#goblinontour

Love doesn’t even begin to cover it. Love — the all-encompassing, all-consuming, above-all-else feeling. Love doesn’t feel adequate. Love doesn’t even come near enough to describe it. To describe what this is, what you feel, what he is to you. Love is a shallow word, a placeholder, a stand-in for something bigger, something you can’t name and never will. Will not be able to. 

It was there, though. Love was there. From the first moment you felt him. The moment you touched him, and you wished, in the quiet, echoing depths of your soul, that you’d met him earlier. Earlier, because there will never be enough of him.

And maybe if you’d had another year, you could have settled for love. Another month, and maybe it would have been enough to fill the spaces he’s carved out of you. Another day, and maybe you wouldn’t be here, aching, wanting, needing more. Another minute, and maybe the hollowness wouldn’t ache so much. Another second, and you might have been fuller.  

Fuller of him.

Because every second he doesn’t fill feels empty — even when they’re crowded with the thoughts of him. Those haunting thoughts of him. They are heavy. They linger. They never leave. Because you won’t let them. Because you can’t bear to let them go, even when they so desperately fight to dissolve. To let him go, even in your mind, feels unbearable. Because you can’t miss any more of him. You won’t allow it. It would hurt more than hanging onto those desperate thoughts. 

And the thought of goodbye? Nothing’s worse than saying goodbye. Saying goodbye to him, even the him you keep stored away in your head. It feels a little bit like dying. 

It feels worse than dying.  

You don’t miss him. You can’t. He’s here. His body beside you, his warmth in the bed. But you still long for him, as if there’s a piece of him somewhere else, just out of reach. A part of him you’ll never touch.  

If love’s not enough — will never be enough — then why? Why do you love him? Why do you love him so much that it splits you open and spills you out to make more room for him? Why do you love him when it hurts more often than it doesn’t?  

But then, he stirs. A faint, lazy shift beside you, and your heart lurches toward him. His hair is mussed, dark locks curling over his forehead, and you can feel the warmth of his skin before you even touch it. His breathing slows, evens, and your chest tightens. You lean in, closer than close, lips grazing the shell of his ear. 

There is nothing to be afraid of.

“I love you.”

The words come quiet, soft. You whisper them because saying them too loudly would only make it feel like acknowledging their insufficiency. Like shining a light on the void that still exists, even in love. So you keep them quiet and hope — hope — hope that they’re enough. At least for him. Enough for him to understand a fraction of what you mean. Of what it truly is. 

Because it’s more than love. It’s greater than affection. Beyond. Beyond the hugs and beyond the words or the way you hold him. More. More than the way he holds you back, like the two of you are all that’s keeping the world from breaking apart. Because you’d fall apart without each other there. Holding it all together, together. Yourselves and the other. 

“I think you’re supposed to say, ‘Happy Birthday.’” he murmurs, his voice slow and drowsy, still thick with sleep even though the sun hangs high in the sky. 

Almost noon.

You glance up at him, his eyelids heavy, his lips curling into the faintest trace of a smile. The kind of smile that’s more reflex than effort, born out of his teasing rather than true amusement.  

He doesn’t sleep well at night. He never has. He calls it wasting time, lying awake in the dark, restless, as if sleep itself is a thief robbing him of moments he’ll never get back. Time. Precious time. He treats it like gold dust, hoarded and spent with care, but never wasted.  

And yet, come morning — or afternoon — he always regrets it. Always drags himself out of bed with a sigh, muttering about the hours he’s lost. Same guilt, same cycle. A war between the time he holds too tightly and the time that slips away.  

Precious, precious time. 

You smile faintly against his skin. “I don’t want to remind you you’re getting old.”  

“You don’t want to remind yourself.” he corrects, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk. He’s always right, even when you don’t want him to be. Especially when you don’t want him to be. He’s always right.

“It’s okay, little love.” he says, and his voice wraps around you like a blanket never could, soft and warm but never suffocating. “I don’t mind it. But don’t worry too much. You’re making it sound like I’m eighty.”  

“Sorry.” you whisper, and you don’t know why you’re apologising, but you do it anyway. You shift closer, nuzzling into his chest, inhaling the faint, musky warmth of him. Now that he’s awake, you don’t have to be so careful. No tiptoeing so as not to disturb. You can disturb him now, without feeling as guilty. He won’t mind.  

“I love you too, just so you know.” he says, his voice soft, almost shy.  

You press your ear to his chest, to feel, and listen, and then feel some more. His skin is warm and sticky, still, from sleep. Sticky enough that your ear almost gets suctioned on there and you can hear the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your cheek more than his voice. 

Thumping. 

B-dum. B-dum. B-dum.

“I know.” you say. Barely audible. You don’t want to risk drowning out that sound. Of his heartbeat. You close your eyes and let it fill you, every hollow, aching part of you.  

B-dum. B-dum. B-dum.

Time feels cruel. You don’t say it, but you feel it. Time that keeps slipping through your fingers, dragging you both forward. But for now, there’s this. 

For now, it’s enough.  

It has to be.

“I didn’t get you anything.” you whisper again, even quieter this time, as though saying it aloud might further cement your failure. 

Your breath feels shallow, as though the confession has siphoned all the air from your lungs. You can feel his chest rise and fall beneath you, his warmth enveloping you, but it’s not enough to quiet the churn of guilt in your stomach. Your hands fidget against the hollow in the middle, that perfect slope that you imagine deepens every time you lay on it, tracing patterns in the heat of his skin.  

You didn’t. You didn’t get him anything because nothing felt like enough. If love wasn’t enough, how could a thing — a mere object, bought and wrapped and handed over — ever suffice? How could you trust that a trinket, something so tangible and small and fleeting, could carry the weight of everything you wanted him to know? What you needed him to feel? Everything you couldn’t say. If love wasn’t enough, how could you put your faith in anything else?  

If love wasn’t enough, how could anything be?  

“That’s fine.” he says. He’s impressively calm, unbothered, compared to your chronic restlessness. His fingers brush over your arm in slow, lazy strokes, as if to soothe you. He shifts slightly beneath you, adjusting his arm around your back. His fingertips trail lightly against your spine.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.

But his reassurance doesn’t land. You can’t stop. You can’t stop the words from spilling out, your voice trembling, faster now, desperate to explain, disjointed and raw. “I just-” You swallow hard. Your throat tightens. You press your cheek harder against his chest. “You already have it all. I didn’t know what to get you that you couldn’t just…get yourself. And I- I ran out of time…time. I thought about it too long, and then I woke up today, and it was too late.”  

“Sweetie…”

Your hands press against him, fingers curling slightly, clinging to the safety of his presence. You can’t look at him. You can’t risk it. You can’t risk seeing the disappointment that might linger in his eyes. The possibility of it burning in there would undo you completely, and you’re already teetering on the edge.  

You keep your gaze fixed on his collarbone, unable to look up. 

You can’t risk it. 

“Sweetie, stop.” he says. He’s firm. The words slice through your spiralling thoughts.  

You hear the barely there hiss of his breath, a flicker of frustration. And in that moment, your chest tightens, and the guilt surges forward. You fucked up. He exhales a soft huff that brushes against the crown of your head. You feel the faintest shift in his chest. You’ve said too much, and now you’ve ruined something.  

Everything.

But then his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. He wraps himself around you like armor. Firm, his hands warm against your back, his hold so secure that it feels like the world outside of him doesn’t exist. He wraps himself around you so completely. The kind of embrace that makes you feel small and safe, protected in a way that nothing else does.  

He holds you tighter, tighter still, until the edges of you blur into him. He holds you so tightly you know you’d have to fight to escape. Until you know that escape is impossible.

Not that you’d ever try. You’d never want to.  

“Sorry.” you murmur against his chest.  

“No.” he says, sharp and immediate with an insistence that leaves no room for doubt. His hands move, one slipping up to the nape of your neck, his thumb brushing softly against your skin, the other splaying wide across your back. “No, no. You were right.” His voice softens and drops into something gentler. 

You hesitate, confused, and your body tenses slightly against him. He must feel it, because his hand on your back begins to move in slow, soothing circles, the friction of his palm against your shirt creating a faint warmth.  

“I have everything.” he continues.  

He pauses, and the silence stretches out. And again, all you can hear is the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear. 

Beating.

B-dum. B-dum. B-dum.

The rhythmic pulse of life. It’s almost enough to drown out the self-doubt still clinging to you.  

“Right ‘ere.” he finally says, his voice breaking just slightly on the words.  

And then he inhales, so deep you feel the tremor in him, the slow expansion of his chest pressing into yours, the way he seems to pull the air in as if it might just be the thing holding him together. He holds it in. Exhales slowly. Like he’s releasing something, letting it go into the space between you. 

“I have you ‘ere.” he whispers. “That’s enough.”  

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just lie there, your body pressed against his, your hands gripping him. His words feel warmer and heavier than his body, sinking into your skin, and for the first time in hours — maybe days — it begins to ease.  

Slowly, cautiously, you lift your head. You finally look up at him, chin resting on his chest — right in that special spot. When your eyes finally meet his, you see nothing but softness. There’s no disappointment there. No frustration. Just him. Just Alex, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.  

And for a moment, the ache eases.  

You search his face, your gaze tracing the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the messy curls that fall across his forehead. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t blink. He just watches you, patient and steady, like he’s willing you to understand.  

You do. 

You let yourself believe him.  

For a moment, you let yourself believe that you are enough. 

So you watch.  

You look, and you study, and you wish — desperately — that your eyes were fitted with tiny microscopes so you wouldn’t miss a thing. You don’t want to miss a thing. You want to memorise every detail, every imperfection, every fleeting expression that might escape you if you look away too soon.  

Your gaze drifts to the corners of his eyes, to the faint wrinkles that fan out like delicate etchings. You start counting them, one by one, as you always do, wondering if there are more than last year, or even yesterday. You always count, and yet you never remember the last number. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Your eyes move to his forehead, and you study the lines there, the ones that seem a little deeper than they used to. They’re there constantly now, carved into his skin like tiny scars from years of raising his eyebrows just so. He says it’s to soften his expression, to make himself look less unapproachable to the outside world.  

You think it’s ridiculous.  

You’ve told him that before — how silly he looks when he does it, like he’s trying to imitate some wide-eyed, overly eager version of himself. You’ve teased him for it, and he’s laughed, but still, he does it.  

He says his face falls weird when he’s neutral, and this, apparently, is the fix. You think it’s unnecessary. You like his face as it is — neutral, serious, tired, upset. Whatever he is, it’s fine.  

Because it’s him.  

It’s him, and it’s real, and you wouldn’t change a thing.  

Your hand moves instinctively, your fingertips brushing against the faint lines there, on his forehead. You trace them gently, lightly, and harder as you’re trying to memorise their shape. He doesn’t flinch or pull away. He just watches you, patient as ever, his dark eyes soft and steady, as always. 

“You’re staring again.” he says. There’s no real reproach in it. He doesn’t mind the spotlight when that spotlight is you.

“I know.” you murmur, not bothering to deny it.  

He raises an eyebrow slightly, and there’s that look again — that playful tilt of his lips, the one that’s almost imperceptible, like he’s fighting the urge to smile.  

“Am I passing inspection?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.  

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You always do.”  

His expression softens further, the teasing edge fading. His hand comes up to rest over yours, his fingers curling gently around your wrist, holding you there against him.  

“You don’t have to, you know.” he says quietly.  

“Don’t have to what?”  

“Look so hard. It’s like…like you’re afraid I’ll disappear if you don’t.”  

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. Your hand stills against his forehead, and your breath hitches slightly, your chest tightening.  

“I just…” you start, your voice trailing off as you search for the right words. “I just don’t want to miss anything.”  

“You won’t.” he says simply, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”  

You nod, but that ache in your chest doesn’t fully subside. Because time doesn’t care about promises, and no matter how tightly you hold on, it always finds a way to slip through your fingers.  

“You’re struggling to breathe.” he announces, his steady voice pulling you back to yourself.  

You hadn’t noticed until now, hadn’t realised how shallow your breaths had become, how your lungs felt heavy, like they were carrying too much. The moment he says it, the awareness hits you — harder and harder, a wave crashing over you, dragging you under.  

Your chest tightens, and the sting in your nose starts to surface, hot and sharp. Your eyes feel like they’re being pressed from the inside, the pressure swelling until you can’t ignore it anymore.  

“Don’t cry, my baby.” he whispers, a plea as much as an attempt at comfort.  

But it’s too late.  

The cracks in you deepen, widening into fissures that can’t be held together anymore. The tears come, spilling over before you can stop them, before you can even think to try.  

He tries. He always tries. 

He wipes at your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, murmuring soft reassurances, holding you closer, tighter, like he can somehow stop the flow through sheer force of will. 

But it doesn’t work. He knows it won’t work.  

So, finally, he lets it happen. He lets you break, lets the tears fall freely, lets the overwhelming weight of it all pour out of you. Because it’s too much.

It’s too much love, too little time.

And when love feels like this, when it swells so big it aches, clothing is just another barrier. A suggestion, for that reason, never an imposition. 

He breaks it down with clumsy hands, fumbling with the neckline of your shirt, pulling it over your head in a movement that’s more desperate than it could ever be classed as graceful. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, just keeps going until there’s nothing between you but skin.  

The moment you feel him — him — warm and solid, the familiar press of his chest against yours — it hurts a little less.  

You press yourself against him, a wet cheek against his shoulder, hands clutching at his back because you’re still afraid he might slip away. His arms wrap around you again, this time even tighter, to the point it almost hurts. It hurts. But not as much as not having him hold you. His hands spread across your bare skin like he’s trying to hold you together, to keep the fissures from splitting into something irreparable.  

He doesn’t speak now. There’s nothing left to say. He just holds you, lets you cry into him, lets the warmth of his body seep into yours, lets the moment stretch out until the edges of your pain start to dull.  

And in his silence, you feel it. The unspoken truth. The promise that doesn’t need words.  

The fissures won’t turn into holes. Not with him here. Not with the way he holds you, the way he keeps you from falling apart completely.  

You can breathe again.

And you can breathe him in again.  

Ah, there it is. That sweetness. It clings to him, a scent that feels like home. It soothes. It’s calming you.  

But now…now, he’s restless.  

You feel it first in the subtle fidgeting of his fingers against your skin, then in the shifting of his limbs, the tightening and untightening of muscles as he tries — and fails — to settle. The closeness that was comforting moments ago has turned into a puzzle, the edges too tight, the pieces overlapping awkwardly.  

“Oh.” you gasp softly. He’s restless all over, his body betraying him.  

“Sorry, girl.” he mumbles, his voice tinged with embarrassment. His hands move hesitantly, unsure whether to pull you closer or let you go. “I didn’t mean to. It- it’s just… you’re naked. Almost. It just…”  

“It’s…” you start, but you trail off.  

“I’m sorry.” he repeats, firmer this time, like he needs you to believe him.  

Why would he be sorry?  

It’s only…natural.  

“Who are you?” you ask suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at him, your eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.  

He blinks, startled, but before he can answer, you lean in again, pressing a kiss to the dip in his collarbone.  

“Just me.” he says with a nervous giggle. His cheeks flush, the color creeping up his neck, and you feel his chest rise sharply beneath your palms.  

He’s so fucking cute when he’s like this.  

“I don’t know you.” you tease. 

You’re purring.  

Up now, your knees bracketing his sides, your hands splayed across his chest. His breathing quickens further, his flush deepening as he looks up at you. From his point of view, there’s something there. A spark, a shift, something playful. But your eyes are still red, rimmed with the remnants of tears. 

And yet, he can’t help it.  

Not when you’re like this, pressing up against him, leaning over him, commanding his attention so effortlessly. His eyes flicker over you, wide and unblinking, like headlights catching something fragile in the dark. He knows he should look away, should steady himself, but he can’t.  

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

A palm reaches out, hesitant at first, then bold. It cups you, warm and engulfing, his fingers splaying instinctively, mapping every inch of you. The other joins. 

“Security! Security!” you call out dramatically, a breathless laughter.  

The corners of your eyes crunch as you smile, betraying any hint of real fear. The peaks of your skin, hot beneath his squeezing fingertips, send a rush of heat between you both, and you feel his hand falter for a split second before tightening its hold.  

The act of innocence.  

“I don’t mean to…” he says, his voice dipping low, a rasp threading through his words. He tilts his head back against the pillow, his eyes half-lidded, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’m just a tortured artist, baby.”  

“Yeah?” you challenge, shifting your hips, enough to feel the friction between you both.  

“Yeah.” he breathes.  

Hips roll.  

Heat intensifies.  

The wetness that once blurred your vision now pools low, deep, undeniable. It seeps into the space between you, pulling you both into its gravity.  

He groans softly. And…God! It’s so beautiful…his grip on you tightening as his body moves in sync with yours. His gaze never leaves you, even as his lips part, his breath hitching with every shift, every roll, every press of your skin against his.  

You smile, a wicked, knowing smile, and lean down until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Tortured?” you murmur.  

“Always.” he whispers, his words swallowed by the heat between you as his hands guide you closer, closer, until there’s no space left at all.

“Is that solely a bad thing?” 

It strikes him harder than you intended. His body stills, his breath catching as he processes what you’ve just said. He doesn’t answer right away, his silence stretching out, heavy and charged, while you wait.  

You’re hesitant in your approach, your fingers hovering, dancing lightly across his skin. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A rhythm that mirrors the beat of your heart. You’re waiting, always waiting, for his sign.  

And then it comes.  

A nod. Another squeeze of his hands on your breasts.  

Green light.

You move, reaching in just barely, your fingers brushing against the warmth of him. He’s sticky already.  

“I think…that…suffering is necessary.” he says, his voice uneven, halting. His legs twitch beneath you, begging to squeeze together, to curl inward, but he can’t. You’re holding him down without even trying, just by being there, your weight and presence enough to pin him in place.  

“In order to- to access the high levels of feeling- fuck-” His voice cuts off, his words swallowed by a sharp intake of breath.  

He can’t.  

His right hand quits its job of squeezing, abandoning your chest to join yours below. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and insistent, guiding you, begging you, leading you.  

“Of love.” he finally concludes, his voice trembling.  

Love.

It echoes in your mind, that single word reverberating.  

“Profound…” you start, leaving the word open, unfinished, unsure of how to follow it.  

Your hips shift, your body moving instinctively, rubbing yourself against his thigh in time with the rhythm of your holding hands. The sensation sends sparks shooting through you, but your focus stays on him, on the way his breath hitches, on the way his fingers grip yours tighter.  

He’s soft there, on his thighs. The skin is plush and fluffy in a way he rarely shows to anyone but you. It’s intimate, that softness, a vulnerability he keeps hidden from the world but offers to you without hesitation.  

“…ness.” he completes.  

Profoundness.  

It feels bigger than the moment, bigger than the two of you, and yet it’s tethered here, grounded in the heat and closeness of your bodies.  

His hand tightens over yours, guiding you with more urgency now, his movements less controlled, more desperate. His eyes lock on yours, wide and glistening, and you can see everything in them — his need, his fear, his devotion.  

And love. Always love.  

You lean forward, lips brushing against his ear, and whisper, “Show me?”  

A command, a plea, a promise all wrapped into one. And he does. 

“I can count this as my present…if it makes you feel better.” 

His fingers toy with the bow on your panties, that delicate little detail that always seems to fuck with his head. It’s so small, so dainty, so perfectly out of place between the rough pads of his fingertips. His hands aren’t particularly big, but somehow, you make them feel enormous. You make him feel enormous.

Almost…wrong.  

You nod, your breath catching, and the sight of you offering yourself like that — open, willing, waiting — pulls a groan from deep in his chest.  

“God…” he breathes, the word dragged out.  

The way you give yourself to him. Every time. All the time. It feels so wrong.  

It feels like the only thing that’s ever been right.  

His hand dips lower, and he rubs the tip of himself over the fabric that clings to you, already damp, already sticking to every curve and dip of your shape. Now it sticks to him too, and the friction of it, the teasing pressure, makes his jaw clench.  

You shiver, your body trembles as you try to hold yourself steady, but it’s too much.  

And yet, not enough.  

Your legs weaken, and you drop back down onto him, pressing yourself against his lap with a need that borders on desperation. The heat of him, the solidity, the sheer realness of him, makes your breath stutter.  

It’s too much-  

It’s not enough.  

He exhales sharply, his hands flying to your hips to hold you steady, to keep you from sliding away, but his grip isn’t tight enough to stop you from moving. It never is. You grind against him, the thin barrier of fabric doing nothing to dull the sensation, and his head falls back against the pillow with a muffled curse.  

“Fuck, baby…” His voice is strained now, thick with the weight of everything he feels but can’t quite say.  

The bow beneath his fingertips feels almost absurd in contrast to the heat between you, but it grounds him somehow. He tugs at it gently, watching it stretch and twist, and the sight of it makes his head spin. It’s delicate, almost too delicate. 

Like you.  

He knows better. You aren’t fragile. You just let him treat you like you are. It ruins him every time.  

You both need more.  

His hand slips lower, finding the edge of the fabric, and with a slow movement, he pushes it to the side. The wetness there makes him shiver, his breath catching as he lets his fingers toy with you for a moment, drawing soft, stuttering sounds from your lips.  

And then, finally, he pushes himself in.  

Slowly.

You wince, your body tensing, and the ache is back. That familiar, consuming ache — the one that feels like it starts in your chest and radiates outward, like it’s eating you alive.  

The closest of closeness.  

The most you could possibly get.  

And you still feel so utterly empty.  

He notices, of course he notices. He always notices.  

“It’s okay, baby, it’s ‘kay…shhh.” he whispers, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal — you feel like one. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into the curve of his neck. “I don’t like to think of people…of…I don’t want to think of you suffering. But then you do.”  

His hips roll, slow and measured, and the stretch of him inside you makes your breath hitch. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you don’t know how to reconcile the two.  

“You breathe at such a rate that you’re bound to suffer, sweetie.” he murmurs, his words almost lost in the rhythm of his movements.  

“I…I don’t know if it’s pain or pleasure.” you choke out, your voice muffled against his shoulder. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and you sniffle, clinging to him, to the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.  

His pace is so slow, so tender, that it hurts in its kindness. Every thrust feels like a question, every withdrawal like an apology.  

“Reality is pain,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, “but we bring out the pleasure, in each other, with each other.”  

You can feel it in the way his hands roam your body, always searching, always reassuring. But even as he speaks, you can tell he’s fighting his own demons. His mind flickers through the darker corners of himself, the parts he tries to keep hidden. He wonders if he’s hurting you more than helping you, if his presence in your life is a blessing or a curse.  

You, meanwhile, can’t stop cataloging him.  

The way his jaw clenches and unclenches with every thrust. The beads of sweat gathering at his temple. The soft, almost imperceptible tremor in his voice when he whispers your name.  

You wonder if he feels it too — that emptiness. If he’s trying to fill it the same way you are, with this act, with this closeness.  

You wonder if it’s working for him.  

Because for you, it’s both too much and not enough.  

You press your lips to his shoulder, kissing the damp skin there, tasting salt of sweat and tears, and heat, and him.

“Do you feel it?”  

His movements slow even further, his body stilling for a moment.  

“I feel everything.” he finally says. His hands tighten on you, pulling you closer, as if that’s even possible. “You make me feel everything.”  

So you kept offering yourself to him. Because it was the only thing that made sense. Because in those moments, when words failed him, when he avoided eye contact like the answers were buried somewhere else, he’d offer you the deeper meaning of his touch.  

He was avoidant, yes. Could be classed an asshole, if you wanted to simplify it. He wouldn’t talk. Not too often, not too much. 

Unless he did.  

When he thought you needed it so desperately that you wouldn’t make it out without the explicitness, without the explanations. He’d relent. He’d offer you a sliver of his mind, a glimpse into that labyrinth of thoughts he kept so well-guarded.  

And sometimes, those words would only make it worse.  

It’s hard to overstate. The impact he had. 

Has.  

The chokehold.  

“Tighter.” Your voice is a rasp, your breath already unsteady, but you say it anyway. His hand rests on your throat, not pressing yet, just holding, and you arch into the weight of it. “Tighter.”  

His gaze sharpens. There’s something unreadable in his eyes. A pause. A moment of hesitation. Then his grip tightens, and the air between you seems to still.  

He turns pain into something beautiful.  

“Take me.” you whisper, your voice a low, almost imperceptible plead. His fingers begin to move.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Against your neck, as if testing the rhythm of your pulse.  

Intuitive. Always.  

Then he takes.  

His free hand finds your jaw, thumb pressing against your lower lip until your mouth falls open. He’s watching you, watching the way your body responds to him, the way your chest rises and falls in its shallowness.  

Knuckles knock against your teeth as he slides his fingers inside, pads pressing against your tastebuds, filling the space until you’re choking on him. Nails scrape against the back of your throat, and you gag, tears springing to your eyes.  

Impactful.  

“Good girl.” he murmurs. Like velvet over steel. The praise is quiet, but it ignites something primal in you. You whimper around his fingers, and he groans, barely holding himself together.  

He watches the tears spill over, watches the way your lips stretch around him, and something in him snaps. His hand tightens further on your throat, cutting off just enough air to make you feel weightless. To make you float in that space between pleasure and pain. Until you can’t tell them apart. Until you can’t settle on either one. 

You grab at his wrist, not to pull him away but to anchor yourself to him. Because…he’s everything. Your air, your gravity, your entire world condensed into the roughness of his touch and the way he looks at you.  

“Breathe, baby.” he says. His hand loosens slightly, giving you just enough to draw in a shaky breath around his fingers. “I’ve got you. Always.”  

You believe him.  

You have to.

He is your only salvation from this pain. The doer and undoer. Cause and effect. The wound and the salve.  

And the aura of him remains, remains…

Remains.

“Oh-”  

“Fuck-”  

The words tear from both of you in unison. A tangled cry. You’re unravelling together. And it feels like the closest you’ve ever been to him. And yet…it still isn’t enough.  

His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers pressing into your flesh. He thrusts deep, every movement a combination of tenderness and force, as though he’s pouring everything he can into you, trying to fill the empty spaces you both know he never fully can.  

At this moment, it feels like he could.  

He drags against every nerve inside you, heavy and thick, and you feel the way he throbs, the heat of him building, threatening to spill over. It’s overwhelming, the way he stretches you, the way every inch of him feels. He moves with an unsteady rhythm now, hips stuttering, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.  

You’re both trembling. You can’t tell where your body ends and his begins.  

“Shit…” he gasps, voice strained, breaking, as his pace falters. He’s so deep now, the tip of him brushing places that make you cry out.

Again. And again. And again.

That make your body tighten around him, pulling him even closer. It’s messy now, desperate. He’s losing himself inside you.  

“Fuck, baby, I-” His voice catches, and then he’s gone. 

You feel him twitch inside you, sharp and insistent, and then he’s spilling, warmth flooding you in waves. It’s a slow, pulsating release, and you feel every surge of it, every shudder that wracks his body as he empties himself into you. He presses as deep as he can go, burying himself completely, as if he could carve a place for himself inside you, as if he could leave a part of himself that will never fade.  

He’s soothing from the inside. A plea for forgiveness he can’t bring himself to ask for aloud. He gives you little pieces of himself — small, fragmented traces of his love, his essence, his everything.  

And it’s insufficient.  

It will always be insufficient for the vastness of your longing, for the endless craving that gnaws at the edges of your soul. He feels it too. You can tell by the way his hands tighten on your waist, by the way his forehead presses against yours, like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together.  

He knows.  

He can’t help but feel that way, that what he gives you will never be enough. But what more can he offer than this? Than himself?

The peak caves slowly, unbearably, and it’s not just pleasure — it’s everything. It’s love and desperation and grief for the moments that slip through your fingers. 

It’s heartbreaking.  

So you smile.  

You don’t mean to do it. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until you see the reflection of it in his eyes. But it’s there — a soft, almost involuntary curve of your lips that speaks to something deeper than words.  

You don’t have to keep smiling.  

But you do.  

Because this is the best thing.  

The best he can give you. The best you can take. The best the two of you can be in a world that feels like it’s always working against you.  

And when the peak finally crests, when your body shatters around him, you don’t stop smiling.  

Even as the tears spill over. Even as the ache in your chest sharpens. Even as the world starts to creep back in, threatening to pull him away from you.  

You smile, because for this fleeting, fragile moment, he’s yours…

Yours. Yours. Yours.

…Completely.

He gives you a great desire to love. 

Going out wasn’t a rarity or anything new for him. He’d been through them all throughout the years: dim-lit dives that reeked of stale beer and regret, velvet-roped sanctuaries where the drugs sparkled more than the people. From innocence to indulgence, from indulgence to ruin, from ruin to whatever state he found himself in now. Actions his body once carried out against his better judgment — no judge left up there to judge, no jury either. Just a man and his decisions. 

But that wasn’t the him you knew. Not anymore. The Alex you knew stayed home and turned pages in a paperback until the print blurred into smudges and he forgot what day it was. The Alex you knew smoothed down his hair with meticulous fingers, brushed invisible lint off his collar, and sighed when he realised he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. 

So when he told you he wanted to go out, you almost laughed. Almost. But the words had been so sure, so intentional, that the laugh died in your throat and was replaced by something closer to worry. You’d almost called his online therapist — not that you’d ever admit that to him. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but the concern was there, coiled like a spring in your chest. 

Was that wrong? You weren’t used to this. To him wanting to go to such a thing. A big party on New Year’s Eve full of booze and who knew what else? Alex hadn’t touched anything above a 4% ABV in months. Said it “messed with me brain.” But that excitement — that excitement!

“Are you serious?” you’d asked, and he’d laughed like you’d told the best joke in the world.  

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, sprawled on his stomach across the bed like a boy telling his secrets. You sat next to him, absentmindedly messing with his already messy morning hair, tugging it this way and that until it stuck out like he’d just rolled out of bed — because he had done just that. 

“I dunno.” you murmured. “You’re just…you’re not really a big party guy these days.”  

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. It made you want to reach out and hold it in your hands before it could disappear. “That’s exactly why I want to go. New year, new me, or whatever the kids say.”  

You snorted. “Pretty sure the kids stopped saying that in, like, 2014.”  

“Then it’s retro now.” he shot back, grinning wider.  

There was something about the way he looked at you then, like he was daring you to challenge him, daring you to say no, expecting you to. You couldn’t, of course. Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when his excitement was so infectious it made your chest ache.  

“Alright.” you said softly. “We’ll go.”  

“Yeah?” His face lit up, all sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, like he couldn’t believe you’d said yes.  

“Yeah.” you repeated, and his smile grew so wide you thought it might crack him open.  

He sat up then, pulling you closer until you were half-draped over his lap. “And we can come home early if you get too tired, hon. I promise. The second you’re done, we’ll leave.”  

“It’s fine, Al. I can handle it.” you said, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.  

“You sure?”  

“I’m sure.”  

“Alright.” he said, but he didn’t look away. His fingers traced patterns on your arm, and his voice dipped low, almost shy. “It’ll be good. I think it’ll be good for us. For me.”  

And the way he said it, so earnest and so soft, made your chest ache again all over again. You wanted to bottle this version of him up and keep it safe somewhere, away from the jagged edges of the world.  

There were dark circles under his eyes, a shadow of something he never spoke about. But he was glowing. You let yourself soak it in, the warmth of his voice, the spark in his eyes, the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly on your arm, afraid you might change your mind already.  

“Yeah.” you said again, quieter this time. “We’re going.” 

There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. To anyone else, at least. He looked like every other man who walked in with an air of effortless confidence, the kind of charm that made you second-guess your instincts about people. Just another face in a crowd of glitter and shadow, one more figure under the pulsing, fevered light. Maybe his boots were a bit too shiny for their own good. They were really shiny, polished to the point of absurdity — his “special pair” reserved for nights like this. Nights that didn’t feel like his. Bordering on kitschy, they should’ve looked ridiculous, but somehow, he made them work. He always did. The sharp black lines of his outfit, the slight smirk that hovered on his lips like an afterthought, the way his hair fell in careless waves that begged for your fingers. He was a study in contrasts, as though the whole night had dressed itself around him.  

There were too many people, too many bodies pressing in from every side, a cacophony of bodies and lights and voices blurring into something that made your head throb. Enough people to even make you overwhelmed, and you weren’t the one with a history of being unraveled by scenes like this. The music wasn’t just loud — it was oppressive, vibrating through the walls, through your chest, through your skull until your thoughts blurred and tangled. It was the kind of noise that made you want to run. But he stood there, composed and calm, his hand brushing against your lower back.  

Was this really what his life used to look like? Every night, every day, for months and years? It made your stomach twist. You couldn’t think of a worse environment for someone like Alex. Someone whose mind was a maze of thoughts that twisted in on themselves, too sharp, too endless. Too many people, too much noise, and the constant hum of too much everything. This wasn’t a place for him. Maybe it never had been. Maybe this was what broke him in the first place.  

You glanced up at him, half-lit by the shifting strobes, and something in your chest ached. He looked beautiful, in that effortless way he always did. The kind of beautiful that made you feel clumsy, made you want to stare too long, to trace the angles of his face with your eyes until you could memorise every shadow. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones catching the light in a way that seemed almost deliberate. And his eyes — God, his eyes. Dark and watchful, flicking across the room like he was cataloging everything, seeing things you couldn’t.  

But you also saw the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his mouth tightened at the corners when he thought you weren’t looking.  

“What d’ya wanna drink?” His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, low and close to your ear. His breath brushed against your skin, tickling just enough to make you squirm. It wasn’t intentional, but you knew he wouldn’t deny that he liked the reaction. 

“Vodka cran.” you said, louder than you meant to, trying to compete with the music.  

“Vodka cran?” he repeated, his lips curling into a lopsided grin, pulling back just enough to look at you with mock incredulity. “What are you, fifteen?”  

“Yes.” you shot back, deadpan. “Precisely.”  

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Gonna get me in trouble, little girl.” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. It was meant to be playful, but the way he said it made your cheeks burn.  

“Ew.” You wrinkled your nose, pushing at his chest. “Don’t say that again.”  

He laughed, a sound that made your stomach twist in the best way. Before you could fake being more annoyed, he kissed your cheek, soft and fleeting, leaving a warmth that lingered long after.  

“Are you drinking?” you asked then, turning to face him fully.  

“Why wouldn’t I?” he replied, too quickly.  

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I thought you were taking a break.”  

“It’s a party.” he said, shrugging as if that explained everything. His hand dropped from your back, and for a moment, he seemed smaller somehow. “I wanna…loosen up a bit.”  

It came out forced, and you knew it. He knew you knew it. You didn’t believe him, and you could tell he knew it.  

For a moment, the noise around you seemed to dim, leaving only the two of you in the uneasy silence that followed.  

He shifted on his feet, looking away. You watched him move his weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t that he didn’t like this — the music, the people — but he needed something to blur the edges, to make the room tilt just enough that he didn’t feel so himself. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to be Alex Turner right now. Not the Alex Turner who overthought everything. Not the one who couldn’t fit in, who couldn’t let go, who felt too much and showed too little, who was too bitter, too sharp, too him. Just for a little while, he wanted to disappear into the crowd and not be the pretentious fucker they all secretly couldn’t stand but wouldn’t admit it because, well, manners. He needed to fit in, just for a night.  

“What are you drinking, then?” you asked, trying to lighten the moment.  

“Tequila.” he said after a beat, running a hand through his hair. “With club soda. Or tonic. Whatever they’ve got.”  

“Sounds horrendous.” you said, trying for a teasing tone.  

“You know me…” he replied, draping an arm over your shoulder. His fingers found a strand of your hair, twisting it gently, absently, like he couldn’t help himself. He needed something to keep his hands busy. “All bitter.”  

You laughed softly, leaning into his side despite yourself. He kissed the top of your head, a gesture so small and quiet it almost felt like it didn’t belong here, in this cacophony of sound and light.  

“I’ll be right back.” he said, pulling away reluctantly. “Don’t move. Or do. But don’t leave.”  

“Where would I even go?” you asked, gesturing to the sea of people around you.  

He didn’t answer, just smiled that small, crooked smile of his before disappearing into the crowd. You watched him go, his too-shiny boots catching the light with every step, and felt the first flicker of unease in your chest, a pang of something you couldn’t name. This wasn’t his world anymore, but he was trying so hard to pretend it was. For you? For himself? You weren’t sure.  

And yet, as the music thumped on, you stayed exactly where he left you, waiting, the music pounding in your chest, the crowd pressing closer. And as the minutes stretched on, you wondered — not for the first time — what he was looking for out there, and whether he would find it before it found him. 

By his third drink, Alex had softened in every way that mattered. Your couple-months-sober Alex was drunk. Not the sloppy, reckless kind of drunk you had heard about from his stories — the kind that turned nights into shame-soaked mornings — but the kind of drunk that made him soft, warm, and weightless. His sharp edges dulled, his usual careful precision melting into something looser, something warmer. He was teetering on the edge of his own body, words slurring into affectionate nonsense, his movements uncoordinated but so endearing you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed.  

You were sitting in a chair, your feet aching from the heels you’d worn for reasons you couldn’t even remember now. He was perched on the arm of said chair, his weight tipping slowly into your side like he couldn’t help himself. At first, it was just a knee brushing against your thigh, but soon enough, his entire torso was draped over you, his head nuzzling into the crook of your neck like he was trying to burrow his way into you. His head lolled, his body heavier with every passing moment, until it felt like you were holding up more of him than the chair was.  

“You want me to rub your feet?” he’d asked earlier, slurring slightly, his eyes earnest and wide in the way only a tipsy Alex could manage.  

“No, Al.” you’d said, biting back a laugh. “I don’t think the other people here would appreciate that view.”  

He’d frowned, clearly displeased with your reasoning, but he’d forgotten about it the second you’d squeezed his side and brushed your fingers through his hair. He was heavy and comforting in a way you didn’t want to analyze too much.  

