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Between Shadows and Moonlight

Plot: You watche a horror movie at Kylian’s house, only for him. Spooked by his teasing about the place being haunted, you abandon the guest room and sneak into his. What starts as banter turns into unspoken closeness neither of you dares to name.

Genre: Smut, friends to lovers

Warnings: astraphobia

Taglist: @hood-jabi @jkkyks @jkkymb-10 @hynjamkook

The screen flashes cold light across the room, shadows climbing the walls. You tuck the blanket higher, heart thudding with every eerie sound.

Beside you, Kylian maddeningly calm—his arm draped along the back of the couch, his body loose with ease. Every so often, his gaze slides to you, catching the way you flinch.

“Wait for the part where their guts are out,” he teases softly, though his eyes linger a little too long, as if memorizing the curve of your expression.

“Ew,” you gag unwillingly.

His lips curve, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Something warmer flickers there—something he hides under the disguise of teasing.

Another scare rips through the room. You jump, pressing the blanket close. He chuckles under his breath, but then… his fingers brush yours, almost absently, when he reaches for the popcorn bowl between you. The touch is nothing, really—but your chest tightens as if it means everything.

For a second, he stills. His throat works as if swallowing back words he doesn’t trust himself to say. Then he leans back, smile faint but softer this time.

The movie drags on, each shadow on the screen twisting into something darker in your imagination. You hug the blanket tight, trying not to let him notice how jumpy you’d become.

Kylian leans back, arm resting lazily along the sofa. His eyes catching yours in a flash of lightning from the screen, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You know…” he begins, voice low and almost casual, “the estate agent said this house is haunted.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What?”

He bites back a laugh. “Mmhm. Years ago, someone was murdered right here. Strange noises at night, lights flickering, footsteps in the hall—”

“Stop.” Your voice is sharp, but your fingers tighten on the blanket like a lifeline.

He chuckles, pleased with himself. “I’m just saying, if you see something moving in the corner later, don’t be surprised.”

“Kylian—”

“Relax,” he murmurs, leaning closer, his shoulder brushing yours like it was nothing. His voice softens, teasing but warm. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Your heart stutters, and you look away, pretending the movie still holds your focus. But long after the credits roll, the thought of footsteps in the hallway wouldn’t let you breathe.

The guest room is too quiet.

Too big.

Too empty.

You lay under the covers, staring at the ceiling as the silence presses down. Every sound of the house—pipes shifting, wood creaking—makes your pulse quicken. The shadows in the corners stretch like they know you are afraid.

The storm outside gnaws at the silence—raindrops racing down the glass, thunder stretching its growl across the sky. You bury yourself under the covers, but it is no use. Every creak of the house replays Kylian’s earlier words about it being haunted, and every rumble of thunder presses like a weight against your ribs.

You turn onto your side. The sheets are cold. The space is empty.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will yourself into sleep. But the truth isn’t just the movie—it is him. You can’t stop replaying the way his voice dips when he said Sweet dreams, like the words mean more than they should.

And all you could think of is him—just down the hall, his steady calm, his warm teasing voice.

It takes too long to admit it to yourself, but finally you give up. Your feet find the floor, and you creep through the dark hallway, heart pounding as if the house itself could hear.

At his door, you hesitate. What if he laughs? What if he sends you back?

But the thought of the empty bed behind you, the shadows, the storm—your hand rises before you can stop it. One soft knock.

You swing the door open, and there he is—eyes heavy with sleep. Bare chest catching the silver light.

You slip past him, trying not to notice the way the room smells like him—clean cotton, cologne, and something softer you can’t name.

The storm cracks again, louder this time, and you can’t take it anymore. You reach out, brushing your fingers against his arm.

“Kylian,” you whisper.

He stirrs with a low groan, lids heavy as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Mmm… why are you waking me up…?“ His voice is thick with sleep, almost slurred.

“I—” you falter, twisting the blanket between your fingers. “It’s… it’s loud outside..”

He opens one eye at you, confused, still halfway lost in dreams. His gaze shifts to the window as another rumble rolls through. “Yeah... Thunder.”

„I know what it is..”

„What time is it?” He asks.

„2:30”

“Meuf (girl) You‘re waking me up because it’s storming outside?…” He lets out a long yawn.

You bite your lip, your voice smaller now. “I.. I guess I am.”

He squints at you, exasperated in the way only someone half-asleep could be. “It’s thunder. It’s supposed to be loud.” Then, softer, teasing even through his drowsiness: “Don’t tell me you’re actually scared of it.”

Your cheeks heat, though your body trembles at the thought of another strike.

He squints at you, confusion soft in his features.

“You’re kidding, right?” His voice is rough from sleep, low enough to make your stomach twist.

