intensity, makes your heart stutter.

Vernon’s mouth finds your neck, and he bites down gently on the tendon there, and the sharp pleasure of it arcs through you like lightning. Every thrust drives him deeper, the angle shifting with each roll of his hips until he’s hitting a spot inside you that makes colors bloom behind your eyes.

“I’m close,” you whisper, and the admission feels like surrender. “Vernon, I’m so close.”

He lifts his head, and his eyes are wild now, the careful control he’s held onto for so many years finally cracking at the edges. “Come for me,” he says, and it’s a command and a plea all at once. “One more time. Let me feel you.”

His free hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and the added pressure is the spark that ignites the fuse. This time, the orgasm is deeper—a full-body ripple that starts where you’re joined and radiates outward, pulling a cry from your throat that you don’t bother to muffle. Your inner walls clench around him, and Vernon’s rhythm finally, finally falters.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, the sudden tension in his muscles signaling the shift. Before you can even process the change in his rhythm, his hands grip your hips tightly, and he’s pulling out with a sharp, desperate exhale.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, body trembling as he releases just against your skin, his breaths coming in ragged, shuddering gasps as the tension finally breaks.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His weight presses you into the mattress, and you can feel his heart hammering against your chest, hard and fast. His breath is a warm, uneven tide against your neck.

Then he lifts his head, and his lips find your forehead. Your eyelids. The tip of your nose.

“Happy birthday,” he says again, and this time the words are soft with wonder.

You laugh, the sound trembling around the edges. “Best one yet.”

He smiles, but something shifts in his expression. His weight settles more firmly, and you realize with a jolt that he’s not going soft yet. If anything, the roll of his hips is tentative, testing.

“Vernon?” you whisper.

His hand slides down your arm, fingers closing around your wrist and pinning it gently to the mattress. The change in his posture is subtle—just a fraction more tension in his shoulders, a fraction less softness in his gaze.

“You thought that was it?” His voice is lower now, darker. The teasing note has sharpened into something else entirely. “Baby, I’ve been waiting for years. You think one orgasm and a quick fuck is going to satisfy me?”

Your breath catches. He’s still inside you, still hard, and the words pool heat in your belly despite the sensitivity still singing through your nerves.

“We have the whole house to ourselves,” he continues, his lips grazing your ear. “No one’s coming home until later. And I have a list.”

A list. The word sends a shiver down to your toes.

“What kind of list?” you manage, and your voice comes out embarrassingly eager.

Vernon pulls back just enough to look at you. That hungry focus is back, but it’s sharper now, less restrained. His grip on your wrist tightens just slightly.