Now, he was half-listening to the conversation happening around you, his mind somewhere else entirely.  

“Santa, man…” he mumbled suddenly, half-asleep but still trying to contribute to the conversation buzzing around you about something you hadn’t been paying attention to.  

“Al?” you asked, glancing at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation.  

“Yeah, babe?” His voice was too loud, cracking over the music and cutting through the din of the room. Heads turned briefly in your direction, but Alex didn’t seem to notice — or care. His eyes were half-lidded, his smile lazy, his fingers tracing mindless patterns against the fabric of your dress.  

You’d been concerned since that first order of tequila. But this wasn’t the Alex who fell into black holes of regret, the Alex who hurt himself because it was easier than feeling the weight of his own thoughts. This was a different version of him, one who laughed too loud and leaned too close and let himself need.  

Louder, louder, and touchier, his hands restless as they slid over your arm, your waist, your thigh. Everything about him was amplified in this state: the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body pressing into yours, the way his words spilled out unfiltered.  

His head dipped forward, his nose brushing against your collarbone, then lower, nudging into the soft swell of your cleavage. You sighed, shifting in your chair as he nuzzled there like it was the most natural thing in the world, his lips grazing your skin in a way that sent a shiver up your spine.  

“Stop it.” you said quietly, though there wasn’t much conviction in your voice.  

“What?” he asked, his tone all faux innocence. He kissed the exposed flesh, soft and unhurried, like he was tasting sunlight.  

“Alex.” you hissed, your cheeks flushing as you tried to shift him upright. “Not here.”  

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy and half-focused. “Why not? You’re beautiful. They should see how lucky I am.” He chuckled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “You’re so pretty.”  

You rolled your eyes, though your heart clenched in your chest. He could be so unguarded like this, so sincere it almost hurt.  

“Because,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair, glancing around nervously, “we’re in public, and you’re drunk, and I don’t think you want your grand declaration of love to be remembered as that time you kissed my tits in front of strangers.”  

“I’m not drunk.” he protested, though the slight slur in his words betrayed him. “I’m just…tipsy.”  

“Tipsy doesn’t mean you get to bury your face in my boobs in front of strangers.” you said.  

He pouted, his hand catching yours and holding it against his cheek and his bottom lip jutting out in a way that would’ve been ridiculous if it weren’t so endearing. “Fine.” he mumbled, reluctantly pulling back. But he didn’t go far, his head finding its way back to your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.  

“I like it here.” he murmured after a beat, his voice quieter now, almost shy. “With you.”  

The words landed somewhere deep inside you, threading through the cracks in a way that made it impossible to pull them back out. You sighed, brushing your fingers through his hair again, the strands soft and slightly damp from the heat of the room. “I like it too.” you admitted.  

You traced your thumb along his cheekbone, feeling the faint scratch of stubble beneath your skin. He was soft and pliable in a way that made you ache because long gone was the Alex you’d first met but never forgot, all sharp lines and distant glances who hid behind his own brilliance like a shield. Hello you, Alex you saw in stolen moments, the one who let himself lean into you like he needed you to keep him steady because he did.  

The conversation around you had shifted, the group laughing about something you hadn’t been paying attention to. Alex, again, didn’t seem to notice. His world had narrowed to you, his fingers brushing against the hem of your dress, his lips grazing your shoulder like a prayer.  

You wondered if this was what it felt like for him — being unravelled. To be stripped down to the raw, trembling core of yourself, every defense laid bare. You thought of his hands, the way they trembled when he lit a cigarette, the way they tightened into fists when he thought no one was looking. He was always holding himself together, always carrying too much. But now, here, he was letting you carry him instead.  

“Do you need to lie down?” you asked softly, your voice barely audible over the music.  

He shook his head, his hair brushing against your neck. “No. I need to stay here.”  

“Okay.” you said, leaning into him just enough to let him know you were still there.  

“Hey.” he followed with a giggle that seemed to bubble up from nowhere.  There was something funny, apparently — something you hadn’t been let in on yet, some inside joke only he knew. Like there was a punchline coming, but the joke was just you. 

You turned your head toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Changed your mind?”  

“Yes. No- I mean…” He leaned in so close his breath tickled your ear, his words barely there but still somehow heavy, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I really wanna fuck you right now.”  

His giggle followed, sweet and shy, self-conscious thing that softened the confession. His hand wasn’t shy at all. His hand was already trailing higher on your thigh, tracing the edge of your hemline with deliberate slowness, as if testing how much he could get away with.  

“Right now?” you asked, keeping your tone light, though your pulse was suddenly a traitor. 

His pupils were blown wide, his smile crooked, and his cheeks flushed from the heat of the room and the alcohol in his system. “Yeah.” His voice broke a little on the word, his eyes searching yours, wide and almost pleading.

Don’t you see me? Don’t you feel me?

You brushed your hand over his hair, smoothing the strands that had fallen into his face. His legs shifted restlessly against yours, the movement almost imperceptible at first. But then it wasn’t. He rubbed his thighs together. He couldn’t stay still. He was trying to chase some relief that just wasn’t coming fast enough.  

“Thought you were too old to be getting all…frisky. From a drink.” you teased, but your voice faltered slightly at the way his hand tightened on your thigh.  

“Tequila makes me wanna…jump. And crawl. And…stuff.” He struggled to find the right words. His other hand slid across the back of your chair, his fingers brushing against your shoulder. He needed every possible point of contact with you right now. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but…”  

He didn’t finish, his hand sliding a little higher, his fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. If anyone had been paying attention — anyone sober enough to care — they might have said something. Like, indecent exposure…and all that. But you were inside, and the room was dark, and the music was loud, and no one noticed the way his palm pressed against the inside of your thigh, trying to mark you.  

“Wouldn’t it be considered taking advantage of you?” you asked.  

His head dipped lower, his lips brushing against your collarbone. “I wouldn’t mind ya doin’ that.” he murmured, dragging like honey over your nerves.  

“Oh, Alex.” you whispered, half-laughing, half-breathless.   

His legs shifted again, his knees brushing yours, his body restless. His fingers tightened on your thigh, digging in just enough to make you gasp, and his lips grazed the curve of your neck, lingering like he couldn’t bear to pull away. “I mean it.” he said. “I want you. Here. Now. Please.” he whispered, and the word wasn’t small. 

Please see me. Please feel me. Please.

You glanced around the room, lights flickering in dizzying patterns, the crowd a blur of movement and noise. No one was looking, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about them. This was about Alex, and the way his hand was sliding higher, his thumb tracing circles against your skin. About the way he was pressing himself closer, his breath catching as he nuzzled into the hollow of your neck like it was the only place he belonged, the way he was letting himself need you without hesitation or shame.  

“Alex.” you murmured, your hand sliding to his cheek, tilting his face toward yours. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted.  

He swallowed hard. No words came out. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, his hands trembling against you.  

“Please.” He said it again.

The bathroom down the hall was dimly lit, the kind of lighting that didn’t flatter anyone but lent everything a certain edge, a certain moody glamour that felt fitting for what was about to happen. You didn’t lock the door — it felt too final, too obvious — but you did close it with the kind of care that made Alex’s mouth twitch into a cocky grin.  

His boots were loud against the tiles, or maybe it was just too loud in your head, the echo ricocheting off your skull like a warning. Not that he seemed to care. No, he was already behind you, his hands on your hips, his body crowding yours as you leaned over the sink.  

The mirror was streaked with watermarks, but you could still see his reflection, the way his eyes darted over you like he couldn’t decide where to look — your back, the curve of your waist, the hem of your dress that was already riding dangerously high, your ass being the focal point. His palms were needy. Pressing into the fabric as though he’d found some invisible “touch here” sign and was determined to follow its instructions to a T.  

You glanced up, catching his eyes in the mirror. “Are you gonna fuck me,” you asked, “or just stare?”  

“Yeah.” he said, all soft and breathless, like that single word was supposed to answer everything.  

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as his hands roamed higher, his thumbs brushing over the curve of your lower back, just beneath the zipper of your dress. “That wasn’t an answer.” you said, but he was already moving, his lips pressing to the nape of your neck, his fingers curling around the fabric as though he couldn’t decide whether to pull it down or push it up.  

Belts clinked. Zippers slid. Heels scraped against tile. Your dress bunched around your hips, and his hands were everywhere — gripping and pulling and feeling. You caught his gaze again in the mirror, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his mouth slightly open as though he was on the verge of saying something but couldn’t quite get the words out.  

“I…” He took a deep breath, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. “Need…”  

You smirked, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Tequila doesn’t make your dick jump?”  

“Apparently.” he mumbled, self-deprecating, frustration clear in every syllable. 

You caught his hesitation, the way his hands faltered on your waist, his grip loosening ever so slightly as though he didn’t trust himself to hold on too tightly. You could see it in his posture too, in the way his shoulders hunched just a fraction, his head dipping low enough that his breath brushed the back of your neck. He wanted to hide, to disappear into the floor, and yet…  

He couldn’t stop touching you, tracing the curves he’d spent the entire night stealing glances at. He wanted this — you. Desperately.  

But his body wasn’t cooperating, and the alcohol buzzing through his veins was mocking him for it.  

You reached behind you, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his trousers, finding the button and popping it loose. They slid down his thighs, pooling around his boots, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and a sheepish expression as he looked down at himself. You slid your hand lower, just enough to brush against him, and he let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a groan. He was soft under your touch, and you felt the faintest twitch.  

He didn’t say anything, just let out a small, strangled noise as your fingers brushed the skin, warm and soft and so painfully close to what he wanted. Pliant in your hand, heat radiating off him as you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly.  

His eyes darted down to where your hand was, teasing, waiting. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and nodded like he didn’t trust himself to speak. He wanted this — wanted you — so badly it was practically vibrating off him.  

“Alex.” you whispered, his name like a promise on your lips.  

“I-” He tried, but the words stuck in his throat. His hands came up to grip the edge of the sink, his knuckles going white as he shifted on his feet. You caught the way his thighs pressed together, his boots squeaking against the tile as he tried to ground himself. “It’s just- fuck- give me a second.”  

His voice was rough, tinged with embarrassment, and his eyes darted to the mirror, avoiding yours. He looked almost apologetic, his cheeks flushed and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “It’s the…” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “Swear it’s not you. You- God, you’re-”  

“Shh…” you said softly, your free hand sliding up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “I know, baby. I know.”  

You pressed a kiss to his neck, just below his ear, your lips warm against his skin. Your other hand didn’t stop, stroking him slowly, methodically, coaxing him with every gentle movement. You felt him twitch again, a faint pulse against your palm, and you smiled against his skin, brushing with just enough pressure to make him suck in a sharp breath. “Come on, baby.” Trailing kisses that were more encouragement than affection, your other hand gripping his thigh to keep him steady as his knees buckled. His breath hitched, his head falling back as your mouth pressed just below his jaw, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.  

“Jesus-” he muttered, too quiet to cover the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.  

“Focus.” you whispered, both command and comfort, your hand tightening enough to make his hips jerk forward.  

He groaned, his hands finding your waist again, gripping hard enough to leave marks. “I’m trying…” he said. “I’m trying.” again, tinged with that frustration and something that almost sounded like shame.  

Your laugh was soft, almost cruel, as you leaned back against him. “Don’t try.” you said. “Just feel.” 

His face flushed, and not just from the tequila or the heat. He looked down at himself, then back at you, his eyes darting away almost immediately. Your thumb brushed over the tip of him. He was warm, his skin hot to the touch. You could feel him stirring under your palm, his hips jerking forward as if to chase the sensation.  

“There you go.” you whispered.  

“Fuck-” he breathed, his voice breaking on the word. His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes squeezed shut, and his whole body tensed like he was bracing himself for something he wasn’t sure he deserved. “I just…I-”  

“Shut up.” you murmured, guiding his face toward yours. His eyes fluttered open, wide and glassy, and you kissed him, slow and sweet, your lips coaxing him out of his head and into the moment.  

“Feel me.” you whispered against his mouth, your fingers tightening just enough to make him moan. “You’re doing so good, Alex.”  

He finally let himself lean into your touch, his body softening and melting against yours. Except for the vital part. That wasn’t softening. You felt him harden fully in your hand, the weight of him growing, warm and alive and achingly real.  

“You feel that?” you asked, your thumb brushing over him again.  

He nodded, his lips parting as he let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.” he said, his voice raw, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Yeah, I feel it.”  

“See?” you whispered, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You’re perfect.”  

He let out a broken laugh, his forehead pressing against yours, hands gripping you like you were the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m a fucking mess.” he muttered, but his voice was softer now, less self-deprecating and more…tender.  

“Yeah, you are. But you’re my mess.”  

His eyes shut again, his lips parting as he let out a low groan, his hips moving in time with your hand now, chasing the friction, the feeling, you.

“Good boy.” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear.

“Fuck- stop.” His hand flew to your wrist, halting your movement as his chest heaved. “Let me fuck you now, or I’m going to come.”  

“Fuck me.” you said.  

“Turn.” he demanded, and there was nothing soft left in his voice, no room for teasing.  

His mouth twitched, that half-smile he wore when he felt the moment slip out of his control. He didn’t waste another second, though. His hands bunched your dress up again, pulling the fabric high around your waist, exposing you fully to him and to the reflection in front of you. The flimsy g-string you’d chosen tonight — barely there, more for show than practicality — was tugged to the side with such rough impatience that the elastic bit into your skin.

His eyes caught yours in the mirror, holding you there for a breath too long, and then he was pushing into you. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t gentle. He slid all the way in with one solid motion. The stretch made you gasp, your hands flying to the edge of the sink to keep yourself upright. Behind you, Alex let out a sound that was almost pained, a low groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest.  

“Christ.” he muttered, his forehead briefly pressing against your shoulder before he pulled back and drove into you again, harder this time. “You feel…you feel so fucking good. How do you feel this good?”  

You met his gaze in the mirror, your reflection hazy but clear enough to catch the tension in his face, the way his jaw clenched and his brows furrowed. His hands gripped your hips with a ferocity that would leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted those marks.  

Each time he momentarily stopped, it wasn’t to pause or regroup. He thrust into you again, again, and again, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene in the small, tiled room. His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing there lightly, guiding you into a deeper arch.  

“Look.” he rasped, his voice low and rough. One hand slid down to spread you apart, exposing the slick glide of his cock as he dragged himself out and then slammed back in. “Look at the way you take me. Do you see that?”  

No, you couldn’t see, but still you nodded, your head bobbing almost frantically, your breath catching on a gasp as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your knees buckle.    

“Stay up, baby.” he barked, his hand flying to your stomach to pull you back against him, holding you steady. “Don’t fall now. I need to see you like this. Fuck, I need it.”  

You didn’t trust your voice to answer, too consumed by the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, by the heat of his body against yours, by the raw, unfiltered hunger in his gaze as he watched himself disappear into you over and over again.  

“Fuck.” he muttered again. It seemed to have become his favourite word. His hips stuttered for a moment before finding his rhythm. “You’re too good. It’s too good.”  

“Don’t stop.” you whispered, barely audible over the sound of your bodies colliding.  

“Never.” he said.  

His movements were brutal, almost punishing, but there was a little something to the way his hands moved over you, exploring every inch of exposed skin. His thumb brushed against your clit, almost absentmindedly, and the sharp jolt of pleasure that shot through you made you cry out.  

“Yeah, yeah.” he groaned, his head dropping to the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin right there. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Let everyone out there hear you. Let them know who’s fucking you like this.”  

The angle was perfect, devastatingly so. Each motion sent sparks shooting up your spine, your knees trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher. His name fell from your lips, broken and breathless, and you felt his grip tighten.  

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, baby.” he groaned, his gaze fixed on you in the mirror. “Look at you. Look at how perfect you are. Do you even know what you do to me?”  

“Alex.” you gasped, your voice breaking on the syllable.  

“Say it again.” he demanded, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “Say my name.” 

“Alex.” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of it all, gripping that edge so, so tightly your knuckles turned white.  

“Louder.” he said, his hips snapping into you harder.  

“Alex-” you moaned, louder this time.  

“That’s it.” he growled, his hand tangling in your hair and tugging your head back just enough for him to kiss you, messy and desperate. “You’re so fucking perfect. You know that? You’re perfect.”  

You watched him in the mirror, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the way his shoulders tensed and flexed with every movement, the way his eyes never left yours. There was something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, even as your body burned with pleasure.  

“Fuck, I’m close.” he muttered, his voice almost frantic. “You’re gonna make me- shit, you’re gonna make me-”  

“Come for me, baby.” you whispered. 

He let out a broken sound, his entire body shuddering as he drove into you one last time, holding you there as he came undone. The tension melted from his frame as he leaned against you, his lips brushing against the back of your neck in a lingering kiss.  

Neither of you moved for a moment. Then Alex pulled back slightly, his hands sliding over your hips. And then he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, and you met his gaze in the mirror, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips.  

“You okay?” you asked, your voice soft, almost teasing.  

He let out a breathless laugh, his hands sliding up to rest on your waist. “Better than okay. Are you okay?” 

You nodded. “Better than okay.”  

He chuckled as he smoothed your dress back down over your hips. His fingers lingered on the fabric for a moment before he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.  

The apartment welcomed you home with a heavy quietness, the kind that felt almost oppressive after the chaos of the night. It was dark, except for a single lamp that cast a soft honey-colored glow across the living room, long, warm shadows over the furniture that made everything feel quieter. The place smelled faintly of the candle Alex had insisted on lighting before you left, like he knew you’d need some kind of sanctuary to return to.  

It was late — too late to be doing anything but sleeping — but you weren’t quite there yet. The adrenaline still lingered faintly in your veins, though it was fading fast, leaving behind an ache in your legs and a haze in your mind.  

You toed off your heels off just inside the door, wincing as the hardwood bit into the sore pads of your feet. Behind you, Alex groaned as he stumbled in. The man was barely holding himself together, his jacket sliding off one shoulder, his shirt half-untucked and rumpled beyond saving. He kicked the door shut with a thunk and stood there, blinking at nothing in particular, like he’d forgotten where he was. He was still beautiful in that maddening way he always was.  

“Are you gonna stand there all night?” you asked, unzipping your dress as you padded toward the bathroom.  

He groaned again, louder this time, and shuffled after you. “You’re so mean to me.” he muttered.  

Fuck, the overhead light was too bright. You reached for the dimmer switch, letting it settle down. Alex appeared in the doorway a moment later, leaning heavily against the frame, watching as you pulled bobby pins from your hair, one by one, and dropped them onto the counter. His hair was a mess, a lopsided tangle of waves that begged to be smoothed down, and his eyes, though half-lidded and bloodshot, still carried that quiet, unnameable something that made you ache just to look at him.  

“You good?” you asked, glancing at him in the mirror.  

He shrugged, then winced. “Feel fuckin’ sore. Everywhere.”  

“Sure you’re okay?” you insisted, turning on the tap and letting the water run hot.  

He groaned softly, letting his head thud against the wood. “Yeah, yeah…it’s just that…my body just feels so…ancient. Like my bones are trying to quit on me.”  

“Get in the tub.” you said, testing the water with your fingers.  

He laughed a “Thanks, Mum.” But he obeyed, shuffling out of his jacket and dropping it in a heap on the floor. His shirt followed, then his belt, and then his pants, until he was standing there in just his boxers, looking pale and lanky and rumpled and tired and a little shy under the soft light and somehow still managing to look like he’d stepped out of some black-and-white photo you’d find in a gallery.  

You turned back to him, arms crossed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna fall asleep in there, are you?”  

“Not if you keep talking.” he shot back, but his smirk was faint, his eyes heavy-lidded. He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow back. “Y’alright there, sweetheart?”  

“Yeah.” you said, a little too quickly. “Just…get in the tub before you collapse on me.”  

“D’you know how much I love it when you boss me ‘round?” 

But again, he obeyed with a soft grunt, stepping over the edge and sinking into the water. It took him a moment to adjust, his knees pulling up as he hissed at the heat that met his skin. Then he leaned back, letting his head rest against the cool porcelain and letting out a long, low groan that was almost indecent.  

“Better?” you asked, sitting on the closed toilet lid and watching him.  

“Ask me again in five minutes.” he murmured, his eyes already drifting shut. “Mm.” — five seconds later — he cracked one eye open to look at you, his lips twitching into something resembling a smile. “You’re still dressed.”  

You reached for a washcloth, wetting it under the faucet before leaning over the tub to press it against his chest.  

It took him a couple more seconds of looking down at your hand as it moved across his skin before he asked “What’re you doing?”  

“Taking care of you.” you said simply, dragging the cloth over his collarbones, his shoulders, the faint lines of muscle that cut across his torso.  

“Mm.” He closed his eyes again. “You’re too good to me, y’know that?”  

“Someone has to be.” you teased, but your voice was soft, almost fond. “You’re a mess.” 

“I know.” His eyes stayed closed. “But you love me anyway.”  

You froze for a moment. Then you smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.  

“Yeah.” you said softly. “I do.”  

He opened his eyes at that, just a sliver, and looked up at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his gaze that made your chest ache, a raw vulnerability that he rarely let you see. His hand found yours under the water, his fingers curling weakly around your wrist. “C’mere.” he mumbled, tugging lightly.  

“I’m not getting in there.” you said, even as you let him pull you closer.  

“Why not?” His voice was low, almost petulant. “Water’s nice. ‘S warm. You’ll like it. Come here.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“I’m not-”

“Just for a minute.” he pleaded, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll make room.”  

With a sigh, you stood and pulled your dress over your head, letting it fall to the floor. He watched you with heavy-lidded eyes, his gaze lingering on the curve of your waist, the line of your legs, as you climbed into the tub and settled between his legs.  

The water was scalding, but his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you felt yourself relax against him.  

“Happy now?” you asked.  

“Getting there.” he said, his arms tightening around you and pulling you back against his chest, as close as he could get.  

The water sloshed softly around you as you shifted, trying to get comfortable. His chin rested on your shoulder, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your back.  

“You’re quiet.” you said after a moment.  

“Just thinking.” he murmured.  

“About what?”  

“‘Bout how lucky I am.” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear him.  

You turned your head to look at him, but his eyes were closed again.  

“You’re drunk.” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.  

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” he replied, his lips brushing against your shoulder.  

The room was warm and quiet, the kind of quiet that made everything else feel far away. His hands rested lightly on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. Actually, the whole apartment was quiet except for the occasional drip of water from the faucet and the soft creak of the tub as he shifted slightly.  

“You’re my favorite person.” he said suddenly.  

You turned your head to look at him, surprised by the confession, but he didn’t meet your gaze — still closed.

“That’s nice.” you said, reaching up to brush a damp curl away from his forehead. “You’re mine too, Al.” 

Alex wasn’t thinking much, not in the way he usually did. His head, always busy with too many thoughts at once, was blissfully quiet now, silenced by the tequila and the late hour and the way you felt against him. He wasn’t worried about whether he was saying the right thing or touching you the right way. For once, he just…was.  

And so his hands moved without thought, fingers tracing the lines of your thighs, the curve of your waist, the dip just above your hip bone. It wasn’t intentional, at first. It was instinct, the way you feel for something familiar in the dark. His palms mapped your body like they’d forgotten and were desperate to remember, skimming across water-warmed skin as if committing you to memory all over again.  

“You okay?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.  

His hands stilled, resting lightly on the dip between your thighs. “Yeah.” he murmured, his voice low and drowsy. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  

“I don’t know. You’re just…too quiet.”  

“Mm.” He pressed his forehead against the curve of your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin as he spoke. “I like being quiet with you. Feels good.”  

You turned your head to look at him, your expression tinged with something between curiosity and concern. “You sure you’re okay, Alex?”  

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against your back. “You’re always worrying about me.”  

“Someone has to.” you said, echoing your earlier words.  

“I don’t mind it.” he admitted, his hands starting to move again, idly smoothing over the tops of your thighs. “Kind of like it, actually. Makes me feel…dunno. Like you see me. Like you care.”  

“Of course I care.” you said. “Why wouldn’t I?”  

He shrugged. “Not everyone does.”  

Heavy and something unspoken for too long. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that everyone cared, that they just didn’t know how to show it. But you didn’t want to lie to him, not now, not when he was being this open with you.  

Instead, you reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your thigh. “I care.” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.  

“I know.” he said, his voice barely audible. “That’s why I’m still here, I think. I think you’re why.”  

A pang right through your chest, equal parts tenderness and ache. You leaned back against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and felt his arms tighten around you once more in response.  

“You’re so good for me…to me.” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.  

“You deserve it.” 

“Dunno about that.” He laughed, the sound quiet and obviously self-deprecating. 

“Well…I do.” you said firmly, turning your head to look at him again.  

His eyes met yours, soft and glassy in the dim light. He just looked at you, tracing your features like he was trying to commit them to memory, too.  

“Y’know, I think it’s that…” he said after a long pause, “that you make everything feel a little less…heavy.”  

You smiled, from your subconscious straight onto your face. “Good.” you said softly. “Because you do the same for me, I think.”  

He didn’t respond, but the way his arms tightened around you said more than words ever could. His hands kept wandering, tracing lazy, aimless patterns across your skin, and you let him.  

For once, you felt no need to fill the silence. 

But he…

“Love, uh…don’t wanna ruin the moment, but mind if I piss in the water?” His voice came soft and slurred, half a joke, half serious, in that unmistakable cheeky tone he got when he was tipsy and too comfortable for his own good.  

You tilted your head, glancing back at him, the corner of your mouth twitching, your nose wrinkling in (mock) disgust. “You’re so fucking gross.” But even as you said it, you couldn’t keep the affection from seeping into your tone. 

And I still love you, you thought, exasperated at the fact. And I’ll still love you.

He grinned, all boyish charm and mischief, his wet hair falling messily across his forehead. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” he teased, shifting slightly behind you. The water rippled around you, warm and soft, and you felt his chest press closer to your back. 

“We said we’d never talk about that again.” you said, sitting up slightly in the water, though the memory — humiliating, ridiculous, and still, oddly tender — flickered between you.  

“‘Bout what?” His grin widened, the alcohol still fogging his head. He played innocent so poorly it almost made you laugh.  

“Like you don’t remember.” You shifted your weight, your thigh brushing against his.

“Oh, I remember.” he said, his grin widening. “Bet it turned you on too.”  

“Ew. Never.”  

“Right…” he murmured, low enough to hum against your skin. “C’mon.” he teased, his voice dropping slightly as his hand slid down to your knee under the water, his thumb tracing small circles. “I remember…when you were sucking me and I…” He trailed off into that stupid giggle of his, high and tipsy and impossible to resist, truly unable to finish the sentence without dissolving into one of them breathy, ridiculous laughs, all while his nose brushed against your neck as he kept leaning in closer, until you could feel the way his lips curved into a smile.  

“Yeah.” you said, voice flat but your body betraying you. His giggles were contagious, the sound so light and free it made it hard to hold onto your indignation. “Like I said, gross.” you muttered, leaning back against him again.  

“Yeah…I wouldn’t mind ya suckin’ my dick again.” he whispered, quieter this time, his lips so close they grazed your ear.  

“Of course you wouldn’t.” you replied, dry as dust, willing your heart to not give itself away, but it was still skipping a beat, and another, as his hand shifted on your waist. His palm was warmer than the water, somehow.

“Yeah.” he murmured, his hand pausing on your ribs, squeezing lightly. “Missed it.”  

“Mm, is that so?” you replied, tilting your head to look at him.  

“Not my fault you’re irresistible.” he shot back, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. The movement sent another ripple through the water, and your legs brushed again, the contact sending a small, electric thrill up your spine. 

His nose nudged yours, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, the space between you thick with steam and not only. His hand moved again.  

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” he murmured, his voice losing some of its teasing edge. He could be more annoying than a child sometimes. “You know you want to.”  

“You’re so stubborn.” you said, your voice quiet. 

“Yeah, but you like it.” he said, his lips brushing against the corner of your jaw.  

His other hand found your thigh under the water, again, and the feeling of his skin against yours was impossibly intimate. His touch was slow, unhurried, and you wondered if he even realised how his fingers curled slightly, holding you there.  

“Alex…” you said softly, your voice catching.  

“Hmm?” His lips brushed against your neck again, his breath warm and steady.  

“I’m tired.” you said.  

“And you’re also beautiful.” he replied, so simply like he meant for your chest to start aching inside.  

You could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, like even this small touch was something he needed to hold onto. This — his thumb tracing slow, absent circles into your skin.  

“You really gonna piss in the water?” you asked, breaking the silence.  

“Only if you say I can.” he replied, grinning against your skin.  

“Shut up.” you said, but the laugh that bubbled up in your chest betrayed you.  

He would have kept his arms wrapped around you. But…but the water made every touch slick and slow, and he seemed mesmerised by the way your skin felt under his palms. His hands explored in slow, wandering motions that felt like they had no destination anymore. Like he wasn’t even aware of how much he was touching you — he just needed to.  

“You’re so warm…and soft.” he murmured, voice low and a little hoarse. “Like…stupidly soft. It’s unfair.”  

“That’s a weird compliment.”  

“No, it’s a good one.” he insisted, his voice still carrying that drunken, boyish sincerity that made you blush, for some reason. “I’m being romantic.”  

“Oh, is that what this is?” you teased.  

“Shh.” he whispered, laughing against your skin. “Don’t ruin my moment.”  

One of his hands wandered back up, brushing over the side of your waist before sliding across your stomach, just resting there, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull you closer or keep you where you were so he could feel every inch of you. There was a faint scratch of his fingernails against the sensitive spot near your belly button.  

“You know,” he said after a long pause, “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this.”  

“Of what?”  

“Of you, baby.” he said. “Of how you feel, how you smell…how you just let me hold you like this.”  

You snorted softly. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight.”  

“I mean it.” he said, a little more earnestly this time. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, lingering there for a moment. “I mean, I’m also still a little drunk, but…it’s true.”  

One hand slid back up to your other shoulder, brushing aside a damp strand of hair. He kissed the spot he uncovered.  

“I think I love you even more when you’re wet.”  

“That’s definitely the tequila talking.”  

“Maybe.” he admitted, grinning lopsidedly. “But it’s true. You’re all shiny and slippery and…” His hand was back on your thigh — he really had a preference, didn’t he? — It squeezed lightly, his thumb stroking the inside of it, dangerously close to-

“Alex.” you warned.  

“Sorry, sorry.” he said, but his grin only widened. “I can’t help it. You’re right here, all warm and…” He trailed off, his lips finding your cheek this time, planting tiny wet kisses.  

For a moment, you let yourself relax into him, let his hands and his lips and his warmth lull you into forgetting the late hour and the exhaustion settling into your bones. His hands felt good, even through the water, and his chest against your back was solid and comforting.  

Then he shuffled awkwardly behind you, just enough for you to notice.  

“Alex.” you said suspiciously, turning your head slightly. “What are you doing?”  

He didn’t answer right away, but you felt his chest shake with quiet laughter against your back.  

You frowned, pulling back just enough to glance over your shoulder. “Are you peeing, Alex?”  

He froze for half a second before dissolving into giggles, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder.  

“Oh my god.” you groaned, sitting up straighter, but his arms wrapped around you, holding you in place.  

His laugh broke free, loud and shameless, and he buried his face in your wet hair, his own brushing against your neck. “I couldn’t hold it.” he admitted between giggles. “It was too warm- I swear, I tried- it was too warm, and I couldn’t-”  

“Alex, I swear-” you said, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held you tighter, his lips pressing against your neck in a poor attempt to pacify you.  

“Don’t be mad.” he pleaded, his voice still shaking with laughter. “It’s not like you’d even notice- it’s just water now!”  

“You’re disgusting!” you said, half-laughing despite yourself as you tried to push his hands off your hips.  

“Disgustingly in love with you.” he countered, planting a wet, obnoxiously loud kiss on your neck. “I’ll make it up to you.” he promised, his hands moving again, sliding up your sides and back down to your hips. “Just let me hold you.”  

You sighed, exasperated but not really angry, and leaned back against him again. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re drunk, you idiot.”

“And lucky you love me.” he added.  

“Don’t push it.” you said.  

His hands settled on your waist again, his thumbs stroking softly, absentmindedly, and he kissed your shoulder once more, this time slower, more deliberate. The laughter faded.  

“You’re so pretty.” he murmured after a moment, his voice quiet and a little more serious. “I don’t tell you that enough. I love you a lot.” 

You felt it sink into your skin.  

He didn’t need you to say it back. He could feel it in the way you leaned into him, in the way you let him hold you, even after he’d been so utterly himself. 

“I know.” you said, squeezing his hand gently. 

You don’t remember the first time. Or the second. Or the third…and so on. You don’t recall when it started, or why, or what you did to deserve it. All you know is that you were fine — until you weren’t. And even then, you were still…fine, just a little less. A little fractured in places you couldn’t see, in ways you didn’t fully understand.  

Because all those times he hurt you would slip in through the cracks of your mind, pop up in your head when you least expected them. Not the first time, not the second, but all the other times, the ones that blurred together in a way that made you feel crazy. When you were twelve. But no, that couldn’t have been the first time, because there’s that one memory from when you were nine. And from when you were eight. And from when you were- 

“Don’t.”

It comes out as a whisper, barely there, even as your body betrays you with a flinch inflicted upon you by his touch. A reflex. You don’t mean to do it, but you feel it — sharp and involuntary, like muscle memory acting on something that isn’t there.  

His touch is barely a touch. A single finger against your shoulder, the weight of his whir of breath following a second later. He’s harmless. You know that. Both in his intention and in his being.  

Alex is…he’s soft. In all the ways that matter. You’ve never seen him hurt anything other than the bugs you ask him to kill, when you spot them clinging high up to the ceiling lamp or hidden in the folds of the curtains. He’s scared of them too. You’ve seen it in the way his hands tremble before they make contact, the way he hesitates just a second too long before he does what you asked. But he hides it, at least when you’re around.  

Didn’t he do the same, though?  

No. No…

“Don’t…what?” His voice is quiet, careful.  

The finger lifts from where it barely made contact. Retracts, like he’s just now realising he may have done something wrong, though he doesn’t know what. But he keeps it near. His whole hand lingers in a kind of touchless caress, hovering in the space between you, like an offer that only says: I don’t mean to harm, I want to comfort you. You can see it. You know that.  

But you’ve scared him away.  

His eyes tell you that much.  

“No- it’s- it’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

It’s half-swallowed before it even reaches the air between you. Not much more than a mumble that he’s somehow meant to understand the meaning of. He seems to struggle with that more and more. 

It’s his turn to flinch now, just barely. 

He tries to understand, tries to figure it out — figure you out — and maybe sometimes he does. Sometimes he thinks he gets it, maybe. But it’s mostly a guessing game, and it keeps him on his toes at all times, on edge, and it makes him all too aware of how much he doesn’t understand. There’s this feeling that he’s lacking which hovers over him. And that makes him want to pull away, to not risk making things worse, do more harm than good, regardless of his own intentions. He just does not want to be another source of pain.  

But he doesn’t pull away. Not yet.  

You think it’s because he wants to understand more than he wants to retreat.  

You should be grateful for that. And you are, in a way, but it doesn’t do anything to hide or mark or erase the fact that you flinched at his touch. That he saw it. That it settled somewhere deep inside of him, just as it did inside of you.  

It’s not the first time either. And it never gets easier. Not for him, not for you. It’s all hanging in the air between you, in the tension of his stillness, in the way his hand hovers like it’s caught between what it wants to do and what it should do. Like he doesn’t know which will be worse — closing the distance or letting it stay.  

You can’t blame him.  

And you know it must pain him. It must hurt — though he’ll never say so. Not his ego, no, never his ego, but something deeper. His heart, or most likely his soul, whatever part of him holds the weight of things like this, absorbs moments like this and carries them until they weigh him down altogether. He’ll never say this either, but you know it lingers. The way all things linger between you. You don’t know how long it will stay with him. Maybe forever. Maybe just until the next time. Until it happens again, and again, and again.  

You wish you could make it easier for him. You wish he didn’t have to be careful with you, that he didn’t have to hesitate. But wishing doesn’t change anything.  

You’re aware of it. Too aware. Hyper-aware of yourself, in fact, of your movements, of how you exist — especially around him. You’ve trained yourself to be. And you try to keep it like that, for his sake, more than anything. For your own, too, but that’s…that’s besides the point.  

You know when to breathe and when to move and when to hold still. You know how to be without actually being too much. You know not to flinch. You know to embrace instead.

But he…he startled you just now. Caught you off guard. You must not have heard him coming, or else you wouldn’t have let yourself slip like that. Wouldn’t have let that instinctual recoil betray you.  

“I’m sorry.” You mumble it again, softer this time.

His fingers twitch where they hover. Close, but not touching. His hand still lingers in that space — uncertain, waiting. He’s always waiting for you.  

And before he can answer, before he can find words for whatever it is he’s thinking or before he can think of what to do with his still-hovering hand, you take it. You take that waiting hand in yours and tug. His fingers are curled slightly, but you slip yours through the spaces they leave behind and tug again — not forcefully, but insistently, don’t want him to think you’re…forcing anything. 

But he follows easily, loose and unresisting at first, until it registers in his mind — what you want. What you’re asking for. He’s giving you time to change your mind, time to stop him if this isn’t what you want. But you don’t stop him. You don’t even think about it.  

You guide him instead.  

Only then, when it clicks to him, does he let it move again.

You feel it happen. It’s quite obvious when it does too, when the moment comes. The moment when he allows it. His arm goes heavy and it folds around you, the full weight of his limb settling into your grip as you pull it around yourself. His palm lands against your ribs first, warm even through the fabric of your shirt. The tips of his fingers just barely skim your side, a fleeting brush of something delicate. Then his hand shifts, adjusting, finding a place to rest more fully.  

That’s when the back of his palm quiets down beneath your own, cradled there where your fingers press as if to make sure he stays. 

As if he would ever leave.  