Heat blooms across your cheeks. “I… can’t sleep.”

He sits up. For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes—exasperation, yes, but also something warmer, something he isn’t letting out. Then he sighs, dragging a hand over his face.

“Urgh. Fine. Get in.”

„Wh—”

This is not what you wanted?

„Come on.”

When his arm lifts the blanket, the movement makes it obvious. Bare skin, the line of his hip, the fact that there is nothing but soft cotton boxers between him and the night air.

Embarrassments sweeps through you so quickly it nearly weakens your knees.

Keeping as much distance as the mattress allow. The air between you feels charged, your awareness prickling at every shift of his body. You curl close to the edge, heart racing, desperate not to let it show.

Your breath catches. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn quickly onto your side, praying he hasn’t noticed your reaction.

The bed dips as you slide under the covers, and your pulse doesn’t settle, not when you feel the heat of him close by, not when you know this isn’t supposed to happen.

And yet… it feels like the only place you belong.

For a long moment neither of you speak. Only the faint hum of rain against the windows fill the space.

Then his voice, quiet, almost amused:

“The house isn’t haunted by the way. I was only joking earlier.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, turning toward him. “You’re a jerk for that by the way.”

You hear him laugh briefly.

”I just love teasing you.”

„Yeah, well great job. Cause I am actually scared.”

His mouth curves. “Hey, it’s just some rain and thunder.”

Your eyes flicker over him before you could stop yourself— eyes dark, yet soft.

Your throat tightens. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “When I was little, lightning hit our roof once.”

His brows knit, but you keep going, the memory tugging you under.

“I remember the walls shaking, the glass shattering. My mom—she dragged me out barefoot, in the rain. I can still hear the sirens, smell the smoke. I thought…” Your voice cracks, raw, “…I thought the whole house was going to fall on top of me.”

The silence stretches, heavy, broken only by the rain against the windows. You turn your face into the pillow, shame burning through you. “So yeah. Storms still… get to me.”

You hear his breath catch, sharper now, and when he speaks, the sleep is gone from his voice.

“You never told me that.”

His expression softens.

You shrug, embarrassed, eyes burning. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” His voice is steady now, no teasing in it. He lifts the blanket just a little higher, an unspoken invitation. “Come closer.”

You turn your face to look at him confused.

Skin smooth.

Heat.

Waistline.

Hipbone.

D-

NO.

NOPE.

You look away quickly. But he catches it. Of course he catches it.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“You’re not descent.. and you invited me to your bed.”

“No.......” He declines. “YOU INVADED my room. And I am trying to distract you.”

Well, it’s definitely working.

Ehem.

Then, with a laugh under his breath: “Besides, what else do you expect me to sleep in?”

Your face burns hotter. “You could’ve warned me.”

He stretches, deliberate, like a cat settling into its space. “If it bothers you that much,” he says lazily, “you can always go back to the guest room. Where you belong.” A short laugh slips from him, teasing, soft. “...Brat.”

You huff and pull the blanket tighter around you, refusing to meet his gaze. But the thunder outside cracks sharp and sudden, and you jump despite yourself.

Your breath falters. Without thinking, your hands fly to your ears, pressing tight against them as if you could shut the sound out. Your shoulders curl in, trembling with each rumble, body shaking despite every attempt to keep still.

The smile slides from his face instantly. He shifts toward you, voice gentler now.

Beside you, the mattress shifts. He notices instantly.

“Hey,” his voice broke through the storm, low and urgent. “You’re shaking.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, head ducking further under the blanket. “I can’t—” the words crack, your chest tightens, “I hate it, I hate it—”

“Shhh.” The sound is soft but firm, his hand brushing the blanket near your arm. “Shhh, it’s alright.”

Another boom tears through the sky and you gasp, curling tighter, palms still pressed over your ears.

That’s when he moves closer, his body heat sudden, his voice steady against the chaos outside.

“Come here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

His gaze softens. He reaches closer, his tone low, steady. „I’m here.”

Relief washes through you at first. The storm is still wild outside, but with him here, the panic eases. His chest rises and falls against your back, his breathing slow, drowsy. You try to match it, to let it calm you.

But the longer you lie there, the sharper your awareness becomes. Every brush of his skin against yours sparks heat under your ribs. The air feels too thick. You shift slightly, meaning only to get comfortable, but it pulls you nearer. His warmth spreads across you, unshakable, and your pulse stumbles.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just the storm. Just comfort. But your thoughts betray you, circling the things you never let yourself say—the way his laugh lodges in your chest, the way you watch him when you shouldn’t.

Another rumble cracks the night. You flinch, tensing in his hold. His hand shifts, steadying you, his palm lingering just long enough to make your breath falter.