The rest of him follows, flowing naturally. His other arm curves up, bends at the elbow, his wrist tucking close. His hand finds its place too, landing somewhere near his opposite armpit as he manoeuvres himself over the curve of your shoulder so he can rest his chest against your back. The embrace is equally ill-fitted to the moment, to the hesitation still thick in the space between you. It’s awkward, not perfect, not effortless. It’s careful. Measured. 

You exhale. You let yourself breathe.  

And he doesn’t move away.  

That’s…nice.

It shouldn’t feel like such a relief. It shouldn’t feel like something to be grateful for. But it does, and you are.  

His warmth presses into you, his body close enough that you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s so still. Not rigid, not hesitant, just…waiting. For you, maybe. For the moment to pass.  

“How are you, dear? Is everything okay?”

His voice is quiet, soft in a way that makes your chest ache. There’s no demand in it, only curiosity and care.  

Oh. He’s not mad.  

That realisation washes over you slowly, sluggishly, like warm water over cold hands or a weighted blanket grounding you, if only a little. It loosens something in your chest, but not completely. There’s still tension there, a tight knot that doesn’t quite unwind.  

Your other hand cramps, fingers stiff, and you finally notice the way they’ve been locked in a too-tight hold around the knife handle this whole time. You feel it now, the dull ache. It’s not a conscious grasp. Not in a way that implies any real threat, at least not intentionally, just…holding. Gripping. Frozen mid-motion and locked in place as if his presence alone had paused you in time.  

You glance down. The cutting board is a mess of deep purple, streaked with grape juice, dark and staining into the grain of the wood. Halved grapes sit in uneven little piles, some quartered, some still waiting to be cut down smaller and have their seeds removed. He’d accidentally bought the seeded ones the other day, and you hadn’t said anything at the time. It wasn’t his fault, but you still couldn’t stand them. You hated the way the seeds would interrupt the bite, the way they’d crunch as they burst between your teeth, sending vibrations up through your skull. He didn’t mind them — he just swallowed them whole.  

You, on the other hand, couldn’t risk it. And you were tired of having to stop and spit them out after every bite. So now you were here, making arguably more of a mess in an attempt to avoid the small discomfort of dealing with them later.  

How long have you been standing here, caught in the moment, in your own head?

The knife clinks softly as you set it down.  

“You scared me.”

He exhales, barely a sigh. Not frustrated, not annoyed. Accepting.  

“I know. I’m sorry.”

It’s such a simple response, and it’s so immediate and genuine that it makes you feel worse. You hate that. You hate that you made him feel like he needed to apologise, like he did something wrong. He didn’t. He never does.  

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A small silence settles between you. His grip hasn’t loosened, but he’s not holding you any tighter either. He’s just…there. Steady and unmoving. He’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.  

Your fingers twitch, sticky with the syrupy juice of the grapes. You hover your hand awkwardly over the counter, just the ball of your palm making contact for some balance, reluctant to spread the mess further and risk making everything in this kitchen sticky as well. There’s a towel hanging by the sink, but it’s too far out of reach, and even if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be able to lift your arm to get to it and grab it.  

Because he’s still holding you.  

Not forcefully, like a restraint, but…firmly. Securely. Like he’s making sure you don’t slip away entirely.  

You don’t really want to move, anyway.  

His presence is grounding, in its own way. He’s solid, and real, and something tangible to focus on. You breathe him in without meaning to, his scent familiar, comforting — soap, fabric softener, something faintly sweet, like the remnants of whatever tea he was drinking earlier.  

He doesn’t push. 

But he’s watching you, waiting. Not impatiently, not expectantly, simply aware.  

He knows. He always does. He knows you’re avoiding the question, knows that your backhanded response isn’t an answer at all. But he won’t press. He won’t. Not right now. It’s obvious.

Everything’s not okay.  

And that’s okay.

“Can I have some?” he asks, cautious in the way he speaks when he’s not sure if he’s allowed to break the moment.  

You blink, not quite processing the question at first.

“What?”

“Some of-” His little finger wiggles its way out from beneath your palm, struggling against the weight of your hand, and when it finally escapes, it straightens, pointing toward the fruit still glistening on the cutting board. “-that.”

You notice, then, the way his pinky twitches, just barely. It’s subtle, but it’s there — a small, involuntary tremor. And for a second, you aren’t sure if it’s because of nerves or…but no, it’s probably just the nature of the pinky itself because the pinky finger is notoriously weak, small and stubborn but prone to struggling under pressure. It’s complaining about the demand from his brain to move. The rest of him stays still, but his hand, his fingers — there’s something there.

Your own fingers flex in your lap, sticky with juice, and it takes you a second too long to respond.

“Oh. Right.”

He doesn’t let go of you right away. There’s a hesitation in the way he lingers, fingers still curled loosely around your arm, like he isn’t ready to let the contact fade just yet. And maybe he isn’t. Maybe he would hold on longer if he thought he could get away with it.

But he can’t — not if he wants the fruit — so he loosens his hold.

You shift just enough to grab a whole grape from the pile, pinching it between your fingertips. Juice clings instantly to your skin, seeping from where the thin membrane had already split under the weight of the knife earlier. It’s sticky, already binding to the ridges of your fingerprints, and you don’t think much before lifting your hand toward him.  

You don’t turn your head fully — only the sufficient amount to gauge where he is in your peripheral vision, just so you won’t accidentally jab him in the nose or, worse, in the eye. You aren’t looking directly at him, so the action still feels somewhat blind, but he makes it easy.

His lips part first, then his jaw follows, mouth opening slightly to accommodate your offering. His tongue darts out — not far, but far enough to brush against the grape before retreating, waiting.

You press it inside.  

And then he closes his mouth.

His lips seal around the fruit — around your fingers, too.

There’s a split second where you’re frozen. Just for a second, you don’t react, don’t process. But that second stretches long because his mouth is warm, and his lips are soft, and your fingers are still in there, still caught in that brief space between inside and out. Then you feel the slight pressure of his teeth just hovering beneath the surface of his lips, not biting down, just there. Your breath catches. You keep thinking he’ll let you go, that it was just an accident, that he hadn’t meant to catch you in the process.  

But then…he doesn’t.  

He doesn’t even let you pull away.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, warm and firm, holding — keeping you there.  

Keeping you close.  

Your breath stutters.  

You can’t do anything but watch.  

You watch, as he takes two of your fingers deeper. His lips stretch around them slightly, and you can feel the heat of his mouth even more now, the soft dampness inside. His lips stretch a little more, and then — then he moves his tongue. 

A slow drag against the backs of your knuckles.

It’s warm.

It’s wet.

It’s so sudden, so enveloping, and you can feel everything — the swell of his tongue as it brushes against your skin, the soft press of his inner lip where it molds around the shape of your fingers, the slight suction when he moves just enough to make it clear that he’s doing something, that he is choosing to do this. Slow and intentional, lapping up the sweetness, the stickiness, the lingering juice, the remnants of the mess that had stuck to you.  

Something presses tight inside you, and your chest stutters, and before you can think, before you can stop it, a small sound slips out — one you barely register yourself.

It’s basically nothing. Just a quiet, involuntary thing that escapes from your throat, part surprise, part something else. Something you don’t have the words for. It’s not loud, but it’s there, and you know he hears it.  

Your instinct is to pull back, to retreat, to reclaim that piece of yourself, but he holds you steady for just a moment longer, just long enough to make sure you feel it.

The press of his tongue.

The heat of his mouth.

The way his lips stay just slightly parted, reluctant to let you go.

His grip on your wrist doesn’t tighten, doesn’t get rough, but you can feel the weight of it, can feel the way his thumb moves in a slow, absentminded circle against the inside of your wrist, like he’s feeling for something there, like he’s mapping it out.  

And maybe you would’ve let him stay there a little longer, take a little more.  

But there’s still that pressure against his hold, that small but present resistance against his grip tells him you’re trying to pull away.  

So…he lets you.  

Just as smoothly as he caught you, he releases you.

Your fingers slip free from his mouth, dragging lightly against the plush curve of his bottom lip before retreating fully.

They’re wet now.  

You can feel it. The lingering dampness, the faint stickiness mixed with something warmer, something slicker. You fight the instinct and try not to rub them together to feel just how wet they are, because you already know. You try not to acknowledge that he’s feeling it too — that he knows.  

You try not to think about it.  

But then he kisses them.  

Just once at first. A light, lazy press of his lips.

One kiss, then another, and another, and then one more, mouth barely moving but still doing something, still lingering in a way that makes the feeling of it settle deep inside you, makes it root somewhere in your ribs.  

Soft, slow, lingering.

You don’t move.

One more. Just before your fingers curl in on themselves slightly, a silent request for him to stop.

He listens.

But he doesn’t move far.

“Was it a sour one?” you ask, because his nose is scrunching slightly.  

“No, I think I’ve got-” He cuts himself off, shifting to rub his face against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt catches against the curve of his cheek, dragging along the skin. His whole expression shifts with the motion — nose scrunched even more, brows furrowed, lips pursed. 

It’s a funny little sight, almost boyish in its casualness.

The way his nose gets smushed makes something tug in your chest. It’s stupid. The way your stomach clenches slightly at the sight of it.  

You want to do it instead.  

The absurd, sudden urge to press your own nose against his, to mirror the pressure, to feel the warmth of it, until they flatten together, until neither of you can breathe properly.  

But before you can even think about doing something like that, it’s too late. 

He’s already done.

“I had fluff on my nose, I think.”

His voice is still muffled against the fabric, and when he pulls back, there’s a faint, barely visible damp patch on his shirt where he wiped his face. You have the fleeting thought that he probably needs to change.

It’s going to bother you until he does, at least.  

“It was sweet.” he says, thoughtful. Then, a pause. “And wet. No, it was…juicy. That’s the better way to describe it, right?”  

“Yeah.”

He hums, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

And then, so effortlessly, so casually-

“I’ve been thinking about you a whole heap today.”

It shouldn’t make your stomach drop, but it does.

Not in a bad way, anxious way — just in a way that makes your breath catch.

It lands heavier than it should.  

You don’t know why.  

Your fingers twitch in your lap, the ghost of his mouth still lingering on them, still there in the faint wetness of your skin, and you fight the urge to press them against something solid, something cool or to just wipe them down, anywhere. You swallow, shifting slightly, but he doesn’t let you move too far. His arm is still there, keeping you close, the weight of it comfortable. Protective, maybe.  

“You have?” Your voice is small. Quiet. Cautious, almost.  

He lets out a breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, but something in between. His fingers tighten around you briefly before relaxing again, smoothing over the skin of your arm like he’s trying to reassure you.  

“Yeah.”

That’s all he gives you at first.  

Just that.  

But then he shifts, resting his chin against the top of your head, and you can feel the way his jaw moves, the way his voice vibrates slightly when he speaks.  

“I think about you a lot, actually. You know that, don’t you?”

Your chest feels tight, but not in a bad way. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything.  

But he keeps going before you can try to find the words.  

“Not in a weird way.” he adds quickly, eyes flickering to yours, then away. “Just in a…normal way, I suppose. In a ‘you’re always kind of there in the back of my head’ way.”  

You turn slightly, just enough to glance up at him. His expression is unreadable at first, but then — then he smiles. Small. Almost sheepish.  

“Like today,” he continues, “I was walking home, and I saw this cat curled up on this little patch of grass by the sidewalk. It reminded me of the way you sleep sometimes. All tucked into yourself, like you’re trying to make yourself smaller even though you don’t have to.”  

Your breath catches.  

“And then I saw this kid throwing a fit at the store. His mum wouldn’t let him get the sweets he wanted, and he was just…he was fuming, right? Red in the face, whole body so…angry, ready to throw hands with his own mother, can you believe that? And…I don’t know, it made me think of the way you get when you’re annoyed but trying really hard not to show it. That little clench in your jaw, the way your nose scrunches up just slightly even though you think it doesn’t. This were all before the cat. I like that look on you, by the way, even though…it’s just- it’s cute, you know?”

You swallow.  

“And then I were making tea earlier, and I thought about how you always steal mine even though you pretend you don’t like the kind I drink. And then I saw the grapes in the fridge, and I remembered that you’re coming ‘ere and how you can’t stand the seeds and how I forgot to buy that other kind ‘cause I got distracted and I just…”

He stops.  

He’s only now realising how much he’s said.  

Like he didn’t mean to say it all, it just spilled out without him meaning to let it, but now it’s too late to take it back.  

The nervousness starts creeping in despite how calm his voice had been just moments before. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest against your skin when he finally murmurs-

“I don’t know. It’s- I don’t know. It’s stupid. I just-”

“It’s not stupid.”

The words come out before you can think twice about them. And they’re true. They feel true, at least. In a way that settles deep inside you, in a place you don’t visit often.

He looks at you. Really looks.  

And for a moment, you think he might say something else.  

But then his eyes flicker downward, just briefly, to your hand still resting against his chest, and without thinking, you reach up. Wipe at the spot on his shirt where he’d rubbed his face earlier.  

“You’re gonna need to change.”

He blinks at you.  

Then he laughs, soft and warm.  

It’s a deflection. A quiet one. But he takes it for what it is.  

“Yeah. I know. But I love you, you know that?”

Oh, Alex.  

How can he just say stuff like that so easily?  

Love is something you never really asked for. Not outright. Maybe in the small, subtle ways. Only surreptitiously. Through how you let yourself be held, how you sometimes leaned into him instead of away. In the pauses between your sentences where a confession might have fit, had you dared to speak it. In the moments where your silence wasn’t meant to be emptiness, but an invitation, an unspoken one, a hesitant hope that it might settle somewhere near you without demanding too much.  

You never outright asked, you let it linger, in the little ways.  

But never like this. Never so bluntly.  

And now, here he is — giving it to you anyway. So easily. So thoughtlessly, as if the words aren’t heavy at all, as if they don’t carry weight. But they do. God, they do.  

Because in moments like this, you find it hard to say it out loud. Not because you don’t feel it. Not because you don’t want to say it. It’s not the reciprocation part of it — no, never that. But the acknowledgment. The reality of his love feels bigger than your own. Like holding something too delicate, too important, afraid your grip will crush it even as you try to be gentle. 

How could he? How could he love you? How could he say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world?  

“Don’t you trust me?”

Your silence must have stretched too long already. It only feels like a few seconds, but seconds can be too long. You know that.  

He needs you to- 

“Look at me, babe. Look into my eyes.”

He shifts, his arms still wrapped around you, still holding you in that way that makes escape impossible — not that you were truly trying to escape. Just…resisting. Sort of. Holding yourself back in that way you always do. But now — now he turns you, adjusts you in his grip, moves you until-

His face is right there. 

His lips slightly parted, like he might say something else. He’s mostly waiting to see if you’ll give him a reason to. 

You have nowhere else to look but him.  

Or you could look down, at the buttons on his shirt, instead.  

Three of them, forming a neat little vertical line leading up to his collar. The one at the very top left undone, gaping slightly. You wonder if it’s because it’s too tight when all of them are fastened, pressing against his throat, leaving a mark against his skin. Or maybe he just forgot to slip it through the loop in his usual rush, because shirts like this are difficult to pull over your head unless you undo at least one — maybe even two. Or maybe it just came undone on its own, slipping free as he moved, as he stretched, as he dressed in the quiet of some morning that wasn’t meant to be significant but somehow still led to this.  

And then-

Fuck.

His hand.  

His fingers on your chin, tilting your face up, tilting you toward him, tilting you until there’s nowhere else to look but his eyes.  

You can’t hide now.  

“…And I do love you.” he says, voice softer now, but unwavering. “And you are awfully interesting. And I want to protect you from all pains and terrors.”  

Has he been speaking this whole time? Have you missed something? Have you been so caught up in your own thoughts, in the rush of heat under your skin, in the weight of this moment that you just…blocked it out?  

His thumb moves just slightly, the pad of it brushing over the curve of your jaw. It’s not much. Not enough to force anything, not enough to be demanding. Just enough to remind you that he’s still here. That he’s not letting go.  

“Why?”

His brows furrow. Just slightly.  

Not because he’s confused.  

Because he doesn’t understand why you’re questioning something so obvious to him.  

“Why what?”

“Why do you l-” You hesitate, tongue suddenly thick in your mouth. You swallow. Adjust. Start again. “Why do you say you…love me?”

His lips part, like he might laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you, the way he always does, the way that makes you feel like you’re something he’s trying to figure out, something he’s studying carefully, with a kind of tenderness you don’t know how to process.  

“That’s an easy one.” he says. “I just can’t help it.” 

And somehow that’s the answer that undoes you the most. You suppose there’s no match to be found for what he’s just said. No words weighty enough, no response clever or careful enough to balance the sheer simplicity of that. 

So you don’t even try.  

You lean in.  

You press yourself against him, feeling the shift of his body as he adjusts — welcoming, always welcoming. You make yourself fit against him just right, like something clicking into place, like something that was meant to be there all along.  

Your head finds his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft against your cheek, warmed by his skin beneath. He’s warm all over, like he always is, like he carries heat in his bones just to share it with you. His frame is small in your grip. It makes you feel like you could gather all of him into yourself, hold him there, keep him safe — keep him yours. Your arms slide around his waist, and it strikes you how easy it is to encompass him, how your hands press against his back and you can feel all of him beneath your palms. The subtle lines of muscle, the gentle curve of his spine, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath filling up his chest and then releasing, slow and deep.  

He’s real.

You can feel every inch of him. The way his ribs expand, the quiet shift of his body as he leans just a little more into you. You could wrap yourself around him completely if you wanted, squeeze him tight and let him know without words that he belongs to you, that you belong to him.

He already knows. That’s why he doesn’t pull away though you always hold him like you’re afraid of something, some bits of him slipping through your fingers, or being taken away.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” His voice is quiet, meant only for you. “I didn’t-” A pause, a breath. His fingers press lightly against your side. “I’d never touch you like that…hurt you.”

“I know.”

You don’t see his face, but you feel the way he breathes, like he needed to hear that. 

“Are you crying?” 

You press your face closer into his shoulder, the warmth of him pressing back. His scent fills your lungs. The clean fabric of his shirt is damp now — maybe from you, maybe from him.  

Oh, but it’s not clean.  

The stain.  

It’s there, subtle but there, darkened against the fabric, absorbed into the threads. You bet it would be sweet if you just let your tongue dart out, just for a second, just enough to taste.  

But you don’t.  

Not…not now.  

“No.”

A lie. But a harmless one. One you need. 

“Okay.” He doesn’t call you out on it. He just pulls you in tighter. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I know.”

You don’t hesitate.  

Because it’s…it’s him!

And he’s different. 

You know that. You do. You tell yourself that over and over again. Alex would never hurt you. Alex is good. Alex is safe. You repeat it like a mantra, like a prayer, because if you don’t, something else starts creeping in.  

Alex would…he would never. Right? You don’t even think he has it in him. He’s too soft. Fragile in some ways, tender in others. He loves you, doesn’t he? You can feel it in the way he holds you now — carefully, protectively, like he’s afraid you might start to fight your way out of his grip if he so much as breathes the wrong way.  

You don’t do that to someone you love.  

No…that’s- that’s just wrong. 

It’s wrong.

But then there’s that other part of you. The one that lurks in the shadows of your thoughts, whispering things you don’t want to hear. The one that reminds you that you never really know someone, not completely.  

Because he was supposed to love you too, wasn’t he?  

He said he did.  

And still…

You remember the way his hands used to…

How his voice could turn from warm to ice-cold in an instant. How he never had to hit you for you to feel like you were being beaten down, over and over again.  

You remember the way he made you feel like nothing.  

You remember the way you let him.  

So, yes — Alex is different.  

But some things are so deeply ingrained in you that you don’t know how to believe it. You don’t know how to trust it.  

Because you loved him too. Once.  

And look where that got you.

“It’s okay, baby.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped up in the quiet. Wrapped up in him.

“It’s…it’s rotten work, that. What you’re trying to do.” you whisper.  

Without pause, without a shred of doubt-

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.” His voice is certain. “We have to connect.”

Connect? Is that what he thinks this is?  

You press your forehead against his collarbone, eyes squeezing shut.  

Connection? You were in love.

“Do you want to kiss me?” you ask him. And it’s because you want him to, but you won’t be the one to do it. He has to. 

He doesn’t move right away. That soft, steady gaze of his locks onto yours, like he’s trying to read something in your face — like he has to read something there before he makes a decision. His eyes flicker between yours, his brows drawn slightly, as if the answer isn’t already obvious, as if he doesn’t know exactly what you want from him.  

But what is there to think about? It’s a yes or no question. Simple. Easy. It shouldn’t take this long for him to respond, and yet he hesitates.  

Unless…unless it’s a no.  

Your stomach twists at the thought. A slow, curling, ugly thing burrowing deep inside of you. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s fine. You’ll be fine. You always are. If he doesn’t want it, you won’t break. You won’t let it ruin you. You never do. You’re used to wanting things you can’t have, aren’t you?  

But still — he’s looking at you, and his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t, like there’s something caught in his throat, something he can’t quite force out. And that hesitation — it’s not fine. You can feel it in your bones, in the space between your ribs, tightening, constricting, making it harder to breathe.  

He exhales, warm air ghosting across your lips. His fingers twitch at your waist, flexing and releasing, like he’s fighting himself on something. And then he speaks. Too careful.  

“I just want your happiness.” And God, you don’t know why it sounds like an apology. “I haven’t forgotten how you feel. Not yet.”

That little smile of his is meant to reassure you, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe it would, if you weren’t drowning him in everything else.  

Because that’s not an answer. 

Your throat aches. You want to smile back, you do. To tell him it’s okay, that you understand, that you can pretend this moment never happened. But right now, there’s something you want more than that, something just within reach. His lips are so close, you can almost feel them, almost taste them, you miss them — if he would just move.  

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, gripping onto it like if you let go, you might just fall apart. You wonder if he can feel how desperately you’re holding onto him. 

He probably does. That’s why he hasn’t pulled away yet.  

Your breath is shallow now, uneven, and you can feel your heartbeat against your ribs, loud and insistent, please, please, please. It’s a silent plea, your last effort at pulling him in.  

“Please, kiss me.”

His lips crash against yours before you even have the chance to close your eyes, before you can brace for the impact, before you can process the way he’s devouring you, like he’s been starving all this time. And it’s — God — it’s harsh. It’s nothing like his hands that hold you so carefully, nothing like his voice, warm and low, curling around you. And it’s nothing like the way his lips felt against your fingers just minutes ago, his mouth a quiet plea rather than a demand.  

No, this…this is rough. This is too much.  

This is hunger. This is need.  

He kisses you like he’s trying to erase something, like he’s trying to carve something new into you in its place. His teeth scrape against your lips, his breath hot, and there’s a desperation in the way he holds you now too, fingers digging into your waist like he needs to keep you right here.  

And now you know.  

It wasn’t a no.  

He was holding back, trying to at least. But he can’t anymore. He’s not gentle, not even close — his lips press hard against yours, pushing, demanding. He doesn’t ease into it, doesn’t start soft before deepening it. No, he claims you all at once. Maybe you pushed him too far. Maybe you wanted to. Maybe this is exactly what you were hoping for — a chip in his restraint, a glimpse at something beneath all that tenderness.  

Perhaps you’ve just made him crack.  

His teeth catch against your lower lip, and you gasp, and before you know it his tongue is back in your mouth, stealing the breath from your lungs, filling you with the taste of him. And oh — he’s sweet. Not in a subtle way, not in the way he usually is, with quiet smiles and warm hands and careful words. It’s syrup coating your tongue, sticky and inescapable.  

It spreads through you, through your veins, until you don’t know where you end and he begins.  

And you let it happen.  

Day by day, this has been happening. Slowly, gradually. The shift, the surrender. Shrinking, softening, yielding. Adapting to fit against him just right.  

Because this is where you belong. This moment. This place.  

Where his lips are on yours. Where his hands press into your skin, holding, owning, keeping. 

Where his taste fills your mouth.  

Where sweetness explodes on your tongue.  

Thick and overwhelming, dripping down your throat, drowning you in something that feels dangerously close to forever.

“Touch me, touch me.” You beg when he gives you a chance to catch your breath. Your palms feel the back of his neck burning hot, his skin damp with sweat, his pulse hammering beneath your fingertips. His teeth scrape hard against the delicate skin of your throat, the place that can’t conceal the frantic beating of your heart anymore — it’s too strong, too loud, and there’s nothing left to cover it up except his mouth. He fits just right. His lips press there, sealing over the frantic rhythm, his throat swallowing down the sounds you make, drinking them in like they belong to him.  

Then he pulls back. Sharp. Sudden.  

“Sorry- I’m sorry.” 

You watch the realisation settle over his face — the way his lips part, his brows pull together, his whole body tensing. He’s staring at your throat, at the place where his teeth have left something undeniable behind. Blood rises to the surface in the shape of his mouth, blooming red beneath your skin. His mark.  

“Did I hurt you?” His voice wavers.  

Alex’s face is red, flushed all the way down his neck, his whole body trembling. He only stops shaking when you hold onto him. It’s his way of engaging with the guilt, of giving himself permission to feel it. He has to convince himself that this isn’t what it is. That he isn’t what he is. Because you trust him. And that’s terrifying.  

“It’s okay.” Your voice is quiet. You don’t let him go. You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands sliding up his arms, over his shoulders, fingers pressing into his skin. “It’s just a love bite.” You reassure him.  

But even as you say it, your voice is breathless, weaker than before. Your neck still stings, a dull, pulsing throb that lingers beneath your skin where his teeth sank in, but it’s nothing compared to the heat flooding through you. 

And Alex still looks wrecked. His lips are wet, parted, swollen, and his chest rises and falls unevenly, like he’s struggling to breathe right. You can feel the shudders running through him, the tight, barely-restrained energy coiling in his muscles, in his fingers that hover just above your skin, hesitant now, even as he looks like he’s seconds away from falling apart. He looks at you like he’s afraid to want this, you, when he already does. When he always has.  

And you don’t want hesitation.  

You don’t want restraint.  

You want him.

So you pull him closer.  

Hands sliding over his wrists, up his arms, tracing over the ridges of his bones, feeling how small he is in your grip, how fragile, how breakable. He’s always been that way — soft and delicate in ways he tries to pretend he isn’t. But you know. You know the way his body folds into yours like it was made to fit, the way his skin is always too warm, like he’s burning from the inside out.  

He shudders, just barely, the motion rippling through him as your fingers find the nape of his neck, threading into his hair. And that’s when he finally gives in.  

He buries his face in your neck again, pressing his lips over the mark, his teeth grazing over it, like he wants to claim it all over again. You can feel how hard he’s trying to hold back, to be good, to be gentle when he’s battling a hunger that’s barely been unleashed.  

He breaks.   

“I-” His lungs give out. “I can’t-”  

But he can. You know he can.  

“Shh…” you whisper, digging harder into his scalp, tugging gently at the roots until he groans against your skin. “It’s okay, I promise. It’s just a little love bite, Alex.”  

He soothes the spot with kisses. The pressure eases even as he presses harder, lower. He doesn’t mean to go too fast, but he can’t wait anymore, it’s been long enough, hasn’t it? Something has to give.

His legs feel weak, and even if they wouldn’t, if he had the strength to keep standing, he still would have sunk to his knees. Because that’s where he belongs. That’s where he wants to be.  

You don’t see it — you’ve got your eyes closed, your head tipped back — but you feel him shiver as the bone of his kneecap makes contact with the cold tile, emitting a dull sound in the quiet. There’s that weird sort of wave that travels through his body, up his spine and it bleeds into his shoulders, the kind that happens when pain and pleasure hit all at once or maybe it’s just the inevitability of this moment catching up to him, swallowing him whole.  

He’s so close, close enough that every exhale ghosts over you, teasing, just a whisper of sensation before his lips follow. He presses his mouth to your stomach, slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower. His nose nudges against you, and you flinch — not away, but toward. The good kind. His hands are gripping your hips tight, thumbs pressing into the softest parts of you.  

You should say something. You should.  

Instead, you murmur, “I should have known from the start.”  

He tilts his head, looking up, waiting.  

“What?” 

You swallow, your fingers finding his hair again, the strands slipping between your fingertips, soft and just a little damp from the heat between you. It tickles where it sneaks under your shirt, brushing against the bare skin of your belly. That should be distracting, but it isn’t. It’s just an excuse, an easy way to buy yourself a second before you finish your thought.  

“That it’s…” You stop again, dragging your teeth over your lower lip. You take a breath, shakier than you’d like. “That it’s not a long way from the tips of your fingers to…”  

A sound escapes him — a huff of laughter, bubbling up from his chest until it has nowhere else to go but out.  

“To where?” His lips quirk, wicked and knowing. “Your cunt?”  

The crudeness of it should make you at least a little bit repulsed and not make your pulse stutter, but you feel it like a spark in your bloodstream, something dark and molten curling in your stomach. It’s not that he’s wrong. The connotation had been there, lingering unspoken in the spaces between your words. Maybe you even meant it. But you can’t let that be known.  

“I meant…to the love hidden deep in your heart.” you counter.  

He hums against your skin, a small, indulgent sound. “Mhm.”  

And then his fingers are at your waistband.  

The breath in your lungs halts, stills, the moment has finally caught up to you too. His hands are steady as he tugs, slipping beneath the fabric. He’s already pulling them down, peeling you open, exposing the most fragile parts of you to the heat of his breath, to the press of his mouth, rubbing against you, and you should stop him, should tell him to move this somewhere else — maybe the bedroom, maybe even just the sofa a few feet away — anywhere that doesn’t involve your lower back pressing against the sticky mess left behind on the counter.  

But it’s too late.  

You’re already sticky.  

And you don’t want him to stop.

“If I didn’t know you,” you murmur, “I’d think you’d throw me on the floor and fuck me. Right there.”  

Alex makes a noise against you — half a laugh, half a groan. The thought alone seems to stir something inside him, dark and eager. And he would, another time, maybe. He probably has done that very thing you’re speaking of before, but the memory is hazy, buried beneath the present pressing down on you now.  

Because right now, there is no before. There is no after.  

Just this.  

Just him.  

Just his mouth against the damp fabric of your underwear, his lips parting, tongue pressing into you through the thin material because he can’t wait. The barrier is a cruel and unnecessary thing that he has no patience for. He mouths at you like he’s starving, like the taste of you is the only thing he’s ever needed, and the thought of not having it now — right now — is unbearable.  

Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp, and he moans at the feeling, at the way you hold onto him. His hands grip your thighs, his thumbs smoothing along the sensitive skin there, pressing into the muscle.  

He touches you like you are everything he’s ever asked God for.  

Like he’s been praying for you his whole life, and now that he has you, now that you are here, soft and warm and pliant beneath his hands, he won’t let you go.  

Underneath his hands, you become poetry.  

You can feel it in the way he moves, the way his hands trace you, the way his mouth presses desperate kisses against you. It’s devotion — pure and all-consuming.  

You could probably come from this alone, just the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue against you, the way he’s holding you. 

If he asked, you would.  

Right here. Right now.

But he’s got more where that comes from.  

And just enough restraint — barely enough — to pull away for a moment, to hook his fingers into the flimsy fabric that’s still there and slide it down with the rest. He works quickly, he doesn’t want to be apart from you for any longer than absolutely necessary. Every second spent not tasting you feels wasted.  

“Fuck, you’re so sweet, just like…” He stops to lick his lips, pausing as if to savour the lingering taste on his tongue, rolling it over in his mouth like fine wine. “All wet and…juicy.”

His hands guide you, lifting your legs just slightly so he can strip you bare. You let him, let him do whatever he wants, because it’s easier that way. He makes it easy.  

He has you holding up your top, keeping it out of the way so it won’t obstruct the view too much. Not that there’s much to see beyond the mess of his dark hair between your thighs, beyond the way his shoulders flex as he settles back down into place.  

You can barely see his eyes from here, but you feel them.  

You feel his breath first though, ghosting over your sensitive skin before his mouth is back on you, tongue slipping between wet heat. And he knows — oh, he knows — that tongue and finger combo isn’t just for flipping the pages of a book.  

He puts it to good use now, spreading you open with his fingers, teasing you with slow flicks of his tongue before pushing deeper. You gasp, the sound breaking out of you, and he hums in satisfaction. 

It’s a game to him, a test to see how far he can push you. How quickly he can make you fall apart.  

And hearing your breath pick up, hearing the way it stutters when he curls his fingers just right, when he drags his tongue over that spot that makes your stomach tense — that is how he knows he’s winning.  

You run your fingers through his hair, tugging, gripping, holding onto him as he holds onto you. His fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread for him so he can taste you deeper, so he can own you, if only for a little whole.  

You push his head down without even meaning to, a desperate reflex, an instinctual need to feel more of him. And he doesn’t resist. He welcomes it. He moans against you when you pull him in tighter, when you give him more of you.  

And when you finally break, when your body tenses and your breath comes out in a fractured cry, when his name spills from your lips like a prayer, because there must be some godly hand in this, in one way or another — he takes it.  

He drinks it all down like you are that something holy.

Until you push away. Even the good can be too much sometimes.  

Trembling, sensitive, overstimulated, but you don’t want to stop. You just want to change direction. You grab at his collar, tugging him up, pressing his mouth to yours, needing to give him something else to taste before his throat will dry out.  

And fuck, you taste it on his tongue — yourself. The remnants of his mouth on you, warm and slick and unmistakably you, mixing with the heat of his spit. It makes your head spin. It makes your whole body tingle. You moan into him, and he groans back, deep in his chest.  

You’re all jittery now, restless, can’t keep still if you tried. And in your squirming, in your shifting, your knee accidentally bumps against his groin.  

It wasn’t intentional. But the sound he makes… 

A sharp inhale, a strangled moan punched right from his throat.  

Oh, God.  

You might burst again just from that. So you do it again — pressing against the tightness in his jeans, testing, teasing, feeling.  

He whimpers.  

And that alone, that helpless, wrecked little noise, has you shaking all over again.  

He pulls back, breaking the kiss with a ragged breath, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to settle down but perhaps just wiping off the drool that started to pull between you. You must be wet too, your hands sticky, your mouth messy, neither of you having been particularly careful. Either from his spit or your own slick, or maybe both, the mess clings to your skin.  

But you think you prefer his spit to stay right where it is.  

You press against him again. Rub against him, just to hear what else he might give you.  

“Fuck- stop-” His voice is strained, breathless, but you don’t miss the way his hips buck into your touch. “You’re gonna make me-”  

Another push.  

Another sharp inhale.  

“Gonna make me fuckin’ explode in my pants like a little boy if you keep rubbing on me like that.”  

“Please-” 

He doesn’t let you finish. He silences you with his mouth, swallowing whatever words were threatening to spill out. But for once, you want to speak, even when it hurts to push him away.  

“You’re hard.” you breathe against his lips, stating the obvious.  

His response is just as obvious. He takes your hand and places it there, right over the strained denim, where the heat of him throbs through the fabric, heavy and thick and so very real. He holds you still, right there, keeping you pressed against him until your fingers finally twitch, wrapping around as much of him as you can.  

“Yeah, baby…I’m hard.”  

You don’t know why you’re saying all this, or why he isn’t just shoving you down onto your knees and feeding you his cock right now. That might have been the better use of his time.  

But he wants it soft today.  

You suppose there’s already enough…mess.  

He’s working on the zipper now, hurried and impatient, his hips twitching with anticipation as you continue to palm him. He’s already aching, already so close to something and you haven’t even got his jeans off yet.  

His mouth parts when he finally pushes your hand inside, guiding you past the open zipper, past the last thin barrier of fabric. And when your fingers wrap around him properly, when you start stroking-

“I woke up kinda…in the mood, this morning.” he murmurs. “Knew you were coming over today and I…I think I woke up hard from thinking about that. Just…you.”  

Your hand tightens around him. 

“But I didn’t want to, uh, take care of it. I just- fuck- I really needed you here, baby- right there-” 

His words are starting to slur, tumbling out too fast, too desperate. 

“Woke up so, so fucking hard.” he groans, his hips twitching into your grip. “Could barely think, just- fuck- I was so horny, baby. Just lay there for so long, trying to calm down, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Had my hand on my cock, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t even close, ‘cause I didn’t…I didn’t want that, I wanted…you.”

His breathing is ragged now, uneven and broken between his words.  

“Kept thinking about how you’d touch me, how you’d feel, how fucking wet you’d be for me- fuck, that’s so-” His voice catches, hips stuttering forward. “I thought about calling you, but I didn’t wanna sound pathetic, sitting ‘ere with my dick in my hand at fuckin’ nine in the morning thinking about you, and you were probably sleeping too, but baby-” His head drops forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder.  “I wanted you so bad.”

You twist your wrist just slightly, just enough to make his whole body jerk.  

“Do I sound too needy?”

“Yes.”

The answer hits him like a slap. You almost think it wounds him. His lips part, his breath stutters, and his face burns hotter than before. But his cock isn’t getting any softer, it twitches in your grasp, jerks against your palm, leaking even more. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you to stop. 

The shame is there, written all over his face, but it’s not enough to make him let go. No, if anything, it’s making him worse.  

“You make me…” He shakes his head, eyes flickering down to watch your fingers wrapped around him, working him over. His voice is breaking apart, breathless and strained, and he’s babbling now, barely holding himself together. “You make me so- God, you make me feel so stupid when you’ve got your hand on my cock like this. I can’t- I can’t even think, I swear- I feel fuckin’ silly right now. It’s not- I'm not in a very good position, am I?”  

You say nothing, just keep stroking him, drawing out another broken noise from the back of his throat. 

“Tell me to stop.” he says suddenly, forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. “Tell me to stop, please, before I-”  

You tilt your head up to look at him, and his eyes — his eyes…

“I wanna see you come, Al.”  

His whole body tenses. His fingers dig into your waist, gripping so tight it’s almost painful. And if you weren’t looking so closely, you might’ve missed the way his eyes almost roll back, like just hearing you say it is enough to wreck him.  

“Yeah?” 

“Please.” you whisper, squeezing just a little tighter. “I wanna feel it. I wanna see-”  

“You wanna see? You’re gonna make me-”

“Please, Alex. Wanna see you come for me.”  

Alex squeezes his eyes shut again, his lips parting like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is another whimper. He’s fighting it — holding back like he’s embarrassed by how desperate he is. And maybe he should be. He’s a mess in your hands, breathless and needy, clutching at you.  

“Al.” you murmur. His eyes snap open again, glossy and unfocused. You slow your strokes, drawing it out, and he whines.  

“Shit- don’t- don’t do that.” he gasps, panting against your lips. “I need- come on, come on-” He keeps repeating it, pushing his hips up the best he can, chasing the pressure of your hand.

“You need what?”

“You.” His voice is breaking apart, just like the rest of him. “You. I need you so bad, I- fuck, I can't hold it.”  

You squeeze, just once, it’s enough. He’s gone, moaning into your mouth as he spills over your fingers, shuddering and gasping and clinging to you like he’ll never let go.

You aren’t exactly sure when it happened. Or when it even started.  

Was it when he first touched you like you were something fragile? Or was it when he held you like you were something precious? Maybe it was the way he looked at you like he already knew every part of you, even the ones you hadn’t dared to show because he wanted all of it anyway.  

All you know for sure is that right here and now, you are falling hard, and you can only pray that he is feeling the same way. That he isn’t just taking — that he is giving too.  

Your breath stutters as his hands trace their way up your sides, over your ribs. His forehead presses against yours, skin hot, damp. 

He is just as lost as you are.  

Now you only wished to disappear in his embrace. To let him pull you under and take you wherever he wanted to go.

“Fuck, these are good.” Miles mumbles around a mouthful of sour gummies, the words sticky with sugar and half-muffled. He barely pauses to chew before grabbing another, shoveling them into his mouth like he’s been starving for days instead of just an hour. The bag in his hands is definitely not his. It was sitting on Alex’s lap when they got here, a half-forgotten souvenir from the off-license down the road, but Miles had taken it without asking. Not that he cares. Not that Alex does, either. They don’t do that — ask. They just take, give, share, as if ownership is but an afterthought.   

Alex only hums in agreement, slow and lazy, before muttering “I know.” reaching over without looking, shoving his own hand into the too-small opening, or at least trying to wedge it into the crinkling packet. It’s a tight fit — too small for two, and yet neither of them makes any effort to take turns.  

His knuckles scrape against Miles’ fingers, both of them fighting for space. The plastic makes an insane amount of noise, the seams strain, and maybe the bag will split down the middle, sugar and neon-coloured candies scattering like confetti everywhere across the bed. They should probably be worried about that, how it will inevitably embed itself into the sheets like tiny grains of memory. But they’re not. They never are. It should be a concern, really. The mess, the hassle. 

They’re too drunk to care.  

That’s part of it, isn’t it? This thing they do. The…ritual? It’s become a ritual by now.

The same motions, the same pattern. They start the night at some party neither of them really wanted to go to but they still end up going to — because it’s the weekend, and what the fuck else is there to do? They drink too much, they laugh too loudly, they run after girls just for the sake of it, for something to do, for something to chase, for the shape of the evening, for the routine. Not because they want them, not really. That part doesn’t matter. They linger, hover at the edges of conversations, flirt for the thrill of it and the performance. And then, eventually, boredom sets in like it always does. The night starts feeling predictable, the same routine playing out in the same dimly lit living rooms, and they know it’s time to leave. They go home together, always together — when the buzz wears off and the game starts feeling scripted and they realise they’d rather be somewhere else — here.  

Tonight, here happens to be Miles’ place. That doesn’t happen often. Or rather, as often. They’re always at Alex’s. Except for now, obviously. 

Alex feels like he spends more time at Miles’ side than anywhere else, but when it comes to where they end up, it’s usually in his flat, draped over his couch, his floor, his bed. It makes every time he finds himself in Miles’ bedroom feel unfamiliar, even though it isn’t. It’s like stepping into a place rearranges itself in his absence. There’s always something new — a different stack of records leaning against the wall that he hasn’t seen before, an unfamiliar paperback with a cracked spine left open on the nightstand, a t-shirt that he doesn’t recognise slung over the back of a chair.  

He always has the urge to memorise it all before it has the chance to change again.  

The two of them are sprawled out on the bed now, backs pressed against the mattress, legs dangling over the edge just enough that they can move them idly, flexing their feet every so often because it feels strange and funny, and funny feels quite nice right now. 

Alex’s eyes flicker across the ceiling, blinking at the faint yellow glow of the street lamps filtering in through the curtains, and then they drift sideways, catching on something.  

It’s massive, nearly too big for the wall it’s taped to, edges curling slightly at the corners. A ‘Batman Begins’ theater print, the kind you’d only ever see in an actual cinema. It doesn’t belong here, not in a bedroom, not in this space that’s more mess than structure, all crumpled clothes and half-finished thoughts scattered across the floor. It sticks out, makes Alex blink a little longer than he should before he tilts his head toward Miles.  

“Where’d you get that from?” he asks, voice lazy, almost slurred. 

He gestures vaguely, but Miles follows the line of his gaze. The poster. Right. It takes him a second to respond. He’s still chewing, slow and thoughtful, before he swallows and sighs like even speaking is an effort.  

“Why d’you ask?” he mutters, stretching his legs out so that his toes just barely brush the carpet.   

“S’cool.” Alex shrugs, matter-of-fact. The warmth in his limbs is leaking into his words. That should be enough of a reason. He knows Miles gets it. Cool means I want it. I like that it’s yours. I might take it for myself just to have something of you. “I might nick it before you wake up.”

Miles snorts at that, lets his head loll to the side just enough to look at him, eyes half-lidded and amused. 

“It’s already stolen.” he admits. “Where’d you think I could’ve got something like that?”

Alex considers this, blinks up at the ceiling, and then hums. “Dunno.”

And that’s it. That’s all.  

Some things are just better left alone.

The ceiling is more interesting than the origins of a stolen poster, anyway. So is the way their legs keep moving, the way the tips of their feet barely skim the floor when they flex them just to feel the way their blood shifts in response. So is the way the room feels too big and too small all at once, like it belongs to them alone, like nothing outside of it matters. How everything feels kind of funny and kind of nice.    

Neither of them say it, but they don’t really have to, they both know — this is the best part of the night. The part they both wait for. The part that keeps them coming back, over and over again. The part where they are just here, together, exactly as they should be. 

“Give me the wrapper.” Alex says.  

It’s not really a request, more of a quiet expectation. He could have very well just taken it himself — Miles isn’t holding onto it with any real grip, the flimsy plastic barely hanging from his fingers, crinkled and stretched and already half-forgotten from their tug-of-war. But instead of reaching for it, Alex turns his hand over and rests it palm-up on Miles’ stomach.  

It’s an excuse, maybe. Or just a reason to touch him without making a thing of it. The fabric of his t-shirt is warm under his hand, the rise and fall making the space between his fingers shift ever so slightly with every breath. Alex doesn’t press down, doesn’t move — just leaves it there, waiting. He likes the warm feeling.

Miles lets out a soft, considering hum. Doesn’t acknowledge the hand, doesn’t swat it away, doesn’t react at all, really. Just tilts his chin down enough to glance inside the bag, even though he already knows the answer.  

“Why? Is it empty already?”

He still doesn’t make the effort to actually move, more so just bends his neck as far as it’ll go, which, admittedly, isn’t that far but it’s enough for a deep crease to form under his jaw, an undeniably exaggerated double chin. It’s horrible. A disaster. The ugliest thing imaginable. He knows it. He doesn’t care. If Alex sees it, then Alex sees it. So what? It’s a stupid thing to be self-conscious about when they’ve already seen the worst of each other — messy, sick, drunk, sick-drunk, which is one of the worst situations they can’t seem to stop putting themselves in, half-asleep and slack-jawed, bruised and even bloodied, probably, though he can’t think of a time that has happened but he knows it likely has. This? This is nothing. Besides, it’s better than actually lifting his body, or worse, upending the bag, accidentally spilling the remnants and showering himself in citric acid sugar dust.  

“Did you eat them all?”

Alex barely even hesitates. “I took the last two.” he confesses, still not taking the bag, still letting his hand linger where it is. After a moment, he shifts, finally turning his head from the ceiling to his left, just to see the look on the other’s face. Not because he expects a real reaction — just because he can (because he wants to).  

Miles narrows his eyes at him, staring like he’s trying to decide if it’s even something worth being annoyed over right now. In the end, he settles for a half-hearted, “Bastard.” Then, as if it takes all the energy in the world, he lifts his hand just enough to slap the bag down into Alex’s waiting palm.   

Alex grins at the lack of resistance, smug and satisfied. “They were mine anyway. Should be grateful that I shared.”

He pushes himself up, feeling the slow, sluggish pull of alcohol still weighing him down. The loss of warmth where his hand had been feels sudden, the absence of it oddly noticeable. He ignores it, stepping away from the bed and tossing the empty packet into the bin under Miles’ desk. 

The bag lands with a soft, hollow sound. The bin is mostly empty. Of course it is. Typical Miles. He has never been the type to use it unless it’s unavoidable. Trash, empty bottles, crumpled receipts — they all find their way to the floor, the desk, the nightstand. Anywhere except the bin.  

People say they’re alike, often. Quite often. The hair, the clothes, the frame. Yeah, yeah, he’s heard it all, and he does get it. There’s something about the way they move, the way they carry themselves, that invites comparison. Like two variations of the same thought, blurred at the edges. But Alex knows better and he knows that where Miles is all careless chaos, all impulse and disorder, he is…not.

Alex is not like him in that regard.  

Alex is a neat boy.

He’s not obsessive about it or anything, but still. Things should go where they belong. Trash in the bin. Caps should get screwed back on bottles. Things returned to their rightful places after they’re used. He doesn’t even think about it, really — it’s instinct. He’s not some freak about keeping everything pristine, but there’s a certain order to things, and he likes when it’s followed. It’s just how things should be. A natural order.

The longer he stands there, the more the mess in Miles’ room starts pulling at his attention. He notices the stuff scattered everywhere. The empty wrappers on the desk — must be from candy or something — old receipts, half-crumpled, spread out in careless disarray, some discarded rolling papers, wrinkled and abandoned — an attempt at rollies, no doubt. A failed one at that. Miles still hasn’t figured it out, clearly. Alex gave up months ago, accepting that neither of them had the patience or the skill for it. Miles refuses to admit defeat.  

It’s instinctive, the way his fingers twitch to gather them up, the urge to clean up at least a little, to make some kind of order out of the chaos. He bends slightly, picking up a few of the worst offenders. But the moment his fingers close around them, he feels it.  

The weight of being watched.  

Miles hasn’t made a sound, hasn’t shifted, but Alex knows. He can feel it. Knows without turning around that Miles is still lying there, still sprawled out across the bed, still looking at him. The realisation makes his fingers stiffen around the papers, a strange, fleeting nervousness curling at the edges of his thoughts. Irrational. Stupid. It’s not like he expects him to care about him cleaning up, but still…No. Why would Miles care? Why would he give a shit about Alex throwing out something he obviously doesn’t need? It’s just the alcohol making him think like this. That’s all. Get a grip, Alex.

And then-

“Al.” Miles’ voice, cutting through his thoughts before they can spiral.  

Alex doesn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

A pause. A beat too long. Then-  

“Aly.” Again.  

This time, Alex turns his head, looking over his shoulder.  

Miles is exactly as he was when he left him, on the bed in the exact same position, his expression unreadable in the dimness.  

He’s looking at him.  

Not in a way that demands anything. Not impatiently. Just watching.  

“I’m bored.” he says in a way that makes something shift in Alex’s chest. Weird. Then, softer “Come ‘ere.”

And just like that, whatever it was in his hands that he seemed so interested in ceases to matter. The bin, the mess, the half-hearted urge to put things where they belong — none of it is important anymore. 

“Comin’.”  

Alex barely gets the word out and turns around before Miles, ever the dramatic, flings a foot into the air, nearly whacking him in the face with it.  

“Take ‘em off for me, would ya?” he says, all lazy drawl, like this is something normal, something expected.  

Alex pauses, stares. Just stares at the offending foot, slightly horrified. If his nose wasn’t all stuffy from the late-night air, he’s sure he’d be regretting getting this close — Miles has had those socks on all night. Probably all day, too, knowing him.  

“You stink.” He tells him anyway.  

The boy only wiggles his toes in response, making them flex and curl like some grotesque little creature, grinning, pushing his foot closer in some kind of silent, infuriating challenge. The sight of it is so ridiculous, so unapologetically Miles, that Alex can’t even pretend he’s not endeared. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, rolls his eyes, but ultimately — of course — steps forward. Because he’s weak for him, because he can’t ever say no to him even when it comes to stupid little things like this.  

But he also can’t deny the opportunity that’s just presented itself, the sudden urge is curling in his chest. It’s right there, practically begging for it. He doesn’t even have to plot it, doesn’t have to think about it — Miles has done this to himself, hasn’t he? He’s set himself up without even realising it. The sock peels away, fabric stretched and loose from wear, and the moment it’s on the floor — Alex strikes.  

Fingertips dig into the soft underside of Miles’ foot, quick, relentless.  

“Stop! Stop!” Miles jerks violently, laughter bursting out of him unbidden, thrashing before he even properly processes what’s happening.  

“Don’t kick me!” Alex whisper-yells, dodging just in time to avoid a rogue heel to the chin.  

It’s chaos. Absolute fucking chaos. Miles is flailing, trying to twist away like some wild animal, anything to escape the grip, but Alex is determined, fingers moving fast, scratching at the sensitive skin just enough to drive him mad. The bed creaks beneath them as Miles thrashes, legs kicking out in desperation. Any second now, Alex is sure, he’s going to end up with a toe jammed straight up his nostril, but he has to win. He started this, and he’s going to finish it.  

Miles is losing — fast — but then he changes tactics. With one final burst of energy, he manages to twist just right, using the momentum to push himself up and he just lunges to catch Alex in retaliation.  

And now — it’s worse.  

Because Miles knows all his weak spots.  

And Miles is merciless.  

Fingers dig into Alex’s ribs, pressing past the fabric where it’ll get to him the most, the spot that absolutely wrecks him. Alex jerks like he’s been electrocuted, voice catching on a half-strangled “Not there- too much!” as laughter spills out of him, uncontainable. He tries to shove Miles away, tries to roll out of reach, but he’s losing, and Miles knows it.  

They twist and turn, shifting wildly, tangled up in limbs and laughter that leaves them breathless, the room spinning around them in flashes of colour and motion. The sheets bunch up around them, pillows knocked askew. Alex grabs for Miles’ wrist in a desperate attempt to stop the assault, fingers curling around it tight, but it backfires, because, in the same motion, he throws his weight wrong, and Miles’ knee knocks into his own, and suddenly, Alex is falling.  

Not far, not off the bed, but into Miles, their tangled legs forcing the shift until Alex lands heavily on top of him.  

And then-

Everything stops.  

His hands are planted on either side of Miles’ shoulders, breath caught sharp in his throat. And beneath him Miles goes quiet.  

Beneath him, everything stills.  

Alex doesn’t fully understand why at first. His brain is still catching up, still wired with the leftover electricity. It takes him a second to process that, somehow, in all the chaos, he’s ended up straddling Miles’ lap.  

But then he feels it. Feels the sudden, unmistakable heat of his body beneath his own. Feels the way his thighs are bracketing Miles’ hips, the pressure of their closeness no longer fleeting or careless, but real.  

And that…that is something entirely different.  

The room is too quiet. His heart is pounding. His lungs feel too tight, like he can’t quite pull in enough air and they’re threatening to give out. And the worst part is — he doesn’t know if it’s from all the physical effort they’ve just put into fighting each other, or if it’s because of the way they’ve landed. The position they’re in now.  

His breath stutters.  

He should move.  

He should move. 

He should move.  

“Al.”

Miles’ voice is softer now. Not teasing or playful. Just…soft.  

Alex feels it before he sees it — the subtle shift beneath him, the way Miles’ thighs flex slightly under his own. He’s trying to sit up.  

He reacts before he even thinks.  

“Don’t…”

It’s barely a whisper, barely even a word, but his hand moves anyway, pressing flat against the center of Miles’ chest. A point of warmth between them. A single, steadying touch. Just enough to still him, to hold him there before he can pull away completely. And without saying it, without even fully understanding it, Alex knows what he’s really asking of him.  

I don’t want you to move.

Don’t move.

Don’t ruin this.

And that’s enough.  

It’s enough because Alex doesn’t have to explain, doesn’t have to say anything else. Doesn’t have to acknowledge it. This. Whatever this is. Miles understands, he feels it under his palm — the way he stops trying to move, the way his breath hitches just slightly.  

A pause.  

“Okay.”

Miles doesn’t move.

Alex doesn’t move either, not more than he has to for him to continue breathing.  

It’s not even a choice — his body feels locked in place, frozen in the weight of it all, as if any shift, any sudden motion might snap whatever fragile, unspoken thing is holding them together right now. He can feel the shape of Miles beneath him, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin radiating up through the layers of their clothes. He’s never been this aware of him before, never this attuned to every tiny shift.  

And all his thoughts — no, all human thoughts — seem to come in one of two kinds.  

Impressions and ideas.  

And right now, an idea isn’t enough.  

Because the idea of…of his lips on Miles’, of how they might feel, how they might move, how they might taste — is just that. An idea. A thought flickering at the edges of his mind, untouchable, unformed. 

Right now it isn’t enough just to think it. It isn’t enough to let the thought hover somewhere in the recesses of his mind, to let it burn out like so many others he’s ignored before.  

But an impression…

An impression would be real.  

Something tangible. Something felt instead of merely imagined. Something he could have.  

He doesn’t mean to get closer.  

But he does.  

His arms feel unsteady, his forearms weak and useless beneath him, losing the will to hold him up, and before he knows it, his body betrays him — he sinks. A slow, inevitable collapse until his elbows meet the mattress and the space between them is almost gone.  

Their foreheads nearly brush.  

He can feel the heat of Miles’ breath ghosting over his lips, warm and uneven, and Alex swears he can hear the silence. It’s deafening, pressing in around them, making his own pulse thunder in his ears.  

His hands are still bracketing Miles’ sides, fingers curled into the sheets, but they don’t feel like his own anymore. They feel like they belong to this, to whatever is unfolding between them, to whatever force is holding them both here, breathless and unmoving.  

Miles is still beneath him. Too still. Not pushing, not pulling, not saying a word.  

Maybe Alex could just…  

Maybe he could-

He knows — he knows there’s no way of convincing him. No logical reasoning, no real justification for any of this. But if Miles doesn’t move — if he doesn’t deny this, doesn’t push him away, doesn’t break the moment himself — then Alex is certain it’s because he can’t.  

And from the way Miles stays silent, from the way his lips part just slightly, from the way he hasn’t shifted an inch beneath him…Alex may, from that silence and his own careful observation, establish his conclusion.

It’s softer than he would have let himself imagine.  

That first press of lips, the way they fit together, searching, like neither of them wants to be the first to push too far, to be the one who takes this from accident to undeniable. It’s soft. The kind of softness that lingers, not perfect, not practiced, but something that works. Something that makes his stomach feel like it’s plummeting and lifting at the same time. And, as he suspected — or maybe hoped — there’s no pulling away. No hesitation other than the kind already curling inside his own gut, thick and throbbing and impossible to ignore. 

But there’s no resistance.  

Not from Miles. Not from himself.  

Not from anywhere except inside his own jeans.  

Fuck.  

It’s almost unbearable, the tension coiling in his lower stomach, the ache that has been building since…since when? Since he climbed into this bed? Since the moment they locked eyes in the middle of their stupid wrestling match? Since forever?  

Alex shifts, just barely. And — fuck, fuck — he’s not imagining it, is he? That pressure, the unmistakable press of Miles’ hard-on against his own, barely separated by layers of denim and heat and want.  

Oh, fuck, he’s not imagining it.  

He knows he isn’t, because when he moves again, the friction between them is real, a sudden jolt of pleasure cutting up his spine, making his breath stutter. And — fuck — Miles.  

Miles is hard. He really is.

It makes his head spin. It makes his hips move without him meaning to, seeking out more, more, more.   

He can’t let himself think on that too much.  

Not too hard.  

God, he’s so hard too.

His fingers fumble at his belt, clumsy and desperate, as though some part of his brain has checked out, leaving only instinct behind. His mouth — fuck, his mouth — is full of Miles, of his taste, his breath, of sugar dissolving between their tongues something bitter underneath. And it stings.  

Like wet sandpaper, rough and grating, the sweet acid breaking down on their taste buds from the friction of breathless, urgent mouths. But it’s not just the sugar. It’s the spark of it, the way something erupts in his chest the second they touch like this, like the match has finally caught, like the heat has been waiting for this moment to reach its breaking point.  

He doesn’t think about what any of this means.  

Doesn’t think about anything — not when Miles’ hand moves, pushing between their bodies, not when his fingers press against himself, rubbing over the thick aching heat straining through his jeans. And not when-  

Oh, fuck.

Alex sucks in a sharp breath when Miles’ knuckles drag against his own, the shift of tendons against tendons, bones slotting together as they both fumble, frantic, shoving past barriers and buckles and buttons and zippers and- 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

They’re a mess. A tangled, gasping mess of hands and heat and urgency blurred into one. 

And Alex doesn’t know where this ends.  

Doesn’t know what happens when the last layer is gone, when nothing is left between them.  

But he wants it.  

God, he wants-

Alex shoves his hand inside his pants, fingers wrapping firm around himself, and it’s almost overwhelming — the relief, the friction, the sheer nerve — his body jolting from the intensity of his own touch. He barely has time to register what’s happening to him before his eyes flick downward, watching as Miles mirrors him, doing just the same as he does, slipping his own hand past his waistband, fingers disappearing beneath the fabric and curling around himself like this is nothing. Like this is just something they do. He does it with an ease that makes Alex’s stomach turn over.  

Jesus Christ.

His gaze drags upward from there, tracing the path from the point between Miles’ legs, over the subtle ridges of muscle beneath his t-shirt. That t-shirt- Alex notices it now, how it’s ridden up just slightly, bunched around his stomach, exposing a sliver of bare skin. And fuck, he’s seen that before, of course he has, in other situations — Miles stretching lazily in his kitchen after a night out, Miles pulling his shirt off at the beach, Miles changing in the corner of his room. 

But this is different.  

Because now, Alex doesn’t have to imagine where that faint, dark trail of hair might lead as it disappears lower.  

Now, he can just…see.  

His throat feels impossibly dry, his breath shallow, barely there. He shouldn’t be looking — shouldn’t be letting his gaze linger on the way Miles’ stomach tenses slightly when he moves, or the way the muscles in his forearm flex as his fingers tighten around himself.  

And yet, Alex doesn’t look away.  

When his eyes finally make their way back up, when he forces himself to look…

Their eyes meet.  

Oh.

He swallows. Miles is already staring at him. He’s not looking away. Not turning, not hesitating, not flinching under Alex’s scrutiny. Just watching. That makes something curl low inside him, his grip faltering for just a second. 

What is he thinking?

Well, clearly he’s not. 

Because even with Alex staring, even with their eyes locked and the weight of this moment pressing heavy between them, Miles doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t stop to question it, doesn’t second-guess, doesn’t shy away from hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pushing them lower, shifting enough to get them down around his thighs, past the point of no return, baring himself completely — just to get a better grip on his cock.  

And Alex?  

Alex nearly stops breathing.  

How is he doing this?

How can he be so…so self-assured? So unbothered?  

How can he stay so composed and how is he not hesitating, not crumbling under the weight of it like Alex is? How can he stay so, so collected, so in control, while Alex can feel himself unravelling at the seams and his head is spinning and his thoughts are all tangled up in knots with how his body is reacting faster than his brain can process?  

Alex doesn’t know, and maybe he doesn’t want to know, because if he stops to consider it, to really analyse this, he might lose his nerve completely.  

But then again…

Miles is just a person. A human being. A confused human being, at that, same as Alex.  

And confused human beings don’t always have firm moral codes.  

Sometimes, they don’t have them at all.

Maybe that’s why they end up ridding themselves of their shirts — no, not themselves, but each other.  

Because if they had done it themselves, it would have been too practical. Too normal. Something too easy to dismiss as an afterthought, something forgettable. 

Alex doesn’t realise how desperate he is to see Miles like this, bare-chested and flushed beneath him, until his fingers are already beneath the hem of his shirt, until they’re already sliding over warm skin, feeling the rise and fall of his stomach, the slow, uneven rhythm of his breath, the shift of muscle. He hesitates for a second — just a second — his fingertips ghosting over the lines of Miles’ waist, pressing into the soft spaces between ribs before he tugs the shirt up.  

And Miles lets him.  

Lets him without complaint, without question, raising his arms to make it easier, letting the fabric drag against his skin, messing up his already-dishevelled hair as Alex pulls it free and tosses it somewhere behind them.  

Maybe that’s why Miles does the same in return. Alex doesn’t even get a moment to take him in before he is reaching for his shirt, fingers rough but steady as they push beneath it, trailing up his stomach, over his chest, and fuck — Alex should be squirming, should be recoiling, because Miles’ hands are skimming over his ribs, over the one place that always sends him into fits of involuntary laughter.  

But he doesn’t.  

He doesn’t even shiver.  

Despite it being his most ticklish spot, despite the way even the suggestion of touch there usually makes him flinch, like earlier. Now, he barely registers it, barely registers anything beyond the heat of Miles’ hands dragging up his torso, the way his fingers catch against the fabric before tugging it over Alex’s head, leaving his skin bare and exposed to the dim glow of the room.  

Maybe it’s because the touch isn’t teasing. Maybe because it’s slow in a way Alex isn’t sure how to process. Maybe because every nerve in his body is too caught up in what’s happening — what’s really happening — to react in any way other than by leaning into it, letting it happen.  

Maybe that’s why neither of them stop and they’re instead moving.  

Shifting without thinking, rising to their knees on the mattress without breaking apart, or losing balance, and without stumbling — even as the bed dips beneath them, even as the weight of their bodies ripples through the sheets. It should be clumsy and graceless — their bodies tilting, hands gripping onto each other for stability — and maybe it is, maybe they are, but it doesn’t matter.  

Because Miles’ hands are still on him and Alex’s hands are still on Miles.  

And maybe that’s why they let their mouths crash together again, not closed, not soft this time, open — without any real thought or technique, without worrying about the click of teeth in their eagerness or the bruising press of lips — too rough, too desperate, too urgent. Because it’s not about finesse, it’s not about control — it’s about taking.  

It’s about feeling.  

And maybe that’s why, without a second thought, without a single ounce of shame, they each wrap a hand around themselves again — gripping tight, moving in slow, teasing strokes — because fuck, this feels good.  

This feels right.  

“Get down.”

And then Miles is moving, pushing forward, pushing him, hands gripping at his shoulders, giving him no time to question, no time to think, no time to decide before he’s being pressed down with Miles maneuvering around him like he’s done this a hundred times before, like he knows exactly where he wants Alex and how he wants him.

And maybe he does. Maybe he decided before Alex could even begin to think about it. Maybe he’s been thinking about it longer than Alex has.  

Maybe…

Fuck, Alex can’t think at all.  

Not when his shoulders hit the mattress, not when his body molds into the space beneath his friend like it belongs there and only there.

And then- 

Then Miles’ hand is there.   

Not his hand. Miles’.

The difference is instant, startling. He’d barely had time to notice his own hand being pushed away before something new, something stronger, is gripping him. Long fingers wrapping around his cock, giving a rough, unfiltered stroke that sends his head rolling back into the sheets.  

“Oh, God-” Alex chokes out, hips jerking up into the touch before he can stop himself.  

It’s so different.  

It’s not just the fact that it’s someone else’s hand — someone else’s fingers, someone else’s touch. It’s Miles.  

Fucking Miles.

And Miles doesn’t touch him like Alex touches himself, doesn’t pace it the same way, doesn’t know how Alex likes it, and yet… 

And yet it doesn’t matter.  

Because he’s still gripping tight, still pumping his fist in a way that’s so grating it’s almost unbearable, and Alex is starting to think that maybe he doesn’t like it slow, maybe he doesn’t like it gentle, maybe this is what he’s been missing all along.  

It’s firmer than he would have done himself, faster, harsher. Alex isn’t sure if it’s the pressure alone that makes him dizzy or if it’s the fact that this is his best fucking friend touching him like this. His fingers are strange — longer, bonier, though they’d always looked soft whenever Alex caught glimpses of them resting against his thigh, gripping the neck of a beer bottle, plucking at guitar strings.  

And they are soft — Alex can feel it beneath the tightness of his grip — but his skin is dry. Drier than Alex would have ever expected. Drier than he even thought possible, rough in a way that drags over him, each stroke more agonising than the last.  

It catches. It burns.  

It’s too much.  

He needs something-

“Fuck-” Alex gasps, his legs tensing, his body seizing, his entire brain narrowing down to this, this, this.  

He usually has something for this. At home. Next to his bed. Within reach. But here — here, he has no fucking clue where Miles keeps his…things. If he even has anything. Well, of course he does, he has to, but why the fuck would Alex know that? It’s not like they’ve ever sat down and compared goddamn masturbation routines before.  

But fuck, he needs-  

“Miles-”  

“Yeah?” Miles’ voice is strained, like he’s barely hanging on himself.  

Alex’s mouth opens, but his brain short circuits halfway through the thought, words tangling before they can escape. “Need some- some-”  

Please, get it. Please, so I don’t have to actually say it.

Miles moves, but not in the direction Alex expects.  

Not towards the bedside table, not reaching for anything. He shifts just enough to grab Alex’s wrist, prying his fingers from the death grip they had on the sheets before Alex even realises he’s clenching them there. Miles lifts his hand up between them, straightens his fingers out flat and then…then, he puckers his lips, and…

The sound is wet, loud in the quiet room, the thick weight of it landing in the middle of Alex’s palm.  

Alex stops.  

His whole body stops feeling like his own, muscles locking up so tight he forgets how to move, how to breathe. His vision flashes white, a high-pitched ringing filling his ears, and it’s not because of Miles’ grip on his wrist, or the way his fingers are still pressed into his palm, or even the heat radiating off his skin.  

It’s the fact that Miles just fucking spat in his hand.  

And that Miles knows what he wants — knows exactly what he was too embarrassed to ask for — and is giving it to him anyway.  

Alex is gone.  

He’s so fucking gone.  

And Miles doesn’t let him dwell on it, doesn’t even pause before guiding his hand back down, pressing it over himself, closing Alex’s fingers back around his own cock, forcing him to move, to use it, to spread the wetness over himself.  

Alex’s breath is shaking.  

And he can’t stop himself from saying it- 

“More, Mi- uh- do more…” 

He really should have thought better about what he was letting his mouth put out. Because he was definitely not prepared for what Miles does next.  

The shift is quick — Miles pulls back just enough, lips parting again, and Alex is already bracing for it this time, but not for this. Alex can barely register the way his tongue drags over his bottom lip before- 

Spit.

Right there. 

Hot and thick, landing directly on him. Not into a palm, not into his own hand even, not something he can just ignore or play off, but a direct, unfiltered connection right on the flushed tip of his cock, where he’s already painfully, achingly hard.  

It’s so much worse — so much fucking better — than before. A thread of slick warmth dripping slow and heavy from Miles’ mouth onto him, wet and…and fucking obscene.  

Alex watches.  

Watches it pool, watches it catch the light in a thin, glistening string still connecting them, watches it stretching, stretching, stretching until it snaps.   

Only for Miles’ hand to come down, slick fingers smearing it everywhere, over him, all over.  

Wait-

Fucking-

The drag, the heat, the unbearable pressure of something firm and pulsing against his own. He feels it before he realises it. 

Miles isn’t just touching him.  

He’s touching them.  

Both of them.  

Together.  

The second Miles’ fingers wrap around them Alex swears he nearly blacks out.  

Because it’s not just skin-on-skin, not just a hand moving up and down, but something more. Something raw, something new, something unbearably intense. The sensation of Miles against him — the hot, solid drag of his cock against his own, pressed so tightly together that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.  

And fuck, the underside of him — that’s where he’s always been too sensitive, where even his own hand can drive him crazy if he touches too much — it’s rubbing, grinding against the exact same spot on Miles, the slick heads of their cocks catching on each other with every stroke, the friction sending sharp shocks of heat straight to his gut, straight to the base of his spine.  

He can feel everything.  

The twitch of Miles’ cock against his own. The way their veins pulse, dragging over each other as he picks up the pace. The heat of his palm, the squeeze of his fingers, the messy slick of spit that just barely eases the unbearable drag.   

It makes him feel like he’s being touched for the very first time, like he’s some fucking untested and inexperienced virgin, so overrun with sensation that he’s about to bust in eight goddamn seconds like he did the first time he ever touched himself, like his body doesn’t even belong to him anymore but to this, and only this, to the slow, deliberate way he’s pressing them together, the way his palm moves, curling just enough to make them shudder against each other, to make them feel.  

He can’t even think straight. 

Can’t stop his body from tensing up, from reacting, from shaking with the effort it takes to hold himself back.  

Because if he doesn’t — if Miles keeps moving like this, keeps stroking them together, keeps pressing in so close that Alex can feel the heat of his breath against his lips, so close that they’re panting into each other’s mouths like dogs in heat, barely even kissing, no, not even kissing, just breathing, exchanging the same air like they’re starving for it — then it’s going to be over way too fucking soon.  

And Alex…Alex doesn’t want this to be over.

“Right there-” he breathes, the words barely making it past his lips. It’s more air than sound. His jaw clenches as he fights to keep anything else from slipping out — anything more desperate, anything more embarrassing, because it’s not even buried deep down and trying to escape, it’s all right there, bubbling just beneath the surface, clawing at the back of his throat, threatening to spill out whether he wants it to or not.  

Miles hums like he hears it all anyway, like he wants to hear more and he’s just waiting for it.  

“Here?” he asks, dragging his thumb slowly over the ridge along the folding skin that slides up and down the length of Alex’s cock as he strokes it. Just the right kind of pressure to make his whole body shudder, to make his toes curl against the sheets as his back arches.  

“Yes- fuck-”  

His thighs threaten to snap shut around the heat of Miles kneeling between them, because it’s too much, too good, too fucking perfect, and Miles must know it, because he does it again and it only gets worse when he’s dragging his fingers down just to pull back up with slow, deliberate intent.  

Alex’s hands fly to the sheets — gripping, twisting, clutching — because he has to hold onto something, because if he doesn’t, he’s afraid he might just fucking fall apart.  

God.

Why?  

Why can’t he just obey the simple rules of ‘thou shalt not‘? Why is it that he knows perfectly well — logically, rationally, undeniably — that this is wrong? That this is wrong, wrong, wrong. That if he lets himself go here, if he lets himself give in, there will be no coming back. Fuck, there already is no coming back from this.

He knows what he should do.  

He should stop.  

He shouldn’t have let this happen in the first place.  

He shouldn’t have let himself get here, not this far.

He should be pulling away, shutting it down, setting things right before it’s too late.  

Just like he knows perfectly well that he should probably get into the habit of waking up earlier each day, because it would do no harm. Just like he knows that smoking cigarettes is not good for him, or for anyone, and that they, in fact, do harm. Just like he knows that drinking too much over the weekend is going to lead to a massive hangover and even more massive regrets.  

He knows.  

He knows there are things he just shouldn’t do.  

This is one of them.  

This is definitely one of them.  

And yet…

Miles’ fingers tighten. Not much, not hard, but just enough. Just enough that Alex’s whole body betrays him by jerking into it, hips twitching up into the touch before he can stop himself, before he can even think to stop himself, before he can do anything other than react on pure, mindless, desperate instinct like he’d fucking die without it.  

And all of a sudden, he can’t think of a single reason to stop.

And Miles is watching.  

Alex feels it.  

Feels the weight of those dark, heavy-lidded eyes dragging over him like hands, like fingers, like something burning hot and dangerous. Feels the way Miles’ breath hitches, barely there, before he exhales through his nose, slow and steady, so unlike the reckless mess that Alex himself is falling into. Feels the way their bodies are too close, heat rolling off Miles in waves that crash into him, making his skin feel too tight, making his blood feel too thick, making his head spin in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol still lingering in his system.  

Alex accepts then…

That he doesn’t want to stop.  

That he doesn’t care if it’s wrong.  

That he wants this.  

So bad it makes him ache, so bad it makes his fingers clench tighter into the sheets as Miles strokes him again, as he exhales sharply like he’s feeling it too, it’s getting to him, too.  

He lets his eyes flutter shut.  

And he lets it happen.

This grand tour through the erroneous notions of self-control that he thought he had no problem with. He really didn’t think he had a problem with it.  

With this.   

Not like this.  

Not with something that makes his body quake, makes his skin burn, makes his mind blank except for the heat, the tension, the sharp and undeniable want coursing through his veins like it’s part of his very biology.  

But he’s so fucking tired.  

Tired of this constant war inside himself, this never-ending push and pull between what he wants and what he should want, between what he feels and what he thinks he’s supposed to feel.  

Because there’s this lower self — this raw, needy, hungry part of him, the part that wants, that takes, that feels without guilt or hesitation.  

And there’s this higher self — this logical, moral, carefully constructed version of himself, the one that used to conjure up all kinds of defenses, all kinds of walls, all kinds of excuses to keep himself from falling too deep, from stepping too far past some invisible line.  

And of course — of course — he wants his higher self to succeed. Of course, he wants to be strong. Of course, he wants to be good, to be the kind of person who can look at something like this and turn away.  

But his lower self is pulling him back. Dragging him down. It always does. And he’s used to it. He knows how to fight it. He knows how to push it down, knows how to grit his teeth and will himself into obedience, knows how to shove every reckless, messy, ungovernable part of himself into some dark, locked-away corner of his mind where it can’t touch him, can’t ruin him. Through force, if necessary. To tame the lower self. To be better. To not give in.  

Because he’s always believed — always clung to the belief — that control is everything. That without it, he’s nothing. That to be human — to be a good human — is to repress. To withstand. To be stronger than impulse.  

But that belief…

It’s splintering.  

It’s the cracking, the disintegrating of his very identity under the weight of this, of falling into the trap.  

Of the way his body shudders as Miles’ hand strokes them faster, rougher, a little sloppy now with spit and sweat and the sheer desperate force of friction.  

Of the way he can hear Miles breathing, heavy and ragged, so fucking close that their exhales mingle between them, their mouths still just barely apart, as if they can’t stand to break away any further.  

Of the way their bodies are so close now, too close, thighs pressed, chests brushing every time one of them moves, every time one of them bucks forward, every time they slip deeper into the fucking mess of this.  

And it’s so stupid.  

Because if he was ever going to stop, it should have been before this. Not now. Not when the heat in his gut is coiling too tight, too sharp, too much. Not when every muscle in his body is tensing, his breath stalling, his brain turning to mush under the pressure, the pleasure, the sheer goddamn inevitability of it.  

Nevertheless…  

“I’m gonna- Miles, stop, I’m gonna-”  

As if that’s the issue. As if his spunk getting on Miles’ hand is suddenly the problem, after all of this. As if they haven’t already crossed whatever line there was to cross or rather every line there could ever be. They’re already in too deep to even see where those lines were supposed to be.  

Miles huffs a laugh, breathless, shaky. His grip tightens.  

“Me too, Al.”  

And fuck.  

Fuck, this lack of self-governance. This lack of puritanical thinking. This reckless, stupid, indulgent, depraved use of pleasure.  

Alex’s jaw clenches. His eyes slam shut. His whole body tenses, locks up, curls in on itself as the pressure snaps, as his nerves explode, as everything — everything — crashes down all at once and-  

“God- I’m gonna-”  

“Do it-” Miles whispers, daring him, urging him over the edge.  

And that’s it.  

That’s fucking it.  

Alex’s breath catches. His spine arches. His fingers dig into the sheets- 

“Fuck-”  

It’s…

It’s rather brilliant. 

In retrospect, it was a very reductive notion. This idea of staying a human being who’s able to repress all lower urges and intricate forces within himself.  

As if want was something that could be locked away indefinitely, as if desire was something that could be suffocated out of existence just by sheer force of will. As if he was supposed to be above this, like those base, animalistic instincts weren’t woven into the fabric of his being, like they weren’t natural. As if his body wasn’t built to crave, to need, to seek and control was nothing more than an illusion — fragile, brittle, bound to crack under the right pressure.  

This. This was the pressure.  

The feeling of a happy ending. The feeling of his favourite person’s lips on his. The feeling of them coming to an end together, together.  

The warmth of Miles’ breath ghosting over his mouth, panting, lips parted as if he’s still trying to form words but has forgotten how. The way his fingers flex, slick and tight, the wet sound of it obscene in the heavy silence between them, save for their shaky exhales and bitten-off moans. The way their bodies press and drag together, throbbing and slippery with everything neither of them dares name.  

“Miles.” Alex whimpers, barely more than an exhale, his fingers digging into the flesh of his friend’s upper thigh, clinging.  

“Yeah, Al?” 

“Can’t-” Alex stutters, burying his face into Miles’ shoulder, heat licking up the back of his neck. He shudders for what feels like the hundredth time when Miles turns his head, nudging their temples together.  

“Yeah, you can.” Miles breathes against his ear, then presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. “Feels good, yeah?”  

Alex nods frantically, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stifle the broken sound clawing its way up his throat.  

“Let me hear it.” Miles’ voice is no more than a murmur, but it coils deep in Alex’s stomach, tighter and tighter. “C’mon, Al. Let me hear you when you come.”  

So maybe he was never meant to win this fight.  

It was never a fight to begin with. 

This idea of blindly conforming to some ideal. It’s not a vision of balance.  

But even as his mind and body are somewhere on cloud nine for so long that he doesn’t even notice Miles missing from above him — now resting on his back to his right — there’s this guilt. This slow, creeping thing that winds itself tight around him and sinks its claws in. It comes as soon as he feels the cold, sticky remnants of them both pooling on his stomach, streaked all the way up his chest now that he dares to take a better look at himself.  

It’s a harsh sight to come to terms with.  

“Al?”

His hands twitch where they rest at his sides, and he has this urge to touch it, to spread it across his skin, to- No. No, he should clean up. Cover up.

God, he still has his dick out.  

It hits him like a truck, like a bucket of ice water straight to the spine. A full-body flush erupts across his skin, and suddenly, he feels so exposed, so bare, so…

He scrambles to pull his boxers and jeans back up over himself without smearing anything on them and before he can think too hard about the way the fabric is damp now, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Before he can think too hard about how his thighs sting and itch a little from where the denim had rubbed against them. Before he can think too hard about how they hadn’t even taken them off completely — like this was something that barely even happened, casual, to just be shoved away and ignored if they just didn’t acknowledge it.

“Al?”

There’s something in Miles’ voice that makes his fingers fumble over the zipper.

“Alex.”

He forces himself to look up.  

“Yeah…yeah?”

Miles is watching him somewhat carefully, propped up on one elbow, hair a mess. His brows are drawn together, his mouth pressed into something that’s not quite a frown but not quite neutral either.  

“Are you alright?”

“I- I think so. I-“  

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I was just…I’m sorry. I just did my zen, in me head, you know, this ‘this too shall pass’…thing, or whatever, and I was just thinking and talking to- to myself- what is going on? Where are you going?”

Miles is getting up. Fuck. Miles is getting up from the bed.  

What has he done?  

Before his brain can run through all the scenarios of having to walk home later, having to get on the train, having to sit there with his shirt clinging to his skin, with people looking at him, not even getting to what any of them means for them — something lands on his chest. Light. Dry.  

“Here.”

A napkin.  

He stares at it for a second, uncomprehending, then lifts his gaze.  

Miles is standing beside the bed now, looking down at him with an unreadable expression.  

“So you can…” he gestures vaguely for Alex to understand.  

Right. So that’s where he keeps that stuff. Under the bed.  

A strange feeling curls in his stomach at that information, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he just swallows, nods once, and takes the napkin with slightly shaky fingers.  

“Thanks.” he mutters.

Miles plops back down beside him with a sigh, all tucked away and zipped up too, like none of that just happened, shifting against the mattress until he’s comfortable, though Alex can still feel the tension crackling between them, buzzing in the space that suddenly feels too small.  

Alex stays on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some kind of divine intervention, but he can feel Miles beside him too much. His arm is just barely brushing against Alex’s own, but it’s enough to make him hyper-aware of every inch of himself.  

He doesn’t let himself look at him, not right away, anyway. He just listens. To his breathing, slow and measured, the way his fingers drum idly against the fabric of his jeans now that they’re properly buttoned up again, the way he shifts his weight as if he’s debating whether to move closer or further away.  

Alex risks it. A glance. A quick one, but it immediately derails his entire thought process.  

Miles’ lips are parted just slightly, like he’s about to say something, but he hasn’t yet decided if he should. His hair is messy, sticking up in places where Alex’s fingers might’ve been, and his cheeks still have the faintest flush to them. Alex swallows, lets his eyes linger longer than he should.  

What are they supposed to do now?

And then Miles speaks.  

“What do you do after you have sex with a girl?” 

Alex blinks at the ceiling again.  

At least they still think alike. Their brains didn’t get completely fried in the process. Good to know.

“Was that…? That wasn’t-” The words tangle on his tongue. He shifts slightly, trying to find a better position, and his thigh brushes against Miles’. He should pull away. That’s his first instinct. But he doesn’t. It would make this even weirder. He lets them touch. “That wasn’t sex, it was just-”

“Not my point.”

“Right.”

Miles doesn’t move his leg away either.  

“Well?” He prompts.  

Alex exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. His skin feels warm. Everything feels funny, not the humorous kind of funny.

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

Alex forces himself to look again. Miles is already looking at him.  

“Well, I guess we just kiss and-”

“Do you wanna kiss?”

“I…it’s just- it’s just that-”

“Don’t…”

Miles shuts him up with a finger to his lips, barely even touching, just the softest press.  

Alex swears his heart stops.  

Eyes flicker over his face, searching for something, maybe waiting for him to back out, to say this is too much, but Alex doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just stays there, frozen under his touch.  

“Okay.”

It is the last day of winter.  

The sun should have shown itself by now, should have crept back into the creases of the earth and returned his freckles stolen by the cold, made us blush under its rays. But the sky remains bolted shut and there’s nothing on his face other than the purple that now seems embedded under his eyes. Shadows where warmth used to be. I bet mine looks just the same — though I still refuse to look in the mirror. I don’t need the confirmation. I know what I’d see: a face that doesn’t belong to me anymore, a stranger carved from sleepless nights and something nameless.  

For two months now, I’ve been paralysed with fear. I think I am living a nightmare, a dystopia. A world where things are just a little off-kilter, where reason slides just out of reach. I read, I listen, I try to understand the impossible. I try to untangle the logic of things that seemed reasonable before, but which oneself can no longer reach with feasible arguments. It’s like running my hands along a wall looking for a door that isn’t there. And all around me, people keep pretending. Pretending to be going about their lives, pretending all is business as usual, pretending they don’t hear the static growing louder.  

I keep looking out to winter trees, bare and brittle, skeletal in their stillness. And he…he is seeking achievements one after the other, as though that will fill the space. As though stacking accomplishments brick by brick will build something strong enough to hold him up. But I see what he’s doing. He’s turning off the soul — too much transparency bothers, you see. Too much honesty, too much feeling, and it would all come apart. So he moves forward, while I remain here, watching the trees, feeling the wind hollow me out.  

There’s a lot of negative emotion I am feeling. 

But that word — negative — doesn’t quite capture it. It’s not just sadness or simple dread. It’s something continually sprawling and seeping into everything. I keep wondering how this collective psychosis is possible? How the world can split in two, between those who see it and those who refuse to? And him. How can he believe that ignorance is the one thing that embodies the solution to all worries, problems, anxieties, and fears that your absence caused? He wants to un-know what has already carved itself into the marrow of things. He wants to believe he can choose not to feel it. And maybe he can. Maybe he’s learned something I haven’t. 

I feel like a cat looking at a calendar, staring at the little squares marked with days and not understanding the meaning of them. Time is streaming, spilling, slipping, and I don’t know how to be or what to do in the remaining time I have to urge for myself. To claw something back before it’s too late.  

I wish I could say it directly.  

But ultimately, I believe that in these circumstances, it is the only choice — to keep it buried, to play along. So that we can continue in the paradigm of the perfect reality and not in the nightmare of despair we’ve been given. Because to accept it, to speak it out loud, would be to let it consume us whole.  

I didn’t realise until now that souls could have a patina.  

Perhaps it’s that thing where you get wiser with age and experience, and so maybe your soul develops a patina over time. A thin film of time and sorrow, a dulling of the once-bright edges. It’s kind of a beautiful idea, in theory, to think of the soul as having a patina. It sounds very poetic. But I just wish it would have come to me in a different way, a more pleasant way. Not like this. Not when I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m dealing with sleepless nights not over someone else’s crying, which should have been yours, but my own.   

There’s a kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.  

You have no way to know, but it’s the kind that settles in your bones when your days are filled with things that don’t move you, but they settle, deep and slow, like water sinking into wood until it ultimately starts to rot. It’s the kind that lingers in the hollow of your throat and makes you choke on nothing. It’s not the tiredness that comes from doing too much, but from doing too little of what makes you feel alive. And the worst part is that I don’t even know what that is anymore. I try to go through the motions like before. Ticking off everything on my to-do list, fulfilling obligations, pretending the structure is enough. But something essential is missing. And maybe it’s not that I need more rest, but that I need more of myself in my own life — more of the things that once made time disappear, made my heart race in my chest so hard I thought it might burst out, those that remind me why any of this matters in the first place. But I can’t find the thread to pull myself back. I said a time “before”, before you that was, but now I realise there’s no before, for there’s no after. 

There is only this.  

It is not a metaphor I’m trying to make out of this ache. It is not something that can be translated into prettier language, not something that can be softened. It is simply what it is. It hurts in a way I’ve never known before. No animal could be as cruel as a man. No man could be as cruel as God. No God should have ever taken you away from me.  

It’s as though the world wants to calcify me.  

To make me hard, to make me unfeeling, to coat me in layers until nothing raw is left. But I don’t want to be unfeeling. I don’t want to be numb. I just don’t know how else to survive…

What have I done?

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold. 

When it is summer in the light and winter in the shade, and you don’t know which season you belong to, caught between the thaw and the lingering frost. The first days of spring in the non-astronomical season, in that strange liminal space where the earth is undecided, as if hesitating to commit fully to warmth.  

It felt childish, but early in the morning, I asked Alex for a willow tree in our garden, which I know is too small for one — the roots would surely outgrow the space, the branches would brush against the house, probably the neighbours’ too. Much too wild, too untamed for something so contained as the space we live in. But I wanted it anyway. I wanted something that would sway with the wind, that would bend but not break. Something that I could watch bloom despite it all…He said he would do it when he wasn’t so afraid of letting something he planted grow again.  

It broke my heart, the little of it that was left still holding itself together.  

We cried together in bed for a while after that, though I think we had stopped crying for you. It was starting to feel like we were crying only for ourselves, for the versions of us that had existed before this grief you hollowed out of us. For who we had been before loss turned us into something else. And maybe that was the most unbearable part of it all — not just losing you, but losing ourselves in the process.  

Since then, I only cry alone in my own selfishness. I do not let him see it. I keep my grief contained with my fists tightly held, which I refuse to unclench. 

But I know he cries too. I hear it sometimes, even through the shut door of the bathroom, even through the thick silence we pretend is nothing. The muffled gasps, the sharp intakes of breath. The way he presses a towel to his mouth to keep it all inside. As if sound alone is what makes it real. It seems acknowledging you would break him entirely.  

I feel sick looking at him.  

Not because I do not love him, but because I do, I love him. I love him so much that it is unbearable to witness his suffering and be powerless against it. Because I know what it feels like to sit with grief alone, to let it consume you piece by piece in the dark, and I can’t stand the thought of him feeling that same emptiness.  

I just want to touch all his loneliness and suck it out of his body, just for one night, at least. I want to hold it inside me, let it settle in my lungs, let him breathe freely for a little while. I want to fill myself with all of his sorrow, let it flood through me, and then press my mouth to his and give it all back. Let him drink it from me and know who he is by seeing it reflected in my eyes.  

I love him.  

And I think I love him enough to try and hold both of us together through the pain.  

I’ve never loved anyone like this, and I never thought there would be anything that could eclipse it. We weren’t ready to love someone more than we loved each other. But we did. We loved you more. That love, when it is that enormous, does not simply disappear. It does not simply dissolve into nothingness like you seemingly did. It lingers with nowhere to go. He made me love myself once. And maybe all of it together — the way he loved me, the way I loved him — caused this much love for you to spark in such a short time. We only just got to know you.

I don’t love myself anymore.  

To be loved is to be known, I know that. But I also know now that love is not always gentle. Love, even in its purest form, can wound. 

At night, I often dream of such a time where I got to love you, where I held you properly and you knew me in return. And then I wake, disgusted by the immensity of my own yearning, by the vast, hollow ache that stretches inside me. It makes me sick, this hunger. So I deny it. I tell myself I do not want it. Because to want would mean to recognise the impossibility of it.  

I think I’m afraid that if I admit I wanted you, I will have to admit that I won’t, and can never, have you.  

And I know — God, I know — that this hunger of mine is not love in its purest form. Not like the love you have shown me. This is something else. It’s possessive, I know. A need to take and take, to grasp at what is left until I am sure my fingertips have memorised every remaining trace of you. Until I have devoured what still lingered and made it part of me, hoarded it like a secret I refuse to let time erode. An act that, in the end, would mean forsaking your existence. 

To keep you only as something I consume, something I ache for, something that I refuse to let go of…

Would that mean I never really let you be real at all?

It was summer when we planned you.  

The whole city was empty, as if it had been invented just for us. The kind of stillness that only happens when the heat chases everyone indoors, leaving behind only the sound of bugs and the distant hum of traffic and us brave ones. Our footsteps echoed on the warm asphalt, his hand trembled slightly when I touched him — it was subtle, but I knew him too well — I felt it in the way his fingers tightened around mine for a second before loosening again.  

The sun was slowly going down, stretching out the day in that lazy, golden way it does in the thick of summer. It put on a real show that afternoon, casting him in gold all over. It made everything feel like it was plucked out of an old film where the colors are richer, the emotions sharper. I could feel Alex’s warmth from a mile’s distance, though the sweat prickling on the inside of his palm and onto mine gave him away regardless. He always ran warm, but that evening, it felt different. Like he was burning from the inside out.  

I stopped near an old swing I always saw in the path we walked but never dared to touch before. One of those rusted ones that creaked under the weight of me and of time. I laughed and let my dress slide a little, not for him, not for anyone, but because it felt good to let the air hit my skin, to pretend the world didn’t matter. As if time could stand still. And maybe it did, but only for a moment. It was just me and him, us, and that included you — the thought of you, the unspoken idea of you that had been forming between us long before we had the courage to say it out loud.  

When you finally came around, the time to tell your still out-of-the-loop soon-to-be daddy also did. I wasn’t the most inspired, but you were too much to keep hidden any longer. 

I told him on a drive back home — I don’t even remember where from. Maybe we had just been aimlessly driving, filling the silence with half-finished conversations and songs hummed under our breaths.  

He threw his half-smoked cigarette out the window and didn’t say a word until he saw us safely parked in the mostly vacant parking lot of a nearby restaurant, the closest spot where he could pull over.  

“Did I hear you right?”

I nodded, staring at the dashboard, my heart hammering so loudly I swore he could hear it.  

He exhaled sharply, dragged a hand through his hair, then turned to look at me like he was memorising my face in real-time.  

“Say it again.” he murmured, like he needed to be sure he hadn’t imagined it.  

So I did. And the second time, it felt more real.  

His face changed. I wish I had a better way to describe it, but that’s the only way I know how to say it — it changed. His whole body, too. Something inside him had just shifted, reorganised itself to make space for something bigger than either of us. It was like his organs rearranged themselves to make room for you spiritually, whereas I was deemed the one to take care of the physicality. 

His hands, always so steady, shook as they reached for me. He held my face so delicately it made me feel like I was the sole thing worthy of such a touch. He looked at me like had just given him the entire universe.  

“Are you scared?” I asked.  

“Terrified.” he admitted, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. And then he did laugh, it just broke him open at the edges and spilled over with something too big to contain. “But God, I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You made him the happiest I’ve ever seen him.  

Nowadays, when I drive to nowhere, or when I smoke by the window alone on silent evenings, I still see you, and I still see him, smiling as he was, like a movie running endlessly. A loop of something untouchable, something I’ve since lost. 

Sometimes, when the radio plays a song we used to hum absentmindedly in the kitchen, I catch myself looking at the passenger seat, half-expecting to find him there, fingers tapping against his knee, lost in thought, or nervously checking on you in the backseat. I can almost see it, the way he would have glanced back every few seconds, pretending he wasn’t checking as often as he was, pretending he wasn’t entirely consumed by the sight of you. I can even hear him…Alright back there, love? That soft, careful voice of his he would have reserved just for you. 

The phantom weight of your presence is so vivid in my imagination that, for a second, I forget the truth. I’m alone. He’s never here. Just the ghost of him, of you, of a life that almost was. And then the song ends, and the silence that follows is deafening.

It’s summer again now.  

And I miss you…but I miss him too.  

I feel him in the warm light that covers the city, in the empty streets where there’s no one left, in the sunsets that always look like I might see you again if I hold onto that hope. I miss when the world was brighter, when mine and Alex’s affairs were less convoluted, when love was something simple and reckless and ours.  

I see the sudden speeding up of cars below, the slowing down of people as the world gives way to heightened sensations, to feeling everything I have not been letting inside. And then, inevitably, the process of becoming desensitised to it all over again. I miss him, but I do not need any part of him in sharing this sacred moment. I do not deserve to, not when I am with you.  

Even sitting with just who I have become feels unbearable. 

So, I smoke, and I numb myself to my surroundings, looking for a recluse from being myself. The person I am sickens me. I flick the ash onto the windowsill, watch the embers fade, and tell myself I’ll quit tomorrow. But I won’t. Because there are too many things I should have quit by now. This longing, this version of myself that I don’t even recognise anymore…

This grief is part of it too, isn’t it?

It is Friday, late at night in autumn.  

Outside it is raining as if someone is trying to wash the city of its sins. It beats down on our windows so harshly that I can’t drown it out no matter how hard I try. The sound is relentless. The wind howls between the buildings, rattling street signs and bending trees, and for a brief second, I think the whole world is grieving with me. The lamplight outside flickers against the puddles, casting reflections that shimmer and distort — nothing stays still, nothing holds its shape. I stare at them for too long, hoping that they will.  

It wasn’t too late in the pregnancy when it happened. We barely got to enjoy you before you got taken away from us. That, I’ll never forgive myself for. I keep thinking if I had done something differently — if I had been more careful, if I had paid more attention, if I had just…known — maybe things wouldn’t have turned out like this. Maybe you would still be here, a weight in my arms instead of a distant feeling.  

He didn’t take it well, and that made me take it worse than if he did, I think. He shut down, locked himself away in the quiet, unreachable space inside him, and I was left outside, pounding on his door. There was no nursery to go and mourn in. We hadn’t even got around to that yet. There was no crib waiting for a future occupant, no tiny clothes tucked into drawers, no soft lullabies humming through the walls. There was not a body to go and cry over except each other’s…nothing left but him and I and the memory of you, and you were both slipping from me.  

I am left with empty hands — that’s the story of my life. The feeling of absence clings to me. I feel envious of everyone around me. I feel envious of the ones who got to have a headstone, a place to go, a physical marker that proves their loss was real. I wish you would have at least given me that. You gave me nothing, and yet, somehow, you took everything.  

I think about love and not-love. About how love is supposed to hold, to comfort, to shelter. Alex won’t look at me anymore. I lost my dignity so miserably, and I don’t know how he can pretend that we are always ‘fine’. When everything else isn’t, I just want him to be kind to me again — Please be kind to me. Nobody is to blame, least of all me — I wish he would understand that.  

He’s sitting in a corner now, among stacks of books and cigarette smoke, a bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. The room smells of old paper and burnt tobacco, of rain-soaked fabric and something faintly metallic — that’s probably from the storm. The lamp beside him flickers, the glow catching in the glass of the framed photo we never took down. I don’t look at it. I can’t.  

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for a while, going through nearly everything I’ve ever said to him in hopes of finding where I wronged him so badly. I replay every conversation, every glance, every touch that might have led us here. Maybe if I can pinpoint the exact moment it all started slipping, I can drag us back to the surface.  

“Want some?”

His voice cuts through the silence. He offers his hand to me, holding the cigarette in such a manner that it almost urges me to put my lips on it. I would do it only to feel his fingertips on my bottom lip. His fingers are stained with nicotine, his nails uneven. He’s been biting them again. His eyes fixate on me, ever so slightly curved at the corners, telling me that this offer is all but a test, and that he doesn’t actually want me to take it. His face betrays his intent — he wants no part in me ruining myself.  

For that, I am grateful.  

“Everything okay?” I ask from my spot, refusing to play along.  

“Yeah, why?”

I look at him, and he understands the anger I’m feeling. I don’t know if he’s being thick on purpose to get a rise out of me or if he truly is so out of touch with reality — more than I ever thought he was.  

“Everything’s fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”  

He says it like a fact. It’s his script he’s rehearsed so well he almost believes it. The hand holding the cigarette now hangs by his side rather than near his mouth. It’s still burning, consuming its own life with each passing moment. The ash at the tip grows longer, dangerously close to falling onto the carpet. A part of me wants it to catch on fire and burn everything down, starting with me and him, just so we don’t have to figure out the solution to this game we’re forced to take part in, given no instructions and no way to cheat our way through it.  

“Okay.”

I don’t think I can hold my breath anymore. I’d have to do it until everything around me fell apart, which the majority already has, but I can’t let this happen. I won’t become immune to his sweet sound of ignorance.  

“I’m standing around like an idiot waiting for you.”

I almost yell it at him, but I think it ends up coming out softer than I would have liked. He doesn’t flinch.  

“Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Waiting for…what? What do you want me to do?”

“I’m waiting for you to get rid of me, Al-” I shake my head before he can interrupt. “No, no, don’t you look at me like that. I don’t want your pity. God knows what I’ll do, so please, do not…do not look at me like that.”  

I hold my head high, face up, storing tears in the back of my eyes.  

He looks at me with his own eyes that once made me believe I would matter. The ones that used to look at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing. They’ve dulled. Still beautiful — still him — but something has shifted beneath the surface and I am terrified it is irretrievable.  

The rain keeps falling. The cigarette smolders in his hand. The physical distance between us that has become too long for comfort is now shorter, but I am still waiting for him, far from an answer.  

We kiss, the taste of whiskey and fatigue lingering between us, while his cold hands ghost over my warm skin. I’ve been setting myself on fire for this heat in his absence, hoping the flames will keep me warm, hoping fire will heal my soul. When we break apart, the flame has burnt out.  

“If you want to light your cigarette, use the fire in my heart.” I tell him.  

He smiles, and it makes me proud. It makes me feel like I still have something left to give. But there’s a thought at the back of my mind — a quiet, creeping fear I can’t shake…

What if it burns out before he gets here, deep inside me?  

It’s November 2nd. 

You don’t have to know this, but today he made me feel alive.  

The room was cold. An inescapable kind of cold that settles in these buildings that are too old to hold warmth properly. The radiator rattled in protest, working though barely giving off any heat. I pulled the blanket tighter around me, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the kind of cold wool could fight off, or that could be solved by adding another layer. This kind came from the inside out. 

I held a stuffed animal to my chest. It wasn’t meant for you, it was my own — mine only. Small and soft, something to press into the empty spaces where nothing else fit. It was old, one ear slightly torn, stuffing uneven from years of being clutched too tightly. I had it when I was a child, had it through every heartbreak, every sleepless night, and now it was here with me, in a bed that had never felt bigger.  

At some point, I let it slip from my grasp. Let my fingers move lower, sliding beneath the waistband of my pyjama pants. I could pretend I felt ashamed, that I felt dirty doing it. But I didn’t.  

The focus was not to evoke layers of hidden emotion. It wasn’t about longing or sadness or grief. It wasn’t about loss, either. It wasn’t even about wanting him. I’m not going to act like it was anything other than what it was — movement and sensation. A way to fill the time and carve out a moment where I wasn’t haunted by everything I had lost. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to slip away for a little while, to exist in a space that was mine and mine alone, away from the eternal tragedy that we play in without ever understanding it and away from those nocturnal and demented thoughts that torment me. 

I wished to taste the sweet glory of release again. 

What you think is more important than what is real. It might not be the healthiest thought, or the fairest, but in moments like this, it brings me peace.  

“People always think we look for love at our lowest to distract us. I am convinced we do it because we want someone to look us in the eye, to look our ugly in the eye and still choose us.”

That was what I wanted.  

Not to forget. Not to cover up the truths we lived in. I didn’t want to ignore that I was still here, still surviving, even without you. I wanted him to see me as I was — this mess, this wreckage, this person who didn’t know how to hold onto anything anymore. I wanted him to see himself. I wanted him to see me and still believe I was something worth loving.  

I wanted him to tell me that he loved me, even after how I had failed you both.  

I didn’t stop touching myself when I noticed him standing in the doorway. I didn’t pull away or adjust my clothing or pretend like I wasn’t doing exactly what I was doing. I didn’t even flinch. 

He was watching, not in judgment or disgust. 

And so I continued as he stepped closer. So close now that there was no more debating what was happening, that I was fingering myself and crying. I didn’t even stop when he was near enough that I could feel his breath, see the way his hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he should. Not when he knelt beside the bed, either, when he kissed my thigh, lifting the blanket slowly with just the lightest touch of his fingers. I had my knees up in the air, bent at the caps, arching my back a bit as Alex climbed next to me. 

The mattress shifted under his weight taking its occupancy as he moved up the bed. He kissed me on the lips, softly, his taste warm and familiar. He covered my mouth with his palm, quieting my sighs, and replaced my fingers with his own between my thighs. I hadn’t felt his touch in so long, I had almost forgotten what it was like. He spread me apart, and though I was still empty — he kept his fingers only on the outskirts of me — I came close to feeling whole again.  

He unbuttoned his jeans, hastily, fumbling. Then he stopped. Rolled over onto his back beside me, one arm draped across his face as if shielding himself from something too bright and painful in the darkness. I turned toward him, reaching down before he could take himself out in his own eagerness, guiding his hand away so that I could be the one to touch him instead, to play with him just as he played with my softest parts. I put my hand down his jeans and talked to him in the way only I could. 

There was a streetlamp just outside the window, its light cutting through the slats of the blinds, casting striped shadows across his form. His eyes were darker in this lighting, his lashes flickering as he watched me, his mouth parting slightly every time I moved my hand. I could hear the distant hum of the occasional car speeding down the street, tires splashing through puddles. 

The world outside was still moving. Indifferent and unchanged.  

But inside this room, time had slowed.  

He took his rightful place above me, pushing me so hard in the process that I nearly rolled off the bed. He was there to catch me.  

He almost said something to me. He looked straight at me, his lips parted, his breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, I thought he might speak. His top lip quivered. He changed his mind and started undressing me. Whatever words he had, he swallowed them down, chose instead to press his mouth to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw. Maybe he knew that words wouldn’t rewrite the past, wouldn’t undo what had already been done and they would change nothing when he had his body there, speaking to me so tenderly. 

The stress that kept us awake all day and all night was dissipating. Maybe it helped to know that we’re all, both of us, we’re all feeling it. That it’s okay to be afraid and we don’t have to be strong.  

We don’t have to serve as role models. 

We didn’t lay down expectations or reshape our mindsets to redefine what was acceptable, didn’t brace for impact in this big approach. We just let it happen, let ourselves fall into each other like we always had.  

I slid across the sheets, curling up into myself, and Alex followed. He took me from behind, his forehead resting against my spine, his hand smoothing over the small of my back and lower onto my bare body, tracing over the dimples his fingers had pressed and carved into my skin so many times before.  

We had sex with one another for the very first time — not as the people we used to be, but as the people we had become in the aftermath of everything, these new versions of ourselves we had yet to discover. 

It was so overwhelming.  

Not just for me, but for him, too.  

I felt the moment it hit him, the exact second everything he had built inside of himself collapsed. He grabbed onto the blanket and pulled it over us like a shield, muffling the sounds that broke free from his throat. He started crying. And when he did, I felt something shatter in my chest. I knew then that he might leave again. That he would get up in the morning, sit on the edge of the bed, run a hand through his hair, and tell me that maybe, in another life, in another city, in another room, things could have been different and we would have had a different fate. 

But we didn’t have another life, we would never have another chance, just this one, and we got it wrong, but that didn’t mean we had to quit trying to make it right. Or, at the very least, make it bearable in its current state.  

He’s the only one who matches my sweetness, who feels emotions so deeply they tear him apart from the inside out. I sank my teeth into his skin, and he listened when I whispered in his ear.  

“Please bite me in return.”

I spoke to him in code, but not only. I wanted him to bruise me. I wanted him to say: Let’s sabotage each other, let’s pretend we don’t know each other, and then let’s kiss.

“I missed your pretty mouth so much.” he told me.  

He moved himself inside of me, and through that shifted the very foundation of who I was. It felt as though our hearts had fucked our brains, untangling every thought, until we were nothing but raw feeling, instinct, and need. There was no logic left between us, no fear, no past or future — only this. The warmth of his breath against my neck, the weight of him pressing into me, the unspoken language of skin on skin, heart to heart.  

It was the most genuine and honest act that had ever taken place between us. The last barricades we’d built to keep ourselves from feeling too much had dissolved in the heat of our bodies. We surrendered — not just to each other but to everything we had been running from. And I think that’s when you know it’s real. When reason drowns in the flood of unfiltered emotion, when desire stops being something you perform and becomes something that simply overtakes you, consumes you, makes you its own.  

We kissed sloppily and fucked lazily, moving slowly. We had all the time in the world. We weren’t just trying to claw our way back to something that had once been whole anymore. His hands, rough and familiar, mapped me out, relearning the territory he’d been forced to forget. Our moans tore through the air, shamelessly, mingling with the occasional quiet sobs we were too far gone to suppress.  

At one point, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with something that was more than just lust. “You still feel like home.” he murmured, almost like he didn’t want me to hear it.

I swallowed hard, threading my fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “Then don’t leave.”

His breath hitched slightly. “I never wanted to.”

He kissed me again, harder this time, to swallow the space between us and make up for every second we had spent apart, every moment wasted on silence and avoidance. 

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, until we were no longer just touching but fully entwined. Tears clung to our cheeks, and I wasn’t sure anymore if we were crying from everything else or just from the overwhelming relief of this moment, of still having this, of still knowing each other in this way. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, and I ran my fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

“You’re shaking.” I whispered.

He let out a short, breathy laugh against my skin. “So are you.”

I wanted to hold him there, to keep him stuck to me forever in this way, to stop time from moving forward, because for the first time in so long, we weren’t ghosts in our own lives.  

For the first time in so long, we were real.

I didn’t understand him for a while. But now I know that to love in silence does not become reprimanding. The way I feel about him is beyond words and I understand his need for silence. In a manner of speaking, semantics will just never be enough. Not for this. Not for us. Not for the things we have lost. There comes a point when words just won’t do for human beings, for our inherent yearning and need, what only a crescendo can. A pinnacle. A peak. A release so raw that you have to beg the ones above. 

The ones that tell me nothing, the ones that tell me everything…

Oh, why won’t you give me the words?

It’s been a year.  

I didn’t want to be here for another winter. It was too much you and none at all.  

I suggested to Alex that we run off to the countryside. It seemed like a good idea to get out of this place, to slip away before the first snowfall could remind me of what we lost. There were no bags packed, no plans made — we set off with just one extra set of clothes stuffed into the backseat and no set destination in mind, only the silent, mutual agreement that we would let the road decide where we belonged.  

Alex drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting between us, fingers occasionally grazing my thigh, making sure I was still there and letting me know that he was too. He put on the soundtrack of some Wes Anderson film and let it play, its whimsical, melancholic strings filling the car in place of words we weren’t ready to say. I let myself sink into the passenger seat in the quiet, lulled by the soft hum of Ennio Morricone drifting from the speakers, by the low vibration of the wheels rattling beneath me, carrying us somewhere — anywhere.  

I must have fallen asleep.  

When I wake, the sky outside is thick with gold, clouds gathered around the sun like whites cradling a yolk. Eggy. It strikes me as unusual. It’s an odd thing to see in winter, when the evenings are usually a wash of pale pinks and deep blues, cold and distant. There hasn’t been snow this year either, and I wonder if the world feels as upside down as I do.  

The music is gone, I realise. In place of it I hear Alex humming softly, a sound so familiar and low that it feels like a memory playing on repeat. When I turn to look at him, I notice it instantly — the skin beneath his eyes is raw and there are dried tracks of old tears have settled into his cheeks. He’s cried in his time spent alone behind the wheel. 

He notices me staring and wipes at his face, exhaling like he’s annoyed at himself. “I’m not sad.” he says. He really needs me to believe it.  

I don’t say anything. I just watch him.  

“I cried because…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, measuring their weight before handing them to me. “Because I have the privilege of watching someone I love very much, even in sleep, and knowing I’ll get to talk to them again.”  

There are a million things I could say, but none of them would be enough, none of them would fit into the space that his words have carved between us. And before I can try, before I can even begin to think of how to hold all of this, the immensity of what he’s just said, his hand is on my cheek, warm and steady. The tactile sensation of it all overtakes me. 

“I was here first.” he declares. 

And you…you are the ubiquitous pest.  

Love can’t be created or destroyed — we’ve established that already. It lingers, even when it’s unwanted, even when it curdles into something unbearable. It stays until it evokes fear and it tears you apart, until you’re left with nothing but the pieces of what it used to be.  

You want me to love you still, but I can’t. I’ll soon catch the rot of you deep inside me that I’ve been too scared to face. Someone has to leave, and I won’t let that be us. I will love you forever, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t — I won’t — I’m afraid I’ll catch your disease. 

A few months. That’s all it was.  

And yet — sometimes, just sometimes — I wish it would hurt for you too. At least a little. Just enough to make it fair. Just enough so I wouldn’t have to carry all of this alone. But now, it’s all I can do to push you away, to shove you off so I can live knowing that, for once, I saved someone. Even if it couldn’t be you.  

I saved me.  

I saved him.  

I saved us.  

I look out to the sun waving at us as it veils itself behind the clouds, casting long shadows over the quiet stretch of road ahead. I watch it disappear, a slow, deliberate exit, and I think—  

How lucky we are to have known someone that makes saying goodbye so hard.

“It’s him!” you screamed to your friend, your voice rising above the roaring music that vibrated through the floor and rattled your chest. The band had just come on stage, the room exploding with sound as the first chords rang out.

“What?!” she yelled back, leaning in closer, her brow furrowed as she tried to make out what you were saying. The noise in the room made everything feel chaotic, but the only thing you could focus on was the figure now adjusting a guitar at the center of the stage.

“It’s Alex! It’s him!” You gripped her arm tighter, your heart hammering against your ribs as you repeated yourself, this time louder. Your words tumbled out in an excited rush, almost slurring together from the drinks you’d downed earlier. The alcohol had made you bold, clumsy, and a little too emotional. You felt your knees wobble beneath you, and your friend caught your arm just before you could stumble into someone.

“Who’s Alex?” she asked, pulling you back upright, her eyes nervously darting to the huge brooding guy beside you whose scowl seemed permanently fixed. He looked like he’d kill someone if you spilled your drink on his shoes. But you barely noticed, too busy staring at the stage.

“Never mind! It doesn’t matter!” you waved her off, shaking your head. Explaining who Alex Turner was right now wasn’t important. There was no time to explain, not when you could see him right there. Your Alex, or at least the boy you used to know, standing there, adjusting the strap of his guitar with a nervous sort of fidget. 

There he was.

He looked a little older, sure, but not so different. His hair was still dark and slightly unkempt, curling at the ends in that familiar way. His frame had filled out a bit Lean, not lanky. And there was still something unmistakably awkward about the way he stood. You could see it in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of his guitar like he wasn’t quite sure where to place his hands. You could see the nerves in him, just like you did when you were younger. 

The spotlight hit him just as he leaned into the mic, his face momentarily illuminated in the haze of the stage lights and the cigarette smoke lingering in the venue. His eyes scanned the crowd for a second, squinting through the blinding lights. The room was packed, bodies pressing together, and yet, standing there, Alex seemed smaller, like he wasn’t quite used to the attention. 

He strummed a few tentative chords before leaning into the mic, his voice barely audible over the buzzing feedback. He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a little shaky, a little unsure. “Uh...thanks for coming out.” he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder at his bandmates as if looking for reassurance. They were already settling into position, ready to tear into their next song, but Alex paused, turning back to the crowd. “We’ve got a few more for you.” he added awkwardly, brushing his hand through his hair before gripping the mic stand, almost as though he needed something to hold onto.

It wasn’t the most confident stage presence, not the kind of charisma you’d expect from someone about to command a room. But it was him, every hesitant, awkward bit of him. That boy, the one who mumbled through his sentences and avoided eye contact when he was nervous. It was the same Alex you’d spent countless afternoons with, hanging out in your parents’ basements, talking about dreams that seemed so far off at the time.

A burst of emotion surged through you, and before you could stop yourself, you cheered. Louder than anyone around you. You felt your voice crack with excitement, probably too enthusiastic for his shy attempt at banter, but you didn’t care. Your heart swelled with a mix of nostalgia and pride. Seeing him up there, doing what you always knew he’d be good at, was surreal.

Alex shifted again, clearly startled by the noise. He looked up, eyes sweeping across the audience, searching for the source of the sound. And then, for just a second, his gaze landed on you.

Your breath hitched as his eyes locked with yours. Time seemed to stop, the music around you fading into a dull hum. Alex squinted, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smile.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but you saw it. You weren’t sure if he recognized you, if that smile was meant for you or just a reflex in response to the crowd’s energy, but you held onto it like it was the most important thing in the world. For a moment, the years that had passed between you didn’t matter. 

Was it really for you? You didn’t know, but you let yourself believe it was.

He turned away, refocusing on his guitar as the band launched into their next song. The room vibrated with the rumble of bass and drums, but you barely registered the music. All you could think about was that split second, that smile, and what it might mean. 

Your friend nudged you, noticing the sudden shift in your expression. “Are you okay?” she asked, raising her voice over the music, her concern evident.

“Yeah.” you murmured, still staring at the stage, your mind a whirlwind of memories and emotions. “I’m good.” You didn’t elaborate. How could you? How could you explain that the boy who used to be your best friend, the one you hadn’t spoken to in years, had just smiled at you from the stage like no time had passed at all?

As the song continued, your eyes stayed glued to Alex. Every now and then, he’d glance up from his guitar, scanning the crowd with that same nervous energy. You wondered if he’d look your way again.

You lost yourself in the music, every beat, every chord resonating through your bones, carrying you somewhere far from where you stood. The crowd surged and swayed around you, but your focus stayed locked on the stage, on him. Watching him there brought back so many memories, ones you didn’t even realise you still carried. The songs blended into each other, one after another, and it felt like no time had passed at all.

Before you knew it, the set was over. The last notes of their final song hung in the air for a moment, lingering like a ghost, and you blinked, almost confused by how quickly it had ended. The house lights came up, harsh and bright, pulling you back into reality. You weren’t even close to being done with it, but the show was over. 

Your friend had disappeared sometime during the last song, but you didn’t notice until you spotted her across the room. She was tucked into a corner with some good-enough-looking guy, his arm already around her waist as they laughed together. She shot you a quick thumbs up when she saw you looking, mouthing something you couldn’t make out before turning her attention back to him. It didn’t matter anyway. You could tell she’d found her own fun for the night.

You glanced back at the stage, your eyes scanning the space where Alex had stood just moments ago, hoping to catch one last glimpse of him. But he was gone. The whole band was gone, really, but your eyes weren’t searching for anyone else. A weird sort of emptiness tugged at your chest, a longing that felt so familiar it almost hurt. You’d lost him once, and now, after only just finding him again, he was gone before you even had a chance to say anything. 

The crowd started to thin, people streaming toward the exits, and the once-hot, sweaty venue suddenly felt too empty. You made your way toward the door, digging into your pocket for your pack of cigarettes. The air outside hit you like a slap, cold and biting, the late-night chill burning against your skin. You shivered, realising too late you should have brought a jacket, but inside had been too warm, and all the jumping around left you flushed and breathless. 

With a cigarette between your lips, you cupped your hands around the flame of your lighter, taking in a deep drag, hoping the smoke might do something to warm you from the inside out. It didn’t, but it gave you something to focus on. The night had that strange kind of stillness to it, the city lights blurred by the cold mist in the air.

“Hey.” a voice called from your left, low and familiar.

You froze for a moment, the cigarette dangling from your fingers as you turned toward the sound. There, just outside the door, leaning against the wall in the shadow of the venue’s awning, was Alex. It was him. You were sure of it now, more sure than you’d been earlier when you thought you saw that fleeting smile from the stage. 

He was still sweaty from the show, his hair all messy and sticking up in odd directions. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he seemed even smaller now, the stage presence stripped away, leaving behind just him.

You smiled, a slow, soft grin spreading across your face, and he took a step closer, squinting at you in the dim light. “Am I seeing things right?” he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, like he wasn’t quite ready to believe it was you.

“What do you mean?” you teased, taking another drag and tilting your head, playing with him just a little, the way you used to.

“Oh, sorry, I thought I-” He paused, his words stumbling over each other. “I thought you were…I mean, you looked like…”

“I am, you coconut head.” you laughed, shaking your head at him. Without thinking, you reached up with your free hand and ruffled his already chaotic hair, feeling the dampness of it from sweat and stage lights. “Come here.”

For a second, he just stood there, blinking in surprise before his face broke into a sheepish grin, one you remembered all too well. He leaned in, closing the space between you, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in like he’d done a hundred times before, back when you were kids and everything was simple. His body was warm against yours, and despite the chill in the air, the closeness of him, this version of Alex that was still somehow the same one you once knew, made the cold fade into the background.

You let yourself lean into him, his arm anchoring you, grounding you in a moment that felt strangely like coming home. You could feel the slight shake in his hands, the nervous energy that never quite left him, even now. It made you smile. Some things didn’t change.

“I can’t believe it’s you.” he murmured into your hair, his voice soft, like he wasn’t sure if saying it too loudly might break the spell. 

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it was like no time had passed at all. The years of distance, of going to different schools, of losing touch, it all felt like it melted away. Here he was, standing with you in the cold, like you’d never left each other’s side.

“Well, believe it, Turner.” you said, smirking. “I’m real, and I’m freezing, so you’d better keep me warm.” 

He chuckled, pulling you in tighter, the both of you laughing into the quiet night, the city sounds muted in the distance. And just like that, it was as if you’d never been apart at all.

Alex pulled back reluctantly, his arm slipping from your shoulders like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, but knew he had to. He looked at you for a moment, his big eyes searching your face as if trying to memorise every detail, and then he smiled, soft, warm, and familiar, before diving back in for one last hug. This time, it was tighter, just a few more seconds, like he was trying to savour the moment before the real world crept back in. You could feel the faint tremble in his hands, the nervous energy still coursing through him from the show.

When he finally pulled back again, it was with a quiet sigh, like he wished he didn’t have to. He stood there, crossing his arms over his chest as the cold air bit at his skin even through his jacket, his shoulders hunching up a little against the chill. He shivered, his breath visible in the freezing air, and you couldn’t help but smile at how much he was still the same. 

“What are you doing ‘ere?” he asked, his voice gentle as if he couldn’t quite believe you were really standing in front of him. His eyes flicked back to the door for a second, maybe checking if anyone was watching, before they returned to you, full of curiosity.

“I came to see the show.” you replied, wrapping your arms around yourself in a weak attempt to keep warm. The cold seemed to seep into your bones now, and you stamped your feet a little, trying to shake it off. Alex noticed, shuffling a little closer to you as though he could somehow help block the wind.

“You came to see my band?” He tilted his head, his voice laced with playful disbelief. His lips pulled into a crooked grin, like he was trying to hold back a laugh.

“I didn’t know it was your band!” you admitted, your breath hitching slightly in the cold air as you flicked the butt of your cigarette away. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, trying to stop your teeth from chattering. Alex’s grin grew wider, and he giggled in that soft, quiet way you remembered, the one that was almost more like a shy exhale than an actual laugh.

“Seriously?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eye as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He stood a little taller, his shoulders less hunched, but still guarded, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself in the moment. He glanced down at his shoes for a second, the cold making his movements more fidgety.

“Seriously!” you insisted, laughing. “I didn’t even know you were in a band!”

He let out another small giggle, shaking his head as if the thought was unbelievable. “So you haven’t been keeping tabs on me, eh?” he asked, a half-smirk forming on his lips as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his voice teasing but not unkind. 

“Have you been keeping tabs on me?” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips as you watched him shift awkwardly on his feet, his arms now folded even tighter across his chest. He looked almost bashful for a second, biting the inside of his cheek like he was caught off guard by your question.

“Of course I have.” he replied, his voice soft but sincere, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours. His smile faded for a moment, replaced by something more thoughtful, more real. “How could I not?”

There was a vulnerability in the way he said it, his usual defenses slipping. He shifted again, glancing down at the ground before his eyes met yours again. The wind whipped through the alley, ruffling his already messy hair, but neither of you moved. The cold seemed to fade as you stood there, locked in that moment together.

You could see the boy you once knew so clearly in front of you. But there was something different, too. He’d grown up. He was still Alex, but there was a new confidence hidden underneath it all, buried somewhere beneath the lingering awkwardness.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” you admitted quietly, your voice almost lost in the wind. The words slipped out before you had a chance to stop them, but you didn’t regret it. It was the truth. After all the time that had passed, after all the moments you thought about reaching out and never did, standing here now felt surreal.

Alex looked at you, his eyes softening. “Yeah, me neither.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He kicked at the gravel beneath his feet, the sound small against the night air. “But I always hoped I would, you know?”

You smiled at him, feeling the warmth of his words settle in your chest. “So, a band, huh? You made it then.” you asked, trying to lighten the mood a little, your grin returning as you gestured toward the venue.

He laughed again, this time a little louder, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah, I guess we’re alright.” he said, that self-deprecating humour you knew so well creeping into his voice. He looked away for a second, his cheeks flushing slightly from either the cold or the compliment, you couldn’t tell. You hoped it was the latter. “I didn’t think we’d get this far.”

“Well,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow, “it sounds like you’re doing more than alright.”

Alex’s grin widened, and he looked down again, this time with a smile on his face. “Thanks.” he mumbled, his voice soft as he shifted closer, his arm brushing against yours.

And just like that, it felt like no time had passed at all. The cold air still bit at your skin, but standing there with Alex, everything else seemed to melt away. It was all still there, but somehow, it didn’t matter. Not in this moment.

He gave you that familiar, lopsided grin again, the one that always seemed to make his eyes soften just a little. “You haven’t changed a bit.” he said, his voice warm with nostalgia as his gaze flickered between your face and the ground.

You laughed, “Oh, I’ve changed.” you said, smirking as you pushed your chest up a little through your low-cut top, giving him a teasing look. “I’ve got boobs now.”

His eyes widened, the soft laugh he’d been holding back escaping as he immediately looked away, biting down on his lip like he wasn’t sure where to look next. His cheeks flushed red, and for a split second, it seemed like he didn't know how to handle a joke like this.

But despite his nervousness, he couldn’t help himself. There was really no other option. Your chest was right there, the neckline of your tank leaving very little to the imagination, and the way you were pushing them up made it impossible for him not to look. You could practically see him wrestle with whether it was “appropriate” but after a moment, his gaze flicked back down.

“I’ve noticed.” he said, a bit sheepishly, his voice low and rough around the edges. His eyes darted back to yours, then dipped to your chest for just a second before he quickly looked back up again, that sheepish grin still lingering on his lips. “They’re, uh...quite nice.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at how flustered he was getting, especially with the remnants of that post-show euphoria still buzzing in him. He was clearly feeling the rush, but he was also just a boy, not quite used to this sort of attention. And especially not from you.

“Well, thank you, mister Turner.” you replied, laying on a fake posh accent that you knew would make him laugh. You tilted your head, giving him a mock-serious expression as if you were accepting a grand compliment from royalty.

Alex burst out laughing, his cheeks still flushed as he wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.” he muttered. 

He glanced down at your chest once more, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. His gaze lingered for just a second too long before he caught himself and looked back at you, giving you a look that said he knew he’d been caught. He shrugged, still laughing softly, his breath visible in the cool air.

“Some things have changed, I guess.” he added, his voice quieter now. “You’re even prettier now.” he said, the words slipping out like they had been waiting there, just beneath the surface. His voice was sincere, and for the first time since you’d bumped into him, you were the one who felt caught off guard.

Heat crept up your neck, and you couldn’t help the small blush that warmed your cheeks. You’d expected him to stay in that playful zone, but here he was, saying something real, something sweet. 

“Oh, shut up.” you muttered, though the smile pulling at your lips betrayed you. You ducked your head for a second, tucking your hair behind your ear, feeling a little too seen. When you looked back at him, he was grinning again, clearly amused by the fact that he’d managed to make you blush.

“I’m serious.” he said softly, his eyes holding yours for a moment longer than usual before he dropped his gaze, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket.

You swallowed, and, eager to break the tension, you asked, “So, are you going anywhere after this? You know, big rockstar plans or whatever?” You didn’t know where this night was heading, but you didn’t want it to end just yet.

Alex shrugged, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “Nah, nah, not really. Just kinda...hanging out for now.” he replied, his voice casual, though there was a trace of hopefulness in the way he said it. “What about you?”

You shook your head, laughing as you gestured vaguely toward the venue behind you. “I’m just passing time. My friend’s probably hooking up with some rando in the toilets by now.” you said, rolling your eyes.

Alex let out a sharp laugh, his head tilting back as his shoulders shook with the effort of holding in his amusement. “Lucky her.” he said, still chuckling as he leaned against the wall, his body a little more relaxed now that the tension had broken.

“Nah.” you replied with a grin, shrugging your shoulders. “I’m better off than her, I’m sure.”

At your words, something flickered in Alex’s expression, a shift in the way he looked at you. His laughter faded into a quiet smile as he glanced at you, and for a split second, you could feel the meaning of what you’d just implied hanging in the air between you. He knew what you meant, knew exactly what you were suggesting, but he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a moment longer than usual, his eyes studying you carefully, like he was thinking something but didn’t want to lay it out so clearly.

Instead, he just smiled, a small, knowing grin, and shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah...maybe.” he said quietly, his voice trailing off as he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He leaned in a little closer, his arm brushing against yours again. 

Neither of you said what you were really thinking, but it lingered there, just beneath the surface. The night seemed quieter all of a sudden, the distant sounds of the city fading into the background as the two of you stood there, close, but not quite close enough.

You leaned into him for just a moment, feeling the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of your top. The night had gotten colder, and the light shiver that ran through you didn’t go unnoticed. Alex glanced down, his lips curling into that half-smile he seemed to always have when he was about to say something cheeky, as you’d quickly come to learn. 

“You’re too scantily clad for a night like this.” he said. 

Before you could respond, he shifted off the wall, pulling his hands from his pockets as he shrugged off his jacket. You rolled your eyes, knowing what was coming. “You’re so predictable.” you said, shaking your head with a soft laugh.

He gave you a mock-serious look. “Hey look, I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman over ‘ere.” he said, his accent thickening as he exaggerated the words. He stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders and wrapping his arms around you briefly in the process. It was still warm from his body, the scent of him, faintly smoky, a hint of sweat, and that something unique to him you noticed earlier, clinging to the fabric. His shirt underneath was still damp from sweat in places from the performance earlier, despite the cold air.

As he settled the jacket around you, his hand brushed against your waist, the touch light but enough to make both of you tense for just a second. The spark of contact felt like a jolt, neither of you quite ready for it but neither pulling away either. His eyes flicked to yours for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze, before he broke it, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He fished out a pack of cigarettes, pulling one loose and perching it between his lips. “Naughty boy.” you muttered, watching the cigarette bob as he grinned around it.

“Give us a light?” he asked, his words slurred through the filter, eyes focused on you with that smirk playing on his lips.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Don’t you have one? Who smokes but doesn’t have a lighter?”

Alex chuckled, his free hand moving to brace himself against the wall, right next to your head. He leaned in just a little, his eyes twinkling as he spoke. “I do have me own, but I just wanted you to do it for me.”

The warmth of his body was so close now, the scent of him even stronger. You could practically feel his breath mixing with yours. You bit your lip, not missing the way his eyes briefly flickered down as you reached into your top, pulling out your lighter from where you’d stashed it in your bra. 

“Convenient.” he murmured, though he didn’t comment on the fact that, from this angle, with how close he was, he could practically see everything. But you knew he noticed. His smirk faltered for just a second before he quickly recovered.

With the lighter in hand, you leaned forward, flicking it on and holding the flame to the tip of his cigarette. His face was close enough that you could see the faint stubble on his jaw he couldn’t shave quite right and the redness left behind on his spotty face. His cheeks hollowed as he took a long inhale, the cigarette’s end glowing brighter with each pull. 

The moment felt almost surreal. Him leaning against the wall with his arm above your head, his jacket warming your shoulders, and that small, playful distance between you suddenly feeling razor-thin. When he pulled back, exhaling a long stream of smoke, his gaze lingered on you for just a beat longer than it should have. “Cheers.” he said quietly, his voice softer now, the smirk replaced with something more genuine.

You felt the tension building in the air between you, the way his body leaned just a little closer to yours, the faint scent of smoke mixing with the cool breeze and his jacket still wrapped snugly around your shoulders. The moment stretched, a pause neither of you seemed eager to break, but you couldn’t help the words that slipped from your lips.

“I really want you to kiss me.” you said, your voice steady but quiet, as if the sentence was waiting there all night, just waiting for you to give it life.

Alex blinked, his lips parting slightly as he processed what you’d just said. “Are you alright?” he asked, his tone cautious, almost like he couldn’t quite let himself believe it. He shifted, straightening up a bit but still hovering close, searching your face as if he needed reassurance that he’d heard you correctly.

You smiled, feeling a buzz from the drinks you’d had earlier and the way his presence made your heart pound. “I’m a bit buzzed.” you admitted. 

He chuckled. “I can tell.” he said, his eyes scanning your face again, softer now, like he was checking for something in your expression.

You felt the rush of the moment push you forward, your confidence boosted by the alcohol and the closeness. “I’ll kiss you, then.” you said. 

His breath hitched, and he raised an eyebrow, that playful smirk making its way back to his lips. “Okay, then.” he replied, almost challenging, though his voice wavered just enough to show he wasn’t as sure of himself as he was trying to be.

“Yeah?” you asked, eyes locking with his, waiting for just a hint of hesitation. But instead, he nodded, his grin faltering slightly. 

“Go ahead.” he murmured. 

You didn’t wait any longer. Leaning in, your heart racing, you closed the gap between you two, your lips pressing against his. His lips were warm and soft, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fall away. 

Alex responded slowly at first, his hand still braced against the wall, but after a beat, you felt him relax, his lips moving with yours as the kiss deepened. The tension that had been simmering between you two finally melted. His free hand hovered near your waist like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you, but the warmth radiating from him was enough.

He pulled back, his lips still brushing against yours as he licked them slowly, like he was tasting the moment. He stayed close. 

“You’re cute.” you said, voice low and steady, though you couldn’t hide the way your heart was hammering in your chest.

He raised an eyebrow, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, but playful, still riding the high of that kiss.

“Yeah.” you replied with a grin, your hands slipping up to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his messy hair. “Forgot to tell you earlier.”

Your fingers toyed with the strands there, tugging gently, and you felt him lean into it, his body inching closer, the space between you shrinking as your hands slowly guided him back in. His lips met yours again, harder this time, with less hesitation. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip, almost impatient, begging for entrance. You let him in, and the moment his tongue touched yours, everything seemed to ignite.

He tasted good. Minty from the menthol cigarette still lingering on his breath. The kiss was deeper, messier, and you could feel his heartbeat against your chest, his body pressed against yours as the tension that had been building finally snapped.

Fuck, he wasn’t just cute. He was hot. And he could kiss. Really kiss.

You pulled back suddenly, breathless, and his lips were swollen, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he tried to catch his breath. 

“You wanna shag in the toilets?” you asked, a grin tugging at your lips as you glanced over your shoulder, back toward the dingy venue.

He chuckled, the sound deep in his throat. “Like your friend?” he asked, still catching his breath, but the humour was there in his eyes.

“Yeah.” you teased, biting your lip, the taste of him still lingering.

He shook his head with a small laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Nah.” he said, definite.

“Why not?” you asked, pouting slightly but still amused by his answer.

“It reeks in there.” he replied, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust, though the smile never left his face.

You tilted your head, biting back a laugh as you pressed him further. “But you’d shag me?”

He didn’t respond right away, just smiled that slow, crooked smile that made your stomach flip. Without a word, he leaned back in, his lips finding yours again, this time with even more urgency. His hands found your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you like he was trying to make up for some lost time. It was rough and hungry, until his lips were swollen and red, and you could feel the slick of spit on his chin, though he didn’t bother wiping it away.

It didn’t matter. Nothing did right now except the way his body felt against yours, the warmth of his breath, and the wild pounding of your heart in your chest.

Alex shifted slightly on his feet, and you noticed the way his body seemed to sway, just the tiniest bit, like he was caught somewhere between the buzz of the moment and the cool night pressing down around you both. You could still taste the minty sharpness of his cigarette on your lips, mingling with the smoky air, and for a second, you just stood there, watching him, as if you were both waiting for something.

“So, do you still live at home?” you asked, trying to break the silence that hung between you. The question came out a little soft, a little unsure, like it was trying to find its place in the moment.

He looked, a half-smile playing on his lips. “High Green? Nah.” he said, shaking his head as if the thought amused him. His voice still had that easy, laid-back tone, but there was a hint of nostalgia in the way he said it, like memories were still lingering there, even if he’d left them behind. “Renting a flat here in the city now.”

You nodded, biting your lip, watching the way his face shifted when he talked about it. “You live alone?” you asked, your curiosity pushing you to keep the conversation going. There was so much you didn’t know now.

“Nah.” he said again, the word slipping out easily, like it was his go-to response. “With one of the lads from the band.”

His posture relaxed a little, leaning his weight back against the wall again. The easy smile never left his face, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, more focused now, like he was giving you more than just surface-level answers. 

You found yourself smiling back, the tension between you both still crackling, but softer now, more controlled. “Is he going back there now?” you asked, leaning in just a little as you spoke, your hand still brushing against the back of his neck, feeling his warmth.

“Nah.” he replied, intentionally repeating himself now, now that he’d noticed the way you smiled every time he said it. “He’s probably going to his girlfriend’s place after this.”

“Is he now?” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you gave him a playful nudge. Your eyes caught the slight flush of colour creeping up his neck, though he still looked entirely at ease. He was enjoying every second of your back-and-forth.

“Yeah, he’s been spending more time there lately.” he continued. He paused, as if he was thinking over his next words carefully. “The flat’s not too far from here though.”

The suggestion of it was subtle, but it was there, clear as day.

“Convenient.” you said. The implication of the word wasn’t lost on either of you. Alex’s grin widened just a bit, and he shifted again, his eyes flicking down to the ground for a moment before they met yours once more.

He gave a small laugh, almost nervous, like he was suddenly aware of how close you both were standing, like he could feel the weight of your gaze just as much as you could feel his. “Yeah.” he said, “S’pose it is.”

Before you even had time to fully process how it happened, you were both in the back of a taxi, with you half-draped over Alex’s lap, your bodies magnetically drawn to each other. His arms hesitated to fully hold you, like he wasn’t sure where to place his hands, but his mouth was far less shy. His lips moved with yours, soft but insistent, while his tongue teased its way into your mouth. 

By the time you stepped into his flat, you were both a little out of breath. You didn’t even remember paying the taxi driver. Alex’s jacket had been discarded somewhere near the door, and you were too wrapped up in each other to care where anything landed. His hands still hovered, like they weren’t sure what to do or where to go, but his mouth stayed busy with yours. 

His uncertainty made you bold, and you guided his hands to your hips, then lower, placing them firmly on your arse.

“Go on, Turner,” you whispered against his lips, “don’t be shy.”

That seemed to do the trick. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your jeans, and the next thing you knew, your hand had found its way to the front of his jeans, cupping him over the denim. You felt him twitch under your palm, his breath catching in his throat, and for a second, you thought he might lose it right there.

“Mhm…” he murmured, his voice a low, throaty sound that vibrated through you. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face flushed. 

You grinned, your lips brushing against his ear. “You wanna see my boobs?” you teased, your voice soft but suggestive. “So you can see if they’re really nice or not?”

“Like I’m the boob connoisseur?” he asked and you nodded. His eyes flicked down for a split second before he caught himself, smirking slightly as he shot back, “Give the final verdict?”

“Yeah.” you said, already pulling your top over your head. 

“Fuck yeah.” His hands lingered at your waist, still a little hesitant, but you could see the hunger in his eyes as they followed every movement. Your bra was next, unclasped and tossed aside with the same casual disregard as everything else.

He grinned, his lip curling up slightly, that cheeky side of him coming out again. “And then I’ll rank your junk.” you added, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Alex chuckled, his hands finally gaining more confidence as they skimmed over your bare skin, lingering at the curve of your waist. “My dick’s quite decent, I’d say.” he replied, slipping out of his shirt and closing the space between you. His bare chest pressed against yours, warm and firm, as he backed you toward the bedroom.

You raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Alright then.” he murmured, his voice low and thick with lust. Without warning, he pushed you gently back onto the bed, his hands guiding you down onto the mattress.

His eyes roamed over your body as he stood at the foot of the bed, his chest rising and falling a little quicker now, his breathing shallow. He took his time, watching as you sprawled out beneath him, his lips parted slightly, his hands running through his already-messy hair as if he were trying to wrap his head around the fact that this was actually happening.

You felt your nipples hardening as you watched him take you in. He was standing there, looking tall despite the reality of it, but with a quiet intensity that made your stomach twist in the best way. His jeans hung low on his hips, and the bulge at the front of them was impossible to ignore. He looked almost nervous, but his eyes were full of want, his body language betraying the cocky front he was trying to keep up.

“C’mon then.” you coaxed, “get on with it.”

Alex’s mouth quirked up into a grin as he leaned down, his hands sliding over your thighs, spreading them apart as he moved between them. His touch was still a little tentative, but the longer it went on, the bolder he got. You could see the shift in him, giving way to something more confident. 

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your collarbone, trailing slow, wet kisses across your skin as his hands continued to explore, one sliding under the curve of your ass, the other gripping your waist firmly. 

“You really have changed.” he muttered between kisses. “You’re even more trouble.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tilted your head back, giving him better access to your neck. “And you like it.” you whispered, your breath hitching as his lips found a sensitive spot just below your ear.

He pulled back for a moment, his eyes dark and hooded as he looked down at you. “Yeah.” he admitted, his voice soft but intense. “That I do.”

And then he was on you again, his lips crashing against yours, harder this time, more desperate. His hands were everywhere, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, tugging at the waistband of your jeans. You could feel the urgency in him, the pent-up desire that had been simmering between you both finally breaking free.

Your fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, pulling it loose before sliding the zipper down. You could feel him straining against the fabric. 

“Let’s see if that junk lives up to your bragging.” you teased, your voice breathless as you tugged his jeans down over his hips.

He smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement as he helped you slide them off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. He leaned over you again, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “Guess you’ll just have to suck it and see.”

You blinked at his cheeky grin, your lips parting in surprise at the audacity of his words. “Did you really just say that?” you asked. 

Alex chuckled, his breath fanning over your cheek as he tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah.” he replied, leaning in closer. “I did.”

You bit your bottom lip, stifling a laugh that bubbled up from the back of your throat. “You’re such an idiot.” you muttered, but the heat between you didn’t fade, if anything, it grew. You could feel his body against yours, the weight of him, the scent of sweat and desire lingering in the air.

Without another word, he gripped the loops of your jeans and yanked you down the bed, making you gasp as you slid to the edge. You could barely get a word in before he was slipping them off, his fingers brushing the curve of your hips and thighs as the denim peeled away. 

“I can’t be the only one with less on.” he said, his voice low and teasing as he tossed your jeans aside, his hands lingering on your bare legs, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear.

“Fair’s fair.” you shot back with a smirk, though your heart was pounding in your chest now. 

You moved before he could take charge again, sinking to your knees on the floor in front of him, looking up at him through your lashes. He was about to reach for you when you gently pushed him back, guiding him to sit on the bed. 

You could feel the heat coming off him, radiating through the tainted material of his boxers as your hand brushed over him. He was hard, so hard. Your fingers trailed over the fabric, feeling him twitch beneath your touch. “You’re quite eager.”

“You’re quite hot.” he shot back. 

You grinned, enjoying the control you had for the moment. Your fingers hooked under the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them down. His breath hitched as you revealed more of him, the fabric slipping away. When you finally had them off, he kicked them aside with impatience, pushing them down the rest of the way himself.

Your eyes widened, unable to stop yourself from letting out a low, “Wow.”

Alex smirked again, his confidence bolstered by your reaction. “Does it live up to your expectations?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, his voice still that teasing blend of cockiness and curiosity.

You looked back up at him, biting your lip, pretending to consider your answer for a moment. “For now.” you said, flashing him a grin.

He chuckled, his hand reaching down to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek for just a moment. He didn’t need to say anything. The way he shifted slightly and the heat in his eyes spoke louder than words ever could. He was watching you with this raw, unguarded hunger, almost like he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask for what he wanted. You felt his fingers tighten in your hair just a little, urging you, guiding you down without saying a word.

You leaned in, letting your lips brush the head of his cock first. The taste hit you almost immediately. A salty, sweet mix that spread over your tongue, exactly what you should’ve expected from him. Everything about him was intoxicating, addictive in a way that had you leaning further in, wanting more. You slowly wrapped your lips around the tip, teasing him with your tongue, feeling the soft skin give under your touch.

The groan that escaped his lips was low and deep. He was struggling, you could tell, fighting to keep his eyes open, wanting to watch you, but the sensation seemed to overwhelm him. “Fuck.” he murmured, his voice hoarse. 

Your hand reached out instinctively, and before you even had to ask, he spit into your palm, his breath hitching as he did so. The moment his spit hit your skin, you felt a surge of arousal run through you, making you slick in places far from your hand. It was like you were feeding off each other.

You spread the wetness over his cock, your hand stroking him with slow motions. His body tensed under your touch, his hips lifting just slightly off the bed, like he was chasing the feeling. Your other hand gripped the base as your lips sucked on the tip. 

The noises he was making now were more than just groans. He was practically panting, his breath ragged, his fingers tightening in your hair, but still not forcing, not rushing you. His control was hanging by a thread, and you could feel it in the way his muscles twitched, the way his body seemed to move in sync with yours. 

You smiled around him, hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper, your hand still working the length of him in time with the slow bob of your head. 

Alex’s head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as his lips parted. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths, each one escaping him in soft gasps. His groans grew quieter, more controlled, but then, a sudden whimper.

Before he could lose it completely, his hand shot down to the base of his cock, squeezing hard. He pulled you off him as he tried to get control of himself. 

“Fuck.” he whispered, his hand still gripping himself tightly.

You sat back on your knees, lips tingling and wet, watching him try to regain control. “Need a second, yeah?” you asked. 

“Yeah…” he nodded, eyes still half-closed as he exhaled. “You’re killing me.”

A grin tugged at the corners of your lips as you climbed up over him, straddling his hips. “You’re the one who stopped me.” you teased, your voice playful, leaning down to kiss his neck, trailing soft kisses up toward his jawline. His skin was hot beneath your lips, his scent still lingering thick in the air.

“Didn’t want to end things too soon.” he mumbled, his hands sliding over your thighs, gripping your hips with a little more urgency now. His fingers were firm, almost desperate. He needed to hold onto something. When his hands slid lower to grab your ass, you couldn’t help but gasp softly. God, his hands felt so big on you, rough and sure as they gripped you tight. 

You bit your lip, leaning into his touch. “I don’t mind.” you whispered against his ear. His breath hitched, and you could feel the way his body reacted to your words, his grip on you tightening even more. 

“You’ll have to wait.” he muttered, though the way he was looking at you, with half-lidded eyes, made you question his own resolve. His hands slid over the curve of your ass, repeatedly, squeezing, and the feeling of his touch sent a rush of heat straight to your core.

“You think you can hold off that long?” you asked, grinding down on him just a little, testing his control. You could feel him, still hard and straining beneath you, his cock pressing against your inner thigh, and the friction made you bite back a moan.

He groaned softly, his hands pulling you closer, fingers digging into your skin as his body responded almost instinctively. “You’re making it real hard not to lose it.” he breathed. 

“Good.” you whispered, leaning down to kiss him again, your lips brushing against his with a teasing softness, just enough to leave him wanting more. 

Alex’s hands slid up and down back. His fingers found the edge of your panties, toying with the fabric before slipping them to the side. The air between you crackled with tension, your breath catching as you felt him exploring you, fingers slipping through your wetness. He took his time, finding his way through your folds, testing you, making sure he had your full attention. 

Then, as his fingers brushed against your clit, you let out a soft moan, your body instinctively responding to the touch. His face lit up, eyes widening slightly, a crooked grin spreading across his lips.

“Found it, did I?” he teased, his voice a low murmur as he pressed a little harder, circling around your clit in slow, lazy strokes. You nodded, biting your lip, your hips shifting toward his hand. His fingers worked with an unexpected precision, even as his movements remained somewhat tentative, but god, he was learning fast.

“Fuck, Alex.” you whispered, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as he continued, his other hand holding you steady on top of him. “That feels so good.”

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes glinting as he focused on you, the pride in his voice obvious. “I think I can tell.” he added, his fingers moving a little faster now, testing your reactions. Your moans grew louder, hips bucking into his touch, and the sound seemed to fuel him.

“You’re good at this.” you managed to say between breaths, your fingers gripping his shoulders for balance. 

“Well, I’m tryin’ my best,” he teased, but there was a seriousness in his expression now, his gaze locked onto you, like he couldn’t get enough of watching the way you responded to him. “You make it pretty easy.”

You shuddered under his touch, biting down on your lip as he continued to rub circles against your clit. His fingers slipped lower for a moment, teasing at your entrance, and then back up, keeping you on the edge but never giving you quite enough.

“Alex...” you groaned, gripping his arms a little tighter. “Please. Fuck me.”

He paused for a second, eyes flicking up to yours. When he saw the desperate look on your face, he let out a soft chuckle. “Fuck…okay.”

He moved quickly then, flipping you onto your back, the mattress soft beneath you as you lay sprawled out beneath him. His hands were everywhere. Gripping your hips, pulling your panties off, tossing them to the side. You barely had time to register the cool air against your bare skin before he was back, hovering over you. 

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading your legs as he positioned himself between them. His hair hung over his forehead, his skin still glistening with sweat, and the sight of him like this, flushed, hungry, and completely focused on you, fuck.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low, the words barely audible over the sound of your own heavy breathing.

“Yeah.” you whispered, your hands finding his shoulders again, pulling him closer. “God, yes. Please.”

Alex didn’t need any more encouragement. With a soft groan, he lined himself up, his fingers gripping your thighs tighter as he pushed into you, slow at first, letting you feel him. 

“Fuck.” he breathed, his head dropping to your shoulder as he began to move inside you, his body pressing into yours with a steady rhythm. “You feel so fucking good...”

Alex moaned as he sank deeper into you, his breath hot against your neck, and you couldn’t help but moan in return. The rhythm of his thrusts started slow, his hips driving into yours with this incredible mixture of urgency and control. Each movement felt perfect, his cock filling you in a way that made you feel dizzy with pleasure, like your body was made for this, for him.

“Fuck, Alex…” you gasped, arching up into him, your hands gripping his back, fingers digging into his skin. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his muscles flexing beneath your touch as he moved, and every time he hit that sweet spot, your body responded in kind, hips lifting to meet his thrusts.

He groaned in response. “So…so fuckin’ good.” His words were broken by the effort of his thrusts, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours as you both gasped for air.

“You’re…really good at this.” you managed to tease between moans, your voice breathless, but there was no denying how real the compliment was. He felt amazing. Maybe it was the anticipation, the thrill of reconnecting like this. Or maybe it was just him. 

Alex laughed softly, his voice shaky, but you could feel the smile against your skin. “Oh yeah? Thought you were the one judging me.”

“I am.” you breathed, your nails scratching lightly down his back. “And you’re doing really well.”

“Glad I’m living up to expectations.” he muttered, his breath hitching as he thrust into you harder, a little more desperate now. His hands slid up your sides, gripping your hips, pulling you closer, deeper. “Fuck…you’re perfect.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in even closer, wanting him as deep as he could go. “Keep going.” you whispered, voice barely more than a breathy moan. “Just like that.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his pace quickening slightly, his hips snapping forward with a new intensity. He gripped you tighter. 

You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a louder moan. “Don’t stop.”

“Fuck- I’m not stopping.” he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. “I’m not stopping…” His thrusts got more erratic, driven by pure need. He was close, and you could feel it in the way his body moved, in the way his grip tightened on you even more, in the way his moans became louder and more frequent.

“Alex…I’m-” you gasped. Your whole body was coiled with pleasure. 

“Fuck, I know.” he murmured, his voice almost lost in his moans. “Me too…” His hips snapped forward one last time, deep and hard, and the sensation sent you spiralling over the edge.

Alex groaned, his breath ragged and uneven as he suddenly pulled out of you, the loss of him leaving you feeling empty for a moment. He scrambled, his movements rushed and almost clumsy in the heat of the moment, hands gripping your thighs as he tried to move himself higher up your body. His eyes were wild with lust, his chest heaving as he positioned himself over you, hands bracing himself on either side of your head.

The realisation that neither of you had even thought about condoms hit you at the same time, but it was too late now, but better late than never.

“Shit-” he muttered, his voice low and breathless as he looked down at you, his cock twitching in his hand as he stroked himself. His eyes flicked between your face and your chest, pupils blown wide.

You bit your lip, watching him, feeling the weight of his gaze on you as you arched your back slightly, pushing your breasts up toward him. His breathing got heavier, his strokes faster. 

“Come on, Alex.” you whispered, your voice husky, teasing him as you reached up, running a hand up his chest. “Don’t make me wait.”

That did it.

His hips bucked forward, and he came, thick spurts landing across your chest and tits, the heat of it spreading across your skin. His face was flushed, eyes half-closed as he watched, his lips parted slightly, panting through the release.

“Fuck me…” he breathed, his voice shaky, his hand slowing as he squeezed out the last of his release. He looked down at you, his eyes flicking over the mess he’d made, and for a moment, both of you just stayed there, breathing hard, hearts racing. 

You gave him a lazy, satisfied smile, wiping a finger through the warm liquid on your skin before smirking up at him. “Well,” you said, voice playful but still breathless, “I guess you were right.”

“‘Bout what?” he asked, still coming down from the high, his fingers brushing gently over your thigh.

You grinned. “Your dick. It is quite decent.”

Alex let out a weak laugh, dropping his head against your shoulder, still trying to catch his breath. “Glad I could live up to the hype.” he mumbled, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone.

Alex collapsed against you, his body still trembling slightly. He let out a deep breath, his chest pressing against yours as he nestled into the curve of your neck, his hair sticking to your skin where his release had landed.

You laughed softly, brushing a hand through his messy, sweat-dampened hair. “You’re getting your hair all up in your jizz, Turner.”

He gave a lazy, contented sigh, nuzzling closer to you without moving an inch. “Don’t care.” he mumbled, his voice low and sleepy, as if the effort of saying those two words was almost too much.

You chuckled, lightly stroking his back. “That’s gross.”

“Yeah, yeah.” he murmured, half-asleep already, “I’ve had worse.”

You paused for a moment, letting the quiet settle between you, before curiosity got the better of you. “So…do you usually fuck girls after gigs?” The question came out more casually than you intended, but you needed to know for some reason. 

Alex didn’t move. “Nah.” he muttered, his voice muffled by your skin. He shifted, turning his head so his cheek was resting against your chest. “Not really into all that…not good enough for groupies, anyway.”

You snorted at his modesty. “Not good enough? Have you seen yourself? You could probably have your pick of any girl in this city.”

He lifted his head slightly, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I just shagged you,” you teased, raising an eyebrow, “And I’ve got pretty high standards.”

Alex laughed, his body shaking slightly against yours. “Lucky me, then.”

You grinned, running a hand down his back as you felt him settle into you again. “So why me, then?”

He shrugged, his fingers tracing light patterns over your waist, absentmindedly playing with your panties he found on the bed. “Dunno.” he admitted, voice soft and a little more serious now. “Just…been a while, I guess. And then I saw you, and…it felt right.” He paused, then added, “You’ve always been different.”

You glanced down at him, your heart fluttering a little at the sincerity in his words. “Different how?”

He lifted his head again, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you properly. “Like…you’re real. Always have been. Back when we were kids, you were always the one I felt like I could be myself around. And now…” He trailed off, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he shrugged again. “I don’t know. Guess I just wanted to feel that again.”

For a moment, you were quiet, taken aback by his honesty. You hadn’t expected this, him to open up like this. But then again, maybe that was just Alex. Even after all this time.

“You’re such a softie, Turner.” you said, smiling as you lightly flicked his forehead.

He rolled his eyes but smiled back, resting his head on your chest again. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it get around, alright? Gotta keep up the cool front for the band.”

You laughed, running your fingers through his hair. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

a/n: based on this request. i love fetussy <3

The stains on his slacks were a mystery he had neither the energy nor desire to solve. A smudge of something pale and sticky on his thigh could’ve been formula. His knee was streaked with something brown — coffee, maybe, though it was too far down for that to make sense. He wouldn’t dwell on the rest, the older stains faded into the fabric, their origins forgotten or ignored. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t care. The smattering on his shirt, though — that was fresh. A pale orange, probably from the mashed sweet potato Poppy had decided belonged anywhere but her mouth.  

He stared at the mess on his chest as if it were an accusation. He’d wiped it earlier, hadn’t he? Or maybe that was yesterday. God, he didn’t even know anymore.  

What he did know was that he couldn’t do this. Not alone. He’d thought he couldn’t do it at all, but this — this endless symphony of crying, cooking, cleaning, existing — was definitely impossible solo.  

The hum of the range hood over the stove grew louder, like a dull roar against his temples, even though it had been on for barely five minutes. A pot of something — a soup he was loosely following a recipe for — bubbled on the back burner, the spoon lying crooked in the pot like it was waiting for him to do something.  

But he couldn’t.  

Alex’s hands trembled over the cutting board, the knife clenched too tightly in his grip. He was halfway through dicing carrots — well, maybe a third of the way, if he was being honest. The pieces on the board were uneven, some chunks too big, some practically shaved. He didn’t care. None of it mattered.  

Because from the baby monitor propped precariously against the salt shaker, Poppy’s cries sliced through the air. Loud and clear. He didn’t need the video feed to know what it looked like. She’d be on her back, her face red and scrunched, little fists flailing at the unfairness of the world.  

The sound stabbed through him, sharper than the knife he was holding. He’d always thought it was supposed to get easier, that eventually, he’d adjust to…to everything. But it hadn’t. If anything, it felt worse. More oppressive. More constant.  

He set the knife down — or tried to. Instead, the blade sank into the cutting board, embedding itself with a soft crunch of wood. His chest heaved as he leaned forward, both hands gripping the edge of the counter.  “I can’t do this.” he muttered, his voice shaking as he stared blankly at the baby monitor. His reflection glared back at him in the dark screen, overlaid with the grainy image of her squirming. His words came again, quieter this time, barely audible over the din of the kitchen. “I can’t- fuck, I can’t-”  

None of it felt like enough. He wasn’t enough.  

And then, faintly at first, he heard the familiar rhythm of your footsteps in the hallway.  

“Sorry it took so long, baby.” you murmured, your voice drifting into the kitchen like sunlight after a storm.  

Alex straightened instinctively, though his body still felt stiff and leaden. Relief hit him in a wave, so fast it almost made him dizzy. The mere sound of you was enough to pull him back from the edge. You stepped into the kitchen, shrugging off your coat and tossing it toward the back of a chair. Your gaze landed on him, and you froze.  

“Hey, Al.” Your tone shifted immediately, soft and careful in a way that made his throat tighten. “You alright?”  

He nodded too quickly, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to meet your eyes. “Yeah…yeah.” His voice cracked on the second ‘yeah’ but he didn’t stop. He needed to say something, anything, to deflect. “You should-” He gestured vaguely toward the baby monitor, holding it up in one hand like it was a lifeline. “She’s-”  

You didn’t wait for him to finish. “Yeah.” Kicking off your shoes, you crossed the room in three quick strides. He watched as you disappeared up the stairs, your voice softening as you murmured something — maybe to Poppy, maybe to yourself. He couldn’t tell.  

His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands like it might help clear the fog in his brain. The wailing had stopped. Just like that, the silence felt louder than the crying ever had.  

Fuck, Alex, you can’t think the world’s gonna end every time, he thought, the words landing sharp in his mind. He took a shaky breath and forced himself to push — push past the weight, push himself up, both figuratively and quite literally. His hands braced the counter as he straightened, his legs stiff.  

The knife still stuck out of the cutting board, its edge caught in the groove it had made. He reached for it, his grip careful, and plucked it free with a soft scrape. For a moment, he just stared at the mark left behind, his thumb running over the shallow scar in the wood. He could fix it, probably. Sand it down, oil the surface — make it like new again.  

Maybe.  

Maybe it didn’t need replacing. Maybe things could be solved and not thrown away so easily.  

He’d fix it.

Before he could linger too long on the thought, he heard your voice, soft and full of that almost-laughter you got whenever you talked to her.  

“Say hi to Dada.” you murmured.  

It wasn’t quite the over-the-top baby voice you’d both sworn you’d never use. You’d laughed about it, once — vowed you wouldn’t be those parents, with their ridiculous high-pitched cooing and singsong nonsense. But then she had arrived, and somehow, somehow, you both caught yourselves doing it. Even Alex.  

She cooed back, her little voice bubbling like carbonation in a glass. His chest still felt tight, the remnants of earlier panic clinging stubbornly to him, but he moved toward the sound. Slowly, carefully, like it was fragile and he might shatter it if he got too close.  

Her arms flailed, fingers curling and uncurling in something that looked almost purposeful. Joy, he thought. She was happy. Not just generally, but specifically. Happy to see him.  

“Where’s Dada?” you asked her, like she might actually answer.  

And she did.  

With an awkward jerk of her chubby arm, she pointed directly at him. Her smile grew impossibly wider, her face lighting up in a way that still caught him off guard every time. It was a real smile, a choice, not just a reflexive grimace. His breath hitched, his throat tightening as the thought hit him harder than it should have. He never got used to it — the way she could do something so simple and make him feel like the floor was falling out from under him.  

He reached for his jaw, grabbing it and tugging, trying to snap himself out of the trance. His fingertips pressed hard into his skin, the roughness of his calluses grounding him.  

“Hi.” he said, his voice cracking a little. 

“She missed you.” you said gently, your gaze flicking between him and Poppy. You weren’t teasing, not like you might’ve been on another day. You knew exactly how fragile he was in that moment.  

Alex swallowed hard, willing himself to keep it together as he stepped closer. He reached out, his hand brushing her tiny fist before letting her grab his finger. Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone so small. She tugged, babbling incoherently, her gaze fixed on him with such intensity that he felt like he might unravel.  

“I missed you, too.” he whispered, his words directed at her but meant for both of you.  

Poppy let out another happy noise, a gurgle that morphed into something closer to a giggle, and she leaned forward, her little arms reaching toward Alex, fingers curling and uncurling as if she was trying to grab him through the air.  

“You wanna go to Dada?” you said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Say daaaa-daaa.” you coaxed, drawing out the syllables in that sweet, singsong way.  

Alex’s lips curved upward, though he tried not to make a big deal of it. He crouched down slowly, the strain in his lower back making itself known with a sharp twinge. His already misaligned spine didn’t thank him for it, but he pushed through, lowering himself until his face was level with hers. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her little body, to smell the faint powdery scent of baby lotion and something vaguely milk-like clinging to her.

“Come ‘ere, Pop.” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly, as though speaking too loud might scare her off. “Come to Dada.”  

“Da-da.” you repeated, nodding encouragingly at her as if she might mirror your enthusiasm.  

Instead of saying the word — or lunging into Alex’s arms like some moment of cinematic perfection — she smacked him square in the face.  

Alex froze, his mouth slightly open in surprise, the sting of her palm radiating across his cheek. She’s got a mean right hook for someone who can barely hold her own bottle, he thought. He blinked at her, and then at you, his hand coming up to rub at the spot, which hurt only faintly, not as much as the blow to his pride.  

“She gets that from you.” he muttered, casting you a sidelong glance.  

“She does not.” you said, though your laughter betrayed you. “Don’t take it personally.” you said, trying to sound serious. “She slaps me all the time. It’s how she says ‘I love you.’”  

“Great. So instead of words, we’re raising her to communicate through violence?” She was grinning wide, her chubby cheeks pink with delight, completely oblivious to her crime. “Well, maybe I deserved that one.” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he reached for her again. “Come ‘ere, you little gremlin.”  

He kissed your cheek, a quick, grateful press of his lips, before turning his attention to her. “Hiya, Pop.” He pressed his lips to her cheek, warm and impossibly soft, before nuzzling his nose against her temple. She let out a happy squeal, her hands finding his face again. This time, instead of slapping, her fingers grabbed at his nose, her little nails scratching lightly as she babbled something unintelligible. Her eyes were wide and bright, her gummy smile so wide it made his chest ache.  

“She loves you, you know.” you said, leaning against the counter as you watched them. 

He glanced up at you, his brows furrowing slightly, though his lips stayed pressed to her cheek. “Yeah?”  

“Yeah.” You smiled softly, crossing your arms as you tilted your head. “You’re her favourite person. I’m a little jealous.”  

“Yeah.” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “She’s mine too.”  

“Dada.” you said softly, testing it again as you smiled at the two of them.  

Alex raised a brow, looking down at her. “What do you think, Pop? You gonna say it?”  

Her face scrunched, lips parting as if she were about to make some grand declaration. There was a tiny pause — just enough for Alex to feel a flicker of hope. Then she let out a loud, enthusiastic noise that was more of a squawk than a word, clapping her little hands against his chest as if to punctuate her babble.  

“Close enough.” he said, his voice soft with amusement as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.  

But you weren’t about to let it go.  

“Daaa-daaa.” you tried again. You leaned in a little, your hands gesturing toward Alex like he was the most exciting thing in the world. He was, even if he couldn't see that. “You can do it, Pop. Say Dada!” She blew a raspberry, the sound wet and loud, making Alex snort. “She’s close.” you insisted, crouching down beside him. “Come on, baby.”  

Alex sighed, shifting Poppy in his arms as her attention drifted to his shirt collar. She grabbed a fistful of the fabric, tugging at it like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. He glanced at you, a faint crease forming between his brows. You always had this unshakable belief that she was on the verge of something amazing — every coo, every wave of her little hands filled you with anticipation. He admired it, that optimism of yours. But today, it made something heavy settle in his chest.  

“Say it, Poppy.” you encouraged, wagging your fingers at her. “Daaa-daaa.”  

He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you, though he felt the faintest pang of guilt as you kept trying. You were so patient, so persistent, and he didn’t want to rain on your optimism. Still, after the god knows which round of those exaggerated two syllables, he couldn’t help but interject.  

“She’s not gonna say it.” he mumbled, almost to himself.  

“What?” you asked, tilting your head.  

“She’s not gonna say it.” he repeated, his voice quiet but firmer this time. “She’s a baby. She doesn’t know what we’re saying.”  

“She’s so close.” you said gently, your smile faltering just a little.  

“She’s not.” he replied, shaking his head as he looked down at her. “She’s just…she’s not there yet.”  

You glanced at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “But-”  

“Love,” he interrupted, tilting his head toward you, “she’s probably tired of us pestering her. Let’s give her a break.”  

You frowned slightly, watching him. He wasn’t looking at you, his gaze fixed on the floor now, his shoulders tense.  

“Alex.” you said softly.  

He didn’t respond. He shifted Poppy in his arms, holding her a little closer, though he couldn’t shake the weight pressing against his chest. Why do I care so much? he thought, annoyed with himself. He couldn’t stop the spiral — thoughts tumbling over each other, picking apart every small failure.  

Maybe I’m not doing enough. Maybe she doesn’t know because I’m not around enough. Maybe she doesn’t…

“Alex.” you said again, firmer this time. Your hand found his shoulder, snapping him out of it.  

He looked up at you, his brow furrowed, and you saw it then — the faint sheen of worry in his eyes, the way his jaw was set too tight, like he was bracing for something.  

“She’ll get there. You know that, right?”  

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

You sighed, your shoulders drooping slightly, but you nodded. “Alright.” you murmured, brushing your fingers against Poppy’s cheek. “We’ll stop, Pop. No more pressure.”  

But just as Alex opened his mouth to thank you for relenting, a small, hesitant sound broke through the quiet.   

Both of you froze.  

Alex’s eyes widened as he stared at Poppy, who was now grinning up at him like she knew exactly what she’d just done.  

“Did she-?” His voice trailed off, his heart pounding as he glanced at you.  

“She said it.” you whispered. “She said it.”  

Alex barely heard you, the words sinking into his chest like pebbles dropped into a still lake. She said it, the syllables echoed faintly in his mind. He wanted to laugh, to smile, to do something to match the moment, but his body didn’t seem to know how to react. Afraid to breathe too deeply in case it all shattered.  

“Dada!” she said again, louder this time, her tiny voice wobbly but unmistakable.  

That broke him.  

Alex felt something catch in his throat, a sharp mix of disbelief and joy. His chest tightened, his heart stuttering before kicking into overdrive. Slowly, as if afraid of startling her, he looked down at her, her wide, shining eyes staring back up at him. His smile spread slowly, unbidden and unstoppable, until it felt like it might split his face in two.  

“Good girl.” he whispered. He leaned forward to press a kiss to her warm cheek. “That’s my girl.” he murmured, barely audible as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.  

“She’s a genius.” you said, half-laughing, half-crying. Your voice snapped him out of the trance just enough for him to notice you were leaning into him, your head resting lightly against his shoulder.  

He should’ve been relieved. He was relieved. But the edges of the moment started to fray as his mind looped back on itself, until his hand twitched against Poppy’s back, his fingers moving in a restless, uneven rhythm.   

“Alex.” you said softly, your voice cutting through the noise in his head.  

He blinked, looking up at you with wide eyes, like he hadn’t even realised he’d drifted away. “Hmm?”  

Your brows knit together just slightly as you studied him. “She said it.” you repeated, more gently this time, as if trying to coax him back to the present. “You heard her, right? She said it, and she’ll keep saying it.”  

He nodded, his lips twitching upward in an attempt at a smile. “Yeah. I heard her.” 

“It’s okay to let yourself enjoy it, you know.”  

Alex let out a soft, shaky laugh, his head bowing slightly. “I’m trying.” he admitted.  

You gave him a small, knowing smile, your fingers brushing against his. “I know you are.”  

Then, with the same quiet authority that always managed to steady him, you said, “I’ll take over dinner.”  

He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the stove where the pot still bubbled quietly. “It’s almost done.” he said automatically, his voice trailing off.  

“Seriously.” you interrupted, your hand squeezing his shoulder lightly. “Go sit down. You’ve earned it.”  

He looked at you then, really looked, and saw the understanding in your eyes. Not pity, not impatience — just a steady reassurance that he didn’t have to carry everything on his own.  

Alex exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening as he nodded. “Alright, alright.” he murmured, his lips curving into a faint, grateful smile.  

“Good.” You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before stepping toward the stove.  

“Alright, Pop.” he said softly, turning toward the living room. “Let’s go relax, yeah?”  

Alex settled onto the couch with a quiet groan, leaning back into the cushions as he adjusted Poppy in his lap. Her bright eyes met his again, and he smiled despite himself, the heaviness in his chest beginning to lift.  

“You’re a little genius.” he murmured, brushing his fingers over her curls.  

Poppy responded with a loud, cheerful babble, her tiny hands smacking against his chest like punctuation marks. Before he realised what was happening, one of her fingers poked at his cheek, then slid up toward his nose.  

“Hey, what are you-” Alex started, but his words cut off with a muffled grunt as she, determined as ever, managed to wedge her little fingers into his nostrils. “Christ, Pop.” he muttered, squirming as he tried to gently guide her hand away. She giggled in response and shoved harder. He groaned, his face scrunching comically. “You’re relentless, aren’t you? Just like your mum.”  

Despite the discomfort, he didn’t make her stop right away. He let her tug and poke and prod because…well, because she was his. His little girl, with her impossibly tiny fingers and her boundless energy and her smile that made his chest ache in ways he still didn’t fully understand.  

“Alright, that’s enough now.” he said softly, finally grabbing her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You’re gonna rip my big nose off, you little gremlin.”  

She squealed in delight, her legs kicking against his lap as she laughed. Alex couldn’t help but laugh too, shaking his head as he adjusted her so she was sitting more comfortably.  

“Are you hungry, Pop?” he asked, tilting his head to look at her more closely. “Hmm? Is that why you’re trying to dismantle me? Did you miss dinner while I was busy mucking about in the kitchen?”  

Poppy tilted her head in response, mimicking his gesture with such accuracy that it caught him off guard.  

“You missed Mama, didn’t you?” he said, his voice softening as he brushed a hand over her hair. “You always get a bit grumpy when she’s not here, huh? Me too, you know. Yeah? You missed her loads, didn’t you? I get it. She’s the best, isn’t she?”  

She clapped her hands in agreement, her face lighting up.  

“She’s clever, that one.” Alex continued as he leaned in slightly. “Always knows what to do. Keeps me from completely losing it most days.” He sighed, his thumb gently tracing circles on her little hand. “Don’t tell her, but I missed her too.”  

She made another noise, high-pitched, and Alex chuckled. “Yeah, you’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you? Don’t need words when you’ve got that smile. You know,” he murmured, “you’re kind of the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”  

Poppy didn’t respond, of course, but the way she rested her head against his chest — her little fingers curling into his shirt — felt like answer enough. 

You called him over, your voice warm and light but tinged with that familiar sense of knowing. “Alex, come here. Dinner’s ready.”  

He shifted Poppy in his arms and stood with an exaggerated groan, the sound somewhere between playful and genuine. “Getting old, Pop.” he murmured, glancing down at her. “You’re not making this any easier, you know.”  

“Is it okay?” he asked as he approached the table, nodding toward the pot on the stove.  

“Yeah, it’s good. Smells amazing.” you said as you sat down. “Can’t wait to eat, I’m starving.”  

He smiled faintly at your words, placing Poppy in her high chair before lowering himself into the seat next to you. “Eat, eat. I’ll try to get her to eat something too.” he said, nodding toward the little one.  

“You need to eat too, baby.” you replied as you placed a plate in front of him.  

Alex didn’t respond. He was looking at you, his gaze quiet and intense in a way that made you pause. There was something in the way he watched you that felt almost fragile, like he was trying to memorise the moment before it slipped through his fingers.  

“Alex.” you prompted gently, but he still didn’t look away.  

He blinked, as if suddenly realising he was staring, and shifted his focus to Poppy. She had taken one of his fingers into her mouth, nibbling on it. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t mind.  

“I know,” he said softly, “but can we just…”  

He trailed off, his free hand brushing over Poppy’s curls as his jaw tightened.  

“Alex-” you began, but he cut you off, his voice trembling slightly as he turned back to you.  

“She said it.” he whispered, the words barely audible. His eyes, glassy with unshed tears, met yours, pleading and vulnerable. “She…don’t start that now, please.”  

Your mouth opened to respond, but his expression stopped you. There was a rawness in his face that you recognized too well — a deep, unspoken fear that if you brought it up, you’d ruin the delicate balance of the moment.  

“Okay.” you said finally.  

Dinner was quiet. The kind of quiet that settled in like a heavy fog, where the occasional clink of cutlery against a plate felt unnaturally loud. Poppy babbled here and there, filling the silence with her tiny, nonsensical words, and Alex smiled at her, like always. But his energy was flagging. He was tired, worn thin in a way that even you could feel across the table. You knew he was trying, trying for you and for her, trying to keep the atmosphere light. And it worked, sort of, enough to make it through the meal. But you could see the strain beneath it, the cracks that threatened to show when he thought no one was looking.

That smile didn’t follow him when the day finally wound down and the two of you climbed into bed. Under the covers, where the quiet wasn’t tempered by the background noise his face fell into something harder. That look you’d come to dread, his “mad kitten” look, as you’d called it, where his lips pressed into a tight line, like he was physically holding himself together with sheer will.

The dark made it worse. It always did. Shadows obscured the warmth in his features, leaving behind that stubborn jawline and the glassy glint of his eyes when he didn’t blink fast enough.

“Al…” you whispered, trying to coax him out of it.

You could feel him debating it, using the dark as a shield, letting the silence stretch between you.

“I’m fine.” he said finally.

“You-”

“I’m fine.” he repeated, cutting you off quickly, but not sharply. “I promise.”

There was a note of insistence in his tone, as if he needed to convince you, or maybe himself, that it was true. Before you could press further, his body shifted. He moved toward you, wrapping his arms around your middle and twisting you into his grip with that quiet urgency that always made your chest ache. His chest pressed firmly against your back, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt and you could feel his breath against your shoulder like he was trying to regulate it but failing.

“I’m just…tired.” he murmured, the words muffled as his face found the crook of your neck.

His sigh followed, long and drawn-out, like it was pulled from somewhere deep. His arms tightened around you, his hold becoming almost unbearably heavy. It wasn’t just physical — you could feel the emotional gravity of him, like he was sinking into you, clinging to you to keep himself afloat.

“You don’t have to hold onto it all by yourself, you know.” you said, your voice a quiet plea in the dark, placing your hand over his arm, your fingers tracing slow circles against his skin.

“I’m not.” he whispered after a long pause, his voice barely audible. “I’ve got you.” Bittersweet and honest in a way that made your throat tighten. You turned slightly in his arms, just enough to see the edge of his face.

“I’m here.” you said, your hand moving up to brush against his cheek. “I’m always here.”

Alex closed his eyes at that, his head dipping slightly as if the weight of those words was too much. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his grip on you never loosening. “I know.” he said again, softer this time, almost like a prayer.

“Baby?” you called softly. Alex’s body was pressed so firmly against yours that you could feel every rise and fall of his chest. The way he rubbed himself against you sent a subtle shiver down your spine that you tried, and failed, to hide.

“Mhm?” he hummed in response, his voice thick with exhaustion but carrying a gentle warmth. He pressed his face into your neck again, nuzzling you like he couldn’t get close enough. “You smell nice.” he murmured.

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I missed you today.”

His palms roamed your body, spreading warmth wherever they touched. He wasn’t in a hurry — it was almost absentminded, the way his hands explored. Slowly, they began to search for the hem of your shirt, his fingertips brushing against your bare skin — hesitant, like he was trying to go unnoticed, unsure of himself.

You knew what that meant — he was testing the waters, weighing his own energy against his desire, afraid to disappoint you or himself if he couldn’t deliver. 

“Alex?” you asked gently, your hand brushing against his side.

“Yeah?” he replied, his voice quieter this time, muffled by the way his face stayed buried against you.

“Do you wanna…?” you suggested, leaving the rest unsaid but entirely clear.

His breath hitched, just for a second, and then he groaned softly, twisting himself further into you. His face ducked lower, pressing into your shoulder like he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye. “Yeah, but…I’m so fucking tired.” he admitted, almost apologetic.

You felt him stretch his legs, his body shifting as he intertwined them with yours, wrapping you up in his warmth and his weariness all at once. He sighed again, though this time it was more of a soft, frustrated mewl, a sound that broke your heart a little.

“Can we do it in the morning?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know I’m better in the mornings…at night, I just…I get too in my head, and I can’t…” His words trailed off, lost somewhere between exhaustion and vulnerability.

You didn’t need him to finish. You understood.

Your hand found its way to the back of his head, your fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at the roots. It was oilier than usual, and you knew that detail alone was enough to bother him, though you wouldn’t dream of holding it against him. You could feel the weight of the week, of the day, in the way he leaned into your touch.

“I have to go to work again early for some-” you began. The sentence was interrupted by a deep stretch and a groan, his body shifting again to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. 

“How early?” he asked, his voice still groggy.

“Early.” you said, the word carrying a hint of regret as your fingers continued their soothing motions.

“Fuck…” He sighed, the sound dragging out as he let himself sink deeper into you. “Okay.” His hands slid back under your top, the roughness of his palms contrasting with the gentle way he touched you. They skimmed over your ribs, fingers spreading wide to take in as much of you as they could. Slowly, he began to push the fabric upward, revealing more of your bare skin, but he hesitated just short of pulling it completely off.

“It’s fine, Al-” you started, not wanting him to feel pressured. Your hand came up to gently push him away, but he caught your wrist lightly.

“No, no…” he murmured, shaking his head. His brows furrowed, and he shook his head slightly, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the base of your throat. “I can- I want to. I just…” He trailed off, exhaling shakily as his eyes dropped to the space between you, as if his body wasn’t cooperating the way he wanted it to.

“Need a hand?” 

He let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh, and nodded. “Yeah.” 

You reached for the hem of your top, tugging it over your head and letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. Alex’s eyes lifted, softening instantly as they took in the newly bared skin. He swallowed hard, his lips parting as his hands reached for you again. His lips followed the curve of your chest, pressing slow, reverent kisses to the soft swell of your breasts. His stubble scratched against your skin, and you couldn’t help but gasp when his teeth grazed and nibbled on the delicate skin just below your collarbone.

“Fuck…” you murmured, his grunt in response muffled against your chest. He kissed the same spot again, as if trying to chase away the faint sting with warmth.

Your fingers slipped down then, over the planes of his stomach before slipping to the waistband of his boxers. He tensed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but didn’t stop you. Slowly, you slid your hand inside, fingers brushing against him. He was soft beneath your touch, his body warm but still reluctant to respond. You stroked him gently, giving him time, your movements slow and deliberate. He twitched slightly, but not as much as you both hoped.

“Shit.” he muttered, voice strained and tinged with frustration. “I’m sorry…I-” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head against you. “I just- I’m sorry. I’m so fucking tired, and I-”

“Hey.” you interrupted softly, your free hand coming up to thread through his hair again. You scratched lightly, feeling the tension in his body as you worked to soothe him. “Don’t apologise.”

“I just can’t get my head right.” he said, his voice tight. He sighed heavily, his breath shuddering against you. “I want to- fuck, I really want to, but…”

“But nothing.” Your fingers continued to stroke him lightly, not to pressure him, but to reassure him, to remind him you weren’t in any rush. “It’s okay, Alex. We’ve got time. It’s not a race.”

He let out a soft groan, half from the sensation of your hand and half from the weight of his own thoughts. “You’re too good to me.” he muttered, pressing another kiss to the top of your chest.

“I love you.” you replied simply. “That’s not gonna change just because you’re tired. You’ve been running yourself ragged all day, Al. Your body’s just trying to catch up.”

He let out another sigh, this one softer, and tilted his head up to look at you. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted as if he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

“You’re allowed to be tired.” you added, your thumb brushing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, but I wanted to…I wanted to be good for you.” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly on the last words.

“You are good for me.” you said, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “You always are.”

As if testing himself, his hips shifted slightly against your hand. “I’m trying.” 

“I know.” you replied, kissing him again, this time on the lips, reminding him that this wasn’t about performance or expectation but the two of you. His lips trembled against yours, but he kissed you back, his hands finding their way to your hips. He held you firmly but tenderly, his thumbs stroking small circles into your skin.

“I’ll get there.” he murmured, his voice thick but steadier now. “I’m gon’ do my best…” his lips brushing the curve of your neck “to fuck you good.”

“Yeah?” you whispered.

“Promise.” 

He let out a low, shaky groan as his hand squeezed your arse, pulling you closer against him. His lips returned to your chest, latching onto the soft flesh with a warm, open-mouthed kiss that sent a shiver through your spine. His hips bucked gently into your hand, still soft but slowly responding, the friction encouraging him more than he might have expected. 

“Talk to me.” he murmured against your skin, punctuating his words with another kiss, this time right over your heart.

“About what?” 

“Anything.” he gasped, his breath catching when you tugged just a bit harder. His head tilted back slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tried to stay focused. “Anything to distract me from thinking too hard.”

“Okay, let’s see…” you started, the rhythm of your hand unbroken as you searched for something that might pull him out of his head. “How about the fact that she said her first word today?” you offered, your voice lifting slightly as you rubbed your thumb along his length.

Alex let out a short laugh, half-gasping as his hips moved with more intention now. “You think I forgot?” he asked, his tone teasing despite the breathlessness. “I’ll be telling everyone about that for years, love. Even strangers in the queue at Tesco.”

“Yeah?” you grinned, leaning down to kiss his temple. “Bet you’ll exaggerate it too. ‘Oh, she looked right at me, so serious, and said ‘Dada’ like she was delivering some grand speech.’”

“She did though. You saw her. Our girl was bloody profound.”

“She had food all over her face.” you countered, laughing softly.

“That’s just charisma.” he replied, his voice softer now, though his hips bucked again, more firmly.

“Uh-huh, sure.” you teased, your fingers sliding down further to cup him gently, eliciting a groan that vibrated against your skin.

“More,” he mumbled, his voice husky.

“More talking or more touching?” you teased, your hand giving him a firmer stroke, feeling him start to harden properly against your palm.

“Both.” His hips moved in small, involuntary motions against your hand, but he still wasn’t quite where he wanted to be. “Something else this time. Anything- just not…”

“Not what?” 

He let out a shaky laugh, his head shaking slightly. “Not about her.” he admitted, his voice low and embarrassed. “Feels weird…when you’ve got your hand on my dick.”

You laughed and Alex groaned again, though this time it was out of exasperated affection. “Fair point.” you teased, giving him a soft squeeze that earned you a sharp inhale. “Okay, let’s think…”

“Yeah, think of something good.” he muttered, his lips trailing a line of warm, lazy kisses down the side of your neck. “Something sexy or ridiculous, just…”

“Alright,” you said, “remember that time we got locked out of the old flat because you thought you could ‘jimmy’ the door with a credit card?”

“Oh, come on, don’t remind me.” he groaned, though there was a smile in his voice. “I was just trying to impress you.”

“You were trying to impress me by breaking into your own flat?” you teased, your thumb brushing over the sensitive underside of his cock, drawing a quiet gasp from him.

“It almost worked.” he said, mock-defensively. 

“It really didn’t.” you replied, laughing softly. “We ended up waiting outside for two hours until your mate showed up with the spare key.”

“Yeah, and you still went out with me after that.” he shot back, his lips curling into a smirk against your skin.

“Only because you bought me chips and promised never to try anything that stupid again.” you countered, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw.

He hummed in response, his lips seeking yours for a lazy, lingering kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. “I’d buy you chips every day if it meant I’d get to keep you.” he murmured against your lips.

“That’s very sweet.” you said softly, “but you don’t need to bribe me with chips. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good…because I’m not sure what I’d do without you.” he whispered. “Morning’s overrated anyway.” he mumbled with a smirk, his confidence finally peeking through, making you laugh softly as he pulled you even closer.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your panties. The first tentative stroke of his fingers over your folds pulled a quiet sound from your lips, a soft sigh that made his chest tighten. “Yeah? Mhm…you’re real wet.”

He hooked a leg over your waist, tugging himself closer and shifting his weight to make it easier to manoeuvre. With a grumble, he raised his arms over his head, his eyes flicking down at you with a playful tilt to his brow. “Help me take off my shirt.” — somewhere between impatient and endearing.

You chuckled softly, reaching up to grip the hem and pulling it up and off. His messy hair stuck up at odd angles from the friction, and you couldn’t resist brushing your fingers through it as he leaned back down, his lips grazing your jaw.

With the shirt discarded, Alex’s attention shifted back to you. His hand pushed your panties down just enough to free his wrist, not bothering to remove them entirely as he slid his middle finger into you. The stretch was perfect. His hips rutted gently against your thigh, seeking friction as he worked his finger deeper into you, his cock hot and heavy, twitching with every little noise you made. 

“That’s good, Al.” you moaned again, your hips moving against his hand, trying to take more of him.

“Yeah? You like that?” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, his voice strained but steady. He added a second finger, the stretch making you cry out sharply, and he groaned in response. “Mhm…so tight.” he said, his hips jerking reflexively, his arousal growing harder to ignore.

“Just…more.” you gasped, arching into his touch as his thumb pressed against your clit, circling.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” he whispered, his words muffled against your skin as he kissed and nipped at the flesh, his scruff leaving a warm, tingling trail in its wake. His fingers moved faster now, just enough to drag a broken moan from your lips.

“Alex…” you breathed, the sound of his name on your lips making his hips jerk harder against your thigh.

“I’ve got you.” he whispered, “I’ll take care of you, love. Just let me make you feel good.”

You arched into his touch, your hands moving to push his boxers down over his hips. He groaned softly as the fabric slid away, freeing him entirely. His cock was still firming, enough to feel hopeful again.

“Yeah…” he breathed, his voice low and thick as he worked his fingers deeper into you, the sound of them going in and out suddenly louder. “That’s my girl…all wet for me. Missed this.” he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled and hazy. “Missed ya.”

You nodded, unable to form words as his pace quickened, the rhythm of his fingers a barely restrained desperation. “Fuck…you’re perfect.” he whispered, his lips grazing yours in a fleeting kiss that left you aching for more. 

Despite the ache in his shoulders and the subtle burn building in his forearm, Alex kept his focus on you. The way your body moved, the sounds you made — it was all the motivation he needed to push past the weariness settling in his bones. His jaw tightened briefly, a hint of exhaustion flickering across his face, but he blinked it away before you could see. He made sure you didn’t. Every time his movements faltered for even a second, he redirected you — his thumb brushing over your clit with just enough pressure to steal your breath, his lips peppering your neck with kisses that made your body shudder.

Your hands slid down his back, your nails grazing lightly over the curve of his spine, and he hissed softly. “You’re gonna make me come before we even get to the good part.” you teased, your voice shaking slightly.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough, as he kissed you again, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your toes curl. “This is the good part.” he muttered. He curled his fingers inside you just right, and your body tensed, your breath hitching audibly.

“Alex…” you whimpered, your head falling back against the pillow as his thumb pressed harder.

“That’s it.” he murmured, his voice steady despite the faint tremble in his arms. “Let me hear you, love.” You gasped again. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “That’s my girl. Let go for me.”

And you did. Your body arched into him as you came, your moans filling the room as he worked you through it, fingers slowing but never stopping. He kissed you softly, his lips lingering against yours, letting you ride it out at your own pace.

“Beautiful.” he murmured, his voice thick with awe as he finally withdrew his hand. His fingers glistened in the dim light when he brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he licked them clean. A low groan escaped him at the taste, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned back in.

“Alex.” you whispered, your voice still shaky as you reached for him.

“Shh…” he said softly, shifting his weight to pull your panties all the way off. His movements were just a fraction slower than usual, his body heavier as he repositioned himself between your thighs, but he masked it. 

When he slipped inside of you, a soft gasp escaped him, his breath hitching as his shoulders gave the faintest shiver. He paused for a moment, his forehead dropping briefly to your collarbone as he adjusted to the warmth of you, the closeness. It was almost as if he needed a second to collect himself, to process the way you fit around him so perfectly. His focus seemed inward, like he was trying to keep himself tethered, to keep from drifting too far into his thoughts, the drag of him inside you unhurried, as if the intimacy itself was enough to sustain him.

“Al…” you whispered, brushing your hands through his hair, tugging gently to pull his face closer to yours.

He didn’t respond, just shifted forward until his chest was flush against yours, his arms wrapping tightly around your back. His movements grew lazier, his thrusts almost absent-minded, and then he stilled entirely, buried deep inside you as he pulled you tighter against him.

“C’mere.” he murmured and hooked his leg around your waist, the strength in his arms holding you securely as he twisted his body, rolling the two of you onto your sides. The shift was gentle. You went willingly. He kept you close, his arms curling tighter around your back, and when you settled, he pressed his forehead to yours. His gaze was soft but so heavy with unspoken truths that it made your chest ache.

“You okay?” you asked softly, reaching up to cradle his cheek in your palm.

He nodded, but the movement was subtle, barely more than a twitch, and tightness in his jaw told you there was more. Instead of answering, he leaned forward and kissed you softly, the press of his lips lingering.

“Just wanted to hold you.” he finally said. “Needed to feel you close.”

“You’ve got me.” you whispered back, your hand stroking the back of his neck as you pressed your body closer to his. “Always.”

He sighed, the sound heavy but full of relief, and began to move again, his hips shifting slowly, almost cautiously. Your legs tangled together as his thrusts became a gentle rocking motion, his forehead still pressed to yours.

“Is this okay?” he murmured after a moment, his voice low and husky, the words almost lost in the sound of your breathing.

“It’s perfect.” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth as you reached down to grab his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

His free hand slid down your back, holding you to him like he was afraid you’d slip away. There was an edge of desperation in the way his fingers dug into your skin, the way his hips stuttered slightly before he found his rhythm again. He wasn’t rushing, though — it wasn’t about chasing an end. He was savouring it, savouring you. The way he kissed you between each slow thrust, spoke louder than any words he could’ve said. 

Alex groaned softly, burying his face in your neck again as his pace quickened just enough to make your breath hitch. “Fuck…you feel so good.” he mumbled against your skin. His hand slid down to your thigh, lifting it higher around his waist to bring you even closer.

You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back even now, and you pressed your lips to his temple. “Let go, baby.” you whispered, your voice a soft encouragement as your fingers slid down his back. “I’ve got you.”

His breath hitched, and his pace faltered for just a moment before he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His movements grew more instinctive, his restraint slipping as he finally let himself sink, hips jerking forward in a way that felt less controlled, and then he stilled, deep inside you as his body trembled against yours.

“Fuck-” he whispered, the word drawn out as he let himself go.

It was with a quiet groan against your skin, his arms tightening around you as he held you close.

You held him through it, your hands smoothing over his back as his breathing slowly began to steady, face pressed into your neck, his body still pressed flush against yours, before he finally leaned back just enough to look at you.

“I love you.” he murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

“I love you too.” you whispered back, holding him tighter, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours as the world around you fell quiet.

Alex exhaled another deep, shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders finally melting away as he settled. “You’re everything.” he said quietly, the words almost lost as he buried his face in your hair.

He stayed there, his breath fanning against your skin in slow, warm exhalations, your bodies still connected in a way that made it feel like you were sharing the same heartbeat. His arms remained draped over you, heavy and firm, holding you close in a way that felt both protective and desperate. You thought he was just catching his breath, trying to calm the storm that had been building all day. But then you felt it — his grip loosened.

It wasn’t gradual, like he was letting go consciously. It happened all at once, his hands slipping from their secure hold to rest limply against your sides, the weight of them going heavy in a way that immediately caught your attention.

“Baby.” you whispered. You tilted your head to try and get a look at his face. He didn’t stir.

“Aly.” you tried again, brushing through his damp hair, pushing the strands away from his forehead. He didn’t react, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Instead of responding, he shifted slightly, his body curling even closer to you. He made a small, soft noise — barely audible — as he burrowed further into you, pressing his face against your chest like he was trying to disappear there entirely, seeking refuge, breath tickling your skin.

Your heart softened as realisation dawned. He was asleep.

He made it ache too, all at once. You had seen how tired he was. The exhaustion he had carried — the tension in his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes, the quiet hesitations in his voice — had finally claimed him. You let your fingers continue their path through his hair, marvelling at how peaceful he looked now, his features slack and unburdened, his lips slightly parted as his breaths fell. It was such a stark contrast to the tension he so often carried.

“Sweetheart.” you murmured softly, more to yourself than to him, not expecting a response this time. You traced the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing lightly over the roughness. There was something different about it now, something softer, like sleep had stripped away all his worries and left just…him.

He shifted slightly when you moved, but he didn’t wake. Instead, his arm tightened around you — just for a moment, a subconscious reflex, like his sleeping body refused to let you go — before going slack again.

“Okay, okay.” you whispered, smiling to yourself as you adjusted under him. “I’m not going anywhere. Sleep, love.” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ve got you.”

The room was so quiet now, the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the house the only sounds besides his breathing. You felt the rhythm of it, how it matched yours, slow and steady and calm.

You let your fingers drift lazily along his back, tracing patterns you weren’t even aware of. Every now and then, he’d shift slightly, almost imperceptibly, like his body was adjusting to make itself even closer to you.

It was a long time before you let yourself relax fully, but eventually, the warmth of him, the heaviness of his body pressed against yours, lulled you into a kind of peaceful stillness. You stared at the ceiling for a while, your hand still tangled in his hair, and wondered how he had managed to hold so much inside himself all day without breaking.

“I love you.” you whispered into the quiet, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you.

It was supposed to be the perfect escape to somewhere warm, away from the monotony of the freezing cold and yet another birthday spent on the slopes. You’d both had your fill of ski trips and snowy landscapes, and this year, you were determined to give Alex something different. A sun-drenched island vacation in the dead of winter sounded like paradise. But reality? Reality had other plans.

You weren’t built for heat. Neither was he, really. Instead of leisurely days on the beach or exploring whatever  tropical locales were around, the two of you had spent most of your time lying naked in the blissfully air-conditioned hotel room, bodies tangled together beneath cool sheets, just chasing relief from the oppressive sun. Sleep and sex. Not necessarily in that order. And it wasn’t like either of you minded. 

But you were determined to get him to the beach before you left, no matter what.

He was sprawled on the bed, the lazy grin on his face telling you that he knew exactly what you were up to. His arms were crossed behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he watched you kneel between his legs. The tension in the room was warm, just like the sultry air outside. Only here, in the dim comfort of your room, everything was cooler. Slower.

“Come on.” you purred, your voice a soft plea as your lips grazed the length of him. “Just once, Alex. Let’s go to the beach. It’s not that bad.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “Not that bad? You do know it’s like a hundred degrees out there, right?”

“Don’t be dramatic.” you teased, your tongue flicking against the sensitive head of his cock, eliciting a soft groan from him. “It’s not like I’m asking you to hike across a desert. We’ll go early, while it’s still cool. We’ll find some shade. Promise.”

His hips twitched, though he still managed to keep that languid composure, eyes following your every move. He was weighing his options. Or at least pretending to. He knew you’d get your way. The sight of him, so relaxed, so at ease, sent a thrill through you. His body glistened slightly with sweat from the warmth of the island, but here in the dim cool of the room, you had all the control.

“You’re relentless, you know that?” he murmured, his voice rough and amused.

“And you love it.” You wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, squeezing lightly as your lips brushed against the tip once more. “You know you’ll love the beach. The sand, the ocean. You haven’t been out there once.”

His breath hitched as you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, until his head tipped back slightly against the pillow. He groaned, fingers flexing against the back of his neck but still refusing to give in fully to the temptation of touching you.

“I’m not really a sand kind of bloke.” he managed, though his voice wavered just enough to let you know he was slipping. “Sand gets everywhere.”

You pulled back slightly, your lips leaving a wet trail along his cock. “I’ll make it worth your while.” you whispered, your breath hot against him.

“Is that what this is?” he asked, his voice rasping. “Bribery?”

“Call it persuasion.” you smirked, lips curling up as you kissed the tip of him again before running your tongue along his shaft. You could feel him getting harder under your touch, his body betraying the act of indifference he was trying to keep up.

His head lifted slightly, those deep, dark eyes fixed on you. “And what’s the catch?”

You grinned up at him, shifting your position to get a better angle as you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, until a sharp breath hissed from between his teeth.

“You,” you said, pulling off slowly, “just have to let me put sunscreen on you. Don’t want you burning, do we?”

Alex groaned, dropping his head back again, arms still propped beneath it like he was trying his best to maintain any semblance of control. But the way his body was reacting to you? He was already yours.

“You’ll do all the work?” he asked, voice strained.

You nodded, licking a long stripe up his cock before meeting his gaze again. “All of it. You just lie there, let me take care of you.”

His lips curled into a smirk, but his breathing was ragged now, his control slipping with every motion of your mouth. “Tempting.”

“I thought so.” you murmured, before taking him deeper again, your fingers tightening slightly around the base of his cock as you worked him in steady, rhythmic strokes with your mouth. His groans grew louder, more unrestrained, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every second.

“Fine, fine.” he gasped, finally giving in. “We’ll go to the bloody beach.”

You looked up, giving him a satisfied, victorious smile before licking him again, swirling your tongue around the head in a way that made his hips jerk involuntarily. “Good boy.”

He laughed breathlessly, his hands finally unclasping from behind his head and drifting toward your hair. “You’re gonna have to keep that sunscreen promise, though.”

“I’ll keep it.” you teased, sliding your lips around him.

His grip was firm but not forceful. At least, not yet. His voice was low, roughened by the pleasure coursing through him, a hint of command slipping in. 

“Yeah, now suck my dick.” he said, pushing just enough that you understood exactly what he wanted, that you were no longer in control of this moment.

Your only response was a muffled moan, your mouth too full of him to offer anything else. The sound vibrated through him, and you could feel his hips twitch, his body reacting to the sensation. His cock throbbed against your tongue as you took him deeper, your lips stretched around him, eyes half-lidded as you stared up at him.

Your hands, braced on either side of his thighs, trembled slightly as he thrust up, his fingers pressing harder against the back of your head, guiding you further down. 

“All of it.” he groaned, voice catching in his throat as he thrust again, harder this time. “Fuck- take it all.”

You tried to relax your throat, but the weight of him was overwhelming. The coarse hair at the base of his cock brushed against your nose, the musky scent filling your senses as your mouth and throat stretched to accommodate him. Spit spluttered from the corners of your lips, dripping down onto his thighs, pooling between them. The sound of your gagging filled the room, raw and uncontrolled, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

His hand remained on your head, holding you down for a beat longer, savouring the feeling of you buried so deeply on his cock. His groans were louder now, more ragged, each one a testament to how much you were undoing him. 

Just as you thought you couldn’t take it any longer, he pulled you up, your mouth sliding off him with a wet gasp. You coughed slightly, your chest heaving as you caught your breath, your lips red and swollen, slick with spit.

Alex’s hand stayed in your hair, his eyes heavy with lust as he looked down at you, the smirk on his face unmistakable. “Good.” he muttered, his thumb brushing along your cheek, wiping away some of the mess you’d made. “Good.”

His gaze stayed locked on yours, something possessive flickering behind his eyes. “Again.” His voice was soft but filled with authority, leaving no room for hesitation. 

Before you could catch another breath, he was guiding you back down onto him, thrusting up to meet your lips as they wrapped around his cock once more. He squirmed beneath you, no longer in control of his body, and his hand tightened its grip in your hair. His hips bucked upward again, driving his cock deeper into your mouth, and a rough groan escaped his throat.

“Fuck-” he mumbled, voice thick with pleasure, “I’m so deep inside you.”

Your body responded automatically. You slid one hand underneath him, fingers curling around the firmness of his ass, squeezing lightly to keep a hold of him just as he kept a hold of you. The heat of his skin was intoxicating, slick with a sheen of sweat as his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

With each movement of your mouth, you squeezed him tighter, your lips stretched wide as you sucked him harder, feeling him writhe and twitch with each pass of your tongue. His moans filled the room, deep and guttural, and his body couldn’t seem to stay still, hips thrusting, thighs tensing, abs flexing beneath his taut skin.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, and you stole a glance up at him, catching the way his jaw clenched, the sharp line of his cheekbones accentuated by the dim light in the room. His dark eyes were hooded, half-lidded with pleasure, but they were fixed on you, watching every movement, every reaction. He couldn’t bear to look away. The little hair on his chest glistened with sweat, sticking to his skin.

“God.” he groaned again, voice strained. “You- fuck, you feel so good.”

You could feel it too. The way his body was coiling tighter, the way his moans were turning more desperate, the way his breathing was becoming shallower. He was close. You knew it, and he did too.

He let out a ragged breath as you slid up slightly, just enough to free his length from your mouth, your hand immediately wrapping around the slick shaft to take over. Your strokes were firm, matching the rhythm you’d set with your mouth as your other hand remained under him, fingers pressing into the firm flesh of his ass as he tensed beneath you.

His head fell back against the pillow, his throat exposed, his lips parted as he gasped for air. His entire body was tight now, muscles corded and strained, his thighs trembling under your touch as the tension built.

You leaned down again, lips closing around the tip of his cock, and he let out a choked sound, half-gasp, half-moan, as you sucked gently at first, then harder, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head.

“Shit-” his voice broke, the word barely audible as his hand tightened in your hair, hips jerking upward again involuntarily. “I’m gonna-”

He couldn’t finish the sentence before his body gave in completely. You felt him pulse against your tongue, his cock twitching as the first hot spurt of cum hit the back of your throat. You sucked harder, drawing it out of him, every drop, until he was groaning your name.

You swallowed him down, not letting up, your hand still stroking him as he finished inside your mouth, your other hand still squeezing the taut muscle of his ass as his body slowly began to relax, the tension melting from him. His chest heaved as he came down from the high, his fingers loosening in your hair but not fully letting go.

When you finally pulled away, his cock slipping from your lips, he was left panting, his eyes glazed over with satisfaction. The smirk on his face was lazy, content, as he gazed down at you.

“Fuck.” he breathed, voice hoarse. “That was good.”

You crawled up his body, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath you as you hovered over him, your lips grazing his with a soft kiss. His breathing was still uneven, his body recovering, but his hand instinctively slipped up to cradle the back of your neck, holding you close. 

“Happy birthday.” you whispered against his lips, the words barely audible as you kissed him again, your lips lingering on his as if sealing the moment.

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing lazily against the back of your neck. “My birthday’s tomorrow.” he murmured. 

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Consider this your early present.” you said, tapping his nose lightly with your finger. 

Alex raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning in full as he tilted his head slightly, a hint of mischief in his gaze. “Oh? Is that all I’m getting?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face stayed as you leaned down to brush your lips over his again, soft and teasing. “No.” 

His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your skin as he gazed up at you, a low hum of curiosity escaping his throat. “Hmm?” he prompted, his lips quirking into a grin. 

You shifted slightly, pressing your body against his, enjoying the way his warmth seeped into you as his hands moved lower, stroking your sides. “That’s what the beach is for.” you whispered, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth as you spoke and your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. 

He exhaled a soft laugh, his hand rubbing slow circles on your lower back as he pulled you even closer, holding you against him. His body was still warm, muscles loose and relaxed. 

“Guess I’ll have to endure the sun, then.” he muttered. His hand travelled further up your back, fingers weaving into your hair as he tilted your head slightly to kiss you, slower this time, deeper, like he was savouring every movement.

“You’ll love it.” you murmured against his lips, your body melting into his as his hand continued to rub gentle, soothing patterns along your spine. “Besides,” you added with a smirk, “there’s plenty more where this came from.”

Alex groaned softly, pulling you closer still until there was no space left between you. “Yeah?” his lips brushed against your ear, his breath warm and teasing. “I’ve got a lot to look forward to then.”

The morning light hadn’t fully crept in yet, but the room was tinged with that soft, pale blue that comes just before dawn. You stirred first, the quiet stillness outside reminding you that today wasn’t just any day. It was his birthday. And you had plans. 

Lying beside Alex, you glanced over at him, still fast asleep, his dark hair a tousled mess against the pillow. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing deep and steady, peaceful in a way that made you not want to wake him. But you couldn’t help yourself. Not today.

You reached out, fingers playfully ruffling through his messy hair, shaking his head lightly as you whispered, “Come on, birthday boy…”

He groaned in protest, shifting slightly under the covers, his brow furrowing as if your touch was pulling him from some deep dream he wasn’t ready to leave. His hand, heavy with sleep, fumbled its way up to bat lazily at your hand, as though he could ward you off without actually having to wake up.

“Nooo…” he mumbled, his voice thick and muffled by the pillow. “S’too early.”

You grinned, undeterred, your fingers still gently mussing his hair, pulling at the strands. “Come on, you’ve got a whole day ahead of you. Beach, remember?”

His only response was another groan, this one longer and more dramatic as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. He clearly had no intention of moving anytime soon.

“Give us a kiss.” he mumbled into the fabric, his voice slurred with sleep, eyes still firmly closed. “Not opening my eyes ‘til you do.”

Laughing softly, you leaned down, pressing your lips to his cheek, soft and slow, as you watched his lips curl into a lazy smile. His hand found your arm, still half-asleep but already holding you close, refusing to let you escape just yet.

“Mmm, better,” he murmured, though he still didn’t open his eyes. His grip on you loosened slightly as he sank deeper into the pillow, but the soft smile never left his face. “Love me more.” he mumbled, the words barely audible but clear enough for you to hear. 

Without hesitation, you leaned down, pressing a series of light kisses across his face — on his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and finally, the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was delicate, almost teasing, and with every touch, his smile grew wider, a quiet hum of contentment vibrating from his chest.

“How early is it?” he mumbled after a beat, his voice still heavy with sleep. He cracked one eye open just a sliver, squinting up at you in the dim morning light.

“Almost sunrise.” you whispered back, pressing another kiss to the side of his head. “We’ll catch it if we get moving.”

He groaned again, this time louder, clearly unimpressed by the idea of moving at all, let alone before sunrise. “Who gets up before the sun on their birthday?” he grumbled, though the smirk tugging at his lips told you he wasn’t entirely serious.

“You do, apparently.” you teased, poking him lightly in the side. 

“We could make sweet love ‘til the break of dawn…right here.” he murmured, his voice low and suggestive as he tilted his head, cracking one eye open just a bit more to gauge your reaction. His hand slid lazily across your waist, pulling you closer against him with a slow, languid motion, the warmth of his body inviting you to stay pressed into the bed.

You let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes as you brushed your fingers through his messy hair. “I’ve got plans, Turner.” you said, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth again. “You don’t want to ruin them, do you?”

“Depends.” He cracked both eyes open this time, blinking up at you through the haze of sleep, his smile widening just enough to give him away. “Only if I get more kisses as a reward.”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin on your face was hard to hide as you leaned down again, pressing your lips to his. You lingered there, regardless of the inevitable morning breath and all the little imperfections that came with waking up together. It didn’t matter when his lips were soft beneath yours. Or when his hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. 

Alex hummed softly against your mouth, the sound vibrating between you, and his other hand lazily trailed down your side, his fingers light and teasing. His body was still relaxed from sleep, but you could feel the way he responded to you, slowly waking up, his lips moving against yours with a sleepy kind of sweetness that made your heart flutter. You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his, smiling as his eyes fluttered open again. 

“Not bad for a reward.” he murmured, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that always made your stomach flip. 

“You’d ask for more if you could get away with it.”

“Can’t say I wouldn’t.” His thumb brushed the nape of your neck, sending a small shiver through you. “But I suppose I should save some energy for this ‘sunrise’ you‘re dragging me out of bed for.” 

The beach was empty, just as you’d hoped. You had the place to yourselves, the soft golden sand stretching out in front of you, untouched, as the sun inched higher above the horizon. The light was soft, still hazy and pale, casting a shimmering reflection across the water that seemed to go on forever. The waves lapped gently at the shore, their rhythm slow and hypnotic, as you settled onto your towels, feeling the warmth of the sand beneath you.

Alex stretched out beside you, his arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he took in the view. You leaned back on your elbows, looking out over the ocean, feeling that quiet sort of calm you only get when the world feels like it’s just yours for a little while. 

“Not bad, right?” you asked, glancing over at him.

He gave a lazy nod, lips curling into a slight smile. “Not bad at all.”

There was something about the stillness, the early morning quiet, that made the world feel suspended, like time wasn’t moving.

“It reminds me of this film.” Alex said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence in that casual, easy way he had. 

He reached up and slid his sunglasses off, carefully, almost like he didn’t want to disrupt the moment. He set them down on his stomach, the dark lenses reflecting the soft light of the rising sun as his fingers rested lightly over them for a second, his eyes now visible and squinting slightly against the light.

His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, the sunlight catching in his eyes, making them gleam with that unmistakable hint of green that always showed up in moments like these. You loved that little thing about him, the way his eyes seemed to change with the light, different shades looping through them, like a secret only the sun could bring out.

It was subtle, the way those flecks of green would surface. An earthy mix with the usual brown, swirling together like the ocean reflecting the sky. And every time you pointed it out, he’d deny it, always laughing and insisting his eyes weren’t green at all. 

“Can’t remember the name. Wasn’t that memorable, really, but…it had this one scene, like this, y’know? The way the sun reflects on the water.”

You were still lost in your thoughts, staring at the way the light danced in his eyes, barely registering the words. 

Alex paused, then turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “You still listening?” he asked, a teasing edge in his voice as he caught you staring at him instead of the view.

He reached for his sunglasses, fingers hesitating as he lifted them. He slipped them back on, then adjusted them, only to push them halfway down his nose again, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to shield his eyes from the light or keep you in his full gaze. Indecisive. 

You blinked, a little caught off guard, and smiled sheepishly, feeling the warmth of his gaze settle on you. “What was the film about?”

He shrugged, a lazy roll of his shoulders. “No idea. Didn’t stick with me. But the way they shot that one scene, with the light bouncing off the water like that…” He motioned with his hand toward the ocean, as if that explained everything. “It was beautiful. Just like this.”

You smirked, leaning over slightly as you nudged his arm. “So…just like any beach sunrise ever?”

Alex laughed, the sound low and soft, and he shook his head. “Nah, nah. They don’t all look the same. This one’s special.”

You raised an eyebrow, playful. “What, because it’s your birthday?”

He glanced over at you, his eyes still bright with the soft reflection of the sun on the water. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just ‘cause I’m here with you.”

“Smooth.” You leaned back on your towel, squinting at him through the morning light as he continued watching the water, a content little smile on his lips. “So, do you still want me to lather you up in sunscreen?” you asked. 

Alex shook his head, barely turning to look at you. “Nah, I’ll take my chances.”

“Well,” you began, your tone shifting, “how about this, then…do you want to have sex?”

His eyebrows shot up immediately, even behind the sunglasses. “Here?” His voice was low, almost incredulous. There was already a hint of interest creeping in.

You shrugged, nonchalant, though your hand was already making its way toward him, fingers playing with the tie of his swim trunks. “Yeah.” you said, your fingers brushing against his skin as you tugged lightly at the knot. “Not much else to do at the beach.”

His lips parted slightly, and you could feel his body tense under your touch as he glanced around the empty stretch of sand. His eyebrows raised higher, though the smirk was quick to follow. “Was that your big plan?” His gaze flicked down to your hand as you pulled the bow loose, the fabric of his trunks slackening under your fingers.

“Maybe.” you replied, your fingers tracing along the waistband. “It’s not like we’ve got an audience, have we?”

Alex shifted slightly on the towel, his sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to see the way his eyes darkened beneath them. “I was wondering when you’d skip to the main event.” 

He was already half-hard under your touch, the heat from his skin mingling with the warmth of the morning sun, and you leaned down closer, lips hovering just near his ear as your fingers continued to toy with the fabric. “I didn’t want to rush you or anything…” you whispered.

He exhaled a soft laugh, his hand moving to rest on your thigh, fingers brushing along your skin as he spoke. “Yeah, well, I’m all yours now, love.”

Your hand hovered for a moment before you touched him, feeling the familiar shape of him. The material was already starting to cling to his skin, sticking slightly from the heat, maybe from the sweat beading at the back of his neck, or maybe from something else entirely. The corners of your mouth tugged upward as your fingers traced his length, watching the way his body responded beneath your touch.

Alex let out a soft breath, the smirk on his face faltering for just a second as his hips shifted slightly, like he couldn’t help it. His hand, still resting on your thigh, tightened its grip, fingers pressing into your skin as you teased. The shorts were clinging tighter now, his cock straining against them. 

“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” you asked. 

He huffed a laugh, tilting his head back slightly. “Wasn’t like you were exactly subtle about it.” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.

You leaned in closer as your fingers pressed harder against him, feeling the heat of him through the now-damp fabric. “And here I thought I was being clever.”

“Mm, clever.” he repeated, his voice low, almost a groan as he shifted again under your touch. Your hand slipped under the waistband of his trunks, brushing against his skin, and he let out a breathy chuckle, his lips parting slightly as he spoke. “You gonna keep teasing me, or…?”

You raised an eyebrow, fingers curling slightly around him, feeling the weight of him in your hand as you leaned down closer. “Depends.” you said. “What do you want?”

His breath hitched slightly. “I want you on top.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyebrow arched in curiosity. “Yeah?” you asked, your fingers still working him slowly.

Alex nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to the horizon where the sun was still rising, casting a golden glow over the ocean. “Yeah.” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I want to watch the sunrise…” His eyes returned to yours, that lazy smirk back on his lips as he added, “And you’ll only add to the view.”

You laughed softly, biting your lip as you shifted. “You’ve got a way with words.”

His hand slid up your thigh, fingers teasing against the hem of your swimsuit as he leaned up enough to brush his lips against yours. “Only when it counts. Now come here.”

You moved over him slowly, the sand warm beneath your knees as you straddled his lap, your body hovering just above his. His hands rested on your hips, firm but gentle, fingers sliding up the sides of your body. He didn’t rush. He never did. His fingers found the ties of your swimsuit bottoms, and he undid them with deliberate slowness. First one side, pulling the string loose with a soft, satisfying tug. He pulled the second knot loose, the fabric loosening around your hips.

“Don’t know how you expect me to focus on anything else.” he muttered, his voice low and teasing as he let the fabric fall away from your skin. His thumb traced over the bare skin of your hip. “You’re making this sunrise thing impossible.”

You smiled down at him, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the firm planes of his stomach. “That’s the point.” you whispered, your voice just as low.

When he reached up for your top, he didn’t bother with the ties. His hands moved over the fabric, pushing the cups away roughly, leaving them bunched up at the sides of your boobs, like he couldn’t be bothered with the mechanics of it. 

“Much better.” he muttered, his voice husky as he gazed up at you.

You leaned forward, fingers tugging at the waistband of his shorts, pushing them down just enough to pull his cock free. You wrapped your hand around him, giving him a slow stroke, feeling the way his breath hitched as you did. 

He let out a low groan, his head tilting back slightly. “The sun’s riiight behind you. It’s like... the perfect shot.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, your voice soft, teasing. “Good view, is it?”

He chuckled, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as he gave a small nod. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

Alex’s fingers slipped up to his face, casually tugging off his sunglasses. He turned his head to the side for a moment, scanning the sand beside him like he was on some kind of mission. You watched him as he found just the right spot, carefully placing them down with exaggerated precision. 

“There we go.” he muttered, half to himself, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he turned his attention back to you. His hands moved back to your hips, gripping you firmly as he shifted his body slightly, adjusting his position beneath you. “Alright…let’s hope we don’t get sand in the wrong places, yeah?” His fingers dug into your hips just a little as he began to position you, guiding you down with a steady, confident grip.

His gaze flicked briefly back to the horizon, the sun now hanging just above the water, casting a soft, golden light over both of you. Then, his eyes returned to you, darker now, full of anticipation.

“Perfect view.” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch.

With one hand, you guided him to your entrance, feeling the heat of him against you as you lined yourself up. Slowly, you sank down onto him, taking him fully in one smooth motion. The sensation was overwhelming, both the stretch and the way he filled you so perfectly. A gasp tore from his throat, sharp and uncontrolled, and his head fell back slightly, eyes squeezing shut.

His hand flew up to your breast, as if on instinct, fingers curling around the soft flesh, gripping it as though he needed something to hold onto. Maybe it was for support — emotional or otherwise — and you couldn’t help but remember the time he’d jokingly told you that he thought “boobs are healing.”

Maybe it wasn’t just a joke. Or maybe it was just because he was obsessed with them — yours, more specifically.

“Fuck…” he breathed out, voice shaky, his thumb brushing over your nipple. His other hand stayed firm on your hip, holding you in place for a moment, as if he needed time to recover from the way you felt around him.

“You alright down there?” you teased, your own breath uneven, feeling the way his body tensed beneath you.

“Barely.” His hand flexed on your waist, pulling you down harder. He wanted to feel every inch of you against him. “You’re…fuckin’ unreal.”

You rolled your hips just a little, watching the way his breath hitched. “Is that so?”

He groaned softly, the sound caught somewhere in his throat as his hips twitched up. “You’ve got no idea.” he whispered, his voice low and breathless. “Every fucking time…it’s like I’m losing my mind.”

You leaned down slightly, bringing your lips close to his ear, your voice soft, teasing. “Good.”

You rocked your hips against him, the sensation overwhelming as his cock stretched you, filled you. His hands clung to your waist, guiding you as you rode him, every muscle straining as he tried to hold on to some shred of control. 

His head tilted back slightly as he watched you move above him. “Fuck…” he breathed, the word slipping from his lips like he couldn’t stop it. 

You could feel him twitch inside you, responding to the way you rolled your hips, grinding down on him. The sun was rising behind you, casting golden light over the beach, but he didn’t seem to notice, his attention entirely consumed by you — the way you felt around him, the way you looked with the light casting shadows across your skin.

“Fuck the sunrise.” he muttered, his voice a breathless rasp, the words almost swallowed by the sounds of your bodies moving together. “Come ‘ere-” His grip tightened on your waist, strong hands pulling you down, forcing you closer to him.

Before you could respond, he grabbed you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you down flush against his chest. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, your breasts pressing against his chest, your heart pounding in sync with his. His arms were strong, firm as they held you, one hand sliding up your back as he pulled you tighter, like he needed you closer and closer, needed to feel every part of you against him.

His face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. You could feel his stubble brush lightly against your collarbone, making you shiver. He buried his face under your chin, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your throat as he held you, his body thrumming with tension beneath yours.

With his knees bent, he found leverage, and he thrust up into you, hard and deep. The sensation ripped through you, making you gasp, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, trying to hold on as his hips bucked up into you with a rough, relentless rhythm. He wasn’t gentle anymore — he was desperate, his need for you overwhelming any sense of restraint he might have had.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” he groaned against your neck, his voice thick and rough. His hands roamed over your back, fingers pressing into your skin as if he couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t pull you close enough. His hips kept driving up into you. 

The air was thick with the sound of soft slaps of your bodies meeting, the wet, slick noises of him thrusting up into you. The ocean waves lapped softly in the background, but it was all distant, like the world had shrunk. His hands dug into your hips, pulling you down harder onto him with each thrust, his body trembling beneath yours with the effort of holding back.

“God, you’re-” he tried to speak but couldn’t finish the sentence, too overwhelmed by the feel of you, the way your body moved with his. His hands slid down your back, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist as he held you tighter, his lips brushing against your throat in a desperate kiss. 

You couldn’t hold back either, your hands clutching at his shoulders, back, nails digging into his skin. His knees bent tighter, giving him more leverage as he fucked up into you harder, his whole body trembling beneath yours. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as if holding on to you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’re…fuck- Alex-” you gasped. “I love you.” he murmured between thrusts. Your heart clenched. You managed to choke out, “So much.” 

He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut, repeating it again, more urgent this time. “So much…so much…” His voice broke with the weight of it, and the sound of him saying it, again and again. “You’re everything.” he gasped, his hands holding you tight. “I can’t...fuck...you’re everything.”

Your body trembled as the sensation built inside you, the pleasure mounting higher with every thrust, every breathless whisper. The way he held you, the way he filled you so completely was too much. You clung to his shoulders. You could barely form the words, your voice shaking as you whispered, “I’m gonna come…”

“Please, please…” he muttered, his voice a rough, desperate plea, like he was begging for you to fall apart in his arms. His hands gripped you tighter, his fingers pressing hard into your hips as if he could pull you closer, hold you tighter.

You could feel him everywhere. His breath hot against your neck, his heart pounding under your palm, his cock throbbing deep inside you. And then it hit. Your body seized, your muscles tightened around him. A soft, broken cry escaped your lips, muffled against his hair. 

He groaned, his voice rough and strained as he felt your walls gripping him in a way that made him lose all sense of control. “Fuck.” he muttered, his rhythm faltering as his hips jerked up into you one last time, too much for him to hold back, his grip on you unsteady as he let go, spilling into you moments later. 

His hands, still holding you, softened their grip, his fingers now gently tracing over your skin as his breathing began to slow. His release poured into you, the heat of it making you feel completely connected, like you were one with him in that moment, everything else fading away. His hands slid up your back, soothing, as he pressed a soft kiss against your shoulder, his lips brushing against your skin in a tender, wordless gesture.

Slowly, you lifted yourself off his chest, sitting back on his thighs. The weight of him still inside you was grounding, intimate, and as you gazed down at him, your heart felt like it might burst.

His face was flushed, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. The soft morning light framed him perfectly, making him look almost unreal, like he was made of something more delicate in that moment.

Your hand moved instinctively, fingers brushing over his jaw, tracing the stubble there before sliding down to his lips. You let your thumb graze his lower lip, trembling slightly from the intensity of it all, as if that small touch held more weight than anything else. His lips were soft, swollen from your earlier kisses. You couldn’t help but be drawn to them.

And then a drop of spit gathered at the edge of his lip, and it was like that tiny, insignificant detail unravelled you completely. It slipped from your control, your breath hitching as you watched it slowly make its way down. So simple, so quiet. Somehow, it was everything. You couldn’t stop yourself, you didn’t want to. 

Your thumb pressed gently against his lower lip, tracing it softly, and as if he knew exactly what you needed, his lips parted slightly, inviting you in. The moment his mouth opened, warm and wet, you let your finger slip inside. His lips closed around it. 

It was intimate, too intimate almost. You sat there, your finger resting on his tongue, feeling the soft heat of his breath against your knuckles. He let it happen, let you in, let you feel him in this simple way.

It was overwhelming in a way you hadn’t expected — the sensation of his mouth on your finger, the soft press of his lips, the warmth of his tongue. You felt vulnerable, exposed, yet completely in control all at once. And he just lay there, letting you take whatever you wanted from him, his body relaxed under yours, as if you were the only thing holding him to this earth.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a quiet glimmer in them that said he wanted to speak. Slowly, you slid your finger out of his mouth, watching as his lips parted, his breath quick and shallow.

He blinked, his voice soft and a little hoarse from everything. “You wanna wash this off?” He let the words hang there for a second, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “In the water?”

His question hung in the air, and you tilted your head, your own smile forming in response. “What, you need a rinse after that?”

A low, lazy sound rumbled in his chest as he stretched his arms above his head. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no. There’s sand everywhere.” His fingers brushed your thigh as if to prove his point, raising a brow. With his other hand, he tugged your bikini top back into place, pulling the fabric over your breasts with a flick. “And we’re not exactly clean anymore.”

You shifted slightly, still perched on his thighs, and glanced over at the ocean, the waves gently lapping at the shore just a few feet away. The idea of the cool water against your heated skin was tempting, but you couldn’t help but drag it out a little.

“Couldn’t wait for the main event, and now you’re complaining about a little sand?” you teased, fingers trailing down his chest in a lazy circle. His skin was still damp with sweat, and the cool morning air felt good against it. 

He snorted, shaking his head as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m not complaining. I just-” He paused, glancing down at where your bodies were still tangled together. “Could use a reset, you know? Before we...get into anything else.”

You raised an eyebrow, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. “Already planning what’s next, huh?”

Alex shrugged, eyes glinting. “I’m just sayin’, we’ve got the whole day. I’m sure you’ve got more surprises up your sleeve.”

“Oh, I do.” You leaned down, lips brushing against his just enough. “But I think I could use a dip first. Cool down a bit.”

His hands slid to your hips, squeezing gently as he smirked. “You and me both.”

You smiled back, sitting up and sliding off him carefully. You extended a hand to him, and with a playful groan, he took it, letting you help him to his feet. As he reached down to adjust his swim shorts, tugging them back into place with a muttered, “Think we managed to not get sand in any…delicate places.” You were busy tying the loose strings of your bikini bottoms, fingers knotting them back in place, the ties brushing softly against your thighs.