His arm curves more firmly around you, pulling you closer into his warmth. At first you’re stiff, unsure, but slowly you give in, easing into the shape of him. His chest is steady against your back, his breath brushing your hair, and the tension in your shoulders begins to melt.

For a while, neither of you speak. The storm growls outside, but here in the cocoon of his embrace, it feels distant, muted. You close your eyes, almost lulled by the rhythm of him.

Then you hear it — a low sound in his throat, almost a hum.

You shift slightly, glancing up at him. “Something wrong?”

He blinks, caught. “No..” But his lips twitch, like he’s holding something back.

“Tell me.”

He hesitates, then exhales, the words slipping out softer than you expect. “It’s just… I like this.” His arm tightens just a little, enough for you to feel the truth in it. “You. Here. I could get used to it.”

Your breath stutters, heat blooming in your chest. You can’t move, can’t think — only feel the thrum of something breaking loose between you, something that’s been waiting in the silence all along.

You turn to face him. Glance up, his eyes are already on you. Heavy-lidded from sleep, but sharp now, searching. He doesn’t move closer, not yet. He just looks at you, the silence stretching, thick and unspoken.

You try to laugh it off, though your voice wavers. “You’re half-asleep. You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

But when you risk a glance at him, his eyes are open now, fully awake, dark and steady. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t teasing. He just watches you, as though waiting.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. “Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, meaning to sound firm, but it comes out softer, trembling.

He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t need to. The weight of his gaze feels like touch, like heat pooling under your skin.

“I can’t help it,” he murmurs.

Silence falls again, thick, fragile. You could pull away. You should. But you don’t. Instead, you stay where you are, every nerve alive, your body pressed against the warmth of his chest.

Another roll of thunder shakes the glass, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. His hand slides instinctively over yours, steadying, protective.

His eyes don’t leave yours, not this time. They flicker down, lingering on your mouth for a fraction too long before he gulps, his throat working visibly. The room feels suddenly smaller, the air heavier, like everything is suspended on what he’ll say next.

“Y/n…” His voice is rough, quieter than before.

Your chest tightens. “Yes, Kylian?”

For a beat, he hesitates, lips parting, then pressing together like he’s weighing the risk. Finally, almost in a whisper, he asks, “Will you slap me if I kiss you?”

The breath catches in your throat. His eyes stay locked on yours, waiting, unflinching, though you can see the faint tension in his jaw.

Slowly, you lean in, close enough that he can feel your words brush against his skin. “Probably, yes.”

He hisses a laugh, shaking his head, a soft disbelief in his smile. “Zut.” (darn/damn)

And it’s then — in the quiet after the rumble fades — that he leans in, slow, hesitant, as though giving you every chance to stop him. His lips brush yours, a whisper of a kiss, a question.

The answer leaves you in the way you tilt closer, in the way your fingers curl against his skin.

And then he kisses you. Not deep, not yet. Just a taste—gentle, testing, like he’s seeing if you’ll let him.

You don’t slap him. You don’t pull away. You lean in, answer him, your lips moving with his in a quiet rush of heat.

This time, when he goes back in, it’s certain. There’s no flinch, no sting of rejection.

His cheek doesn’t burn.

But your heart does.

The kiss deepens, gentle at first, then urgent, breaking open the storm you’ve both been holding back.

Your lips part, a breath slipping out you didn’t mean to release. His gaze drops for the briefest second—your mouth, then back to your eyes.

He is on top of you, and you haven’t had the slightest idea how and when that happened.

But no complaints.

Your heart lurches. For a second, you freeze. And then—only then—you tilt closer, letting the kiss deepen in a quiet rush of heat that feels like it’s been waiting forever.

His hand, warm and steady, slides from your arm to your waist, holding you as though you might vanish if he lets go.

You press closer without thinking, drawn into the heat of him. The storm outside is nothing now, only a faint echo against the pounding in your chest.

When you finally part for air, your foreheads rest together. His breath fans across your lips, uneven, as though he’s just as undone as you.

“What the fuck are we doing, Y/N?” He whispers, voice shaky. His thumb brushing your lip, and that sets your soft skin alight.

“I don’t know.” You answer.

Your hand finds his chest — warm, solid, racing just as fast as yours. You don’t move it away. Instead, your fingers curl against him, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. „But right now I don’t care about that.”

He tilts his head, catching your gaze in the dim light. For a moment, he looks like he might say something more, something heavy, but the words don’t come. Instead, he leans in again, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s no longer tentative.

It’s deeper now, hungrier, like all the restraint has snapped. His hand slides up your back, anchoring you closer, until you’re flush against him, until there’s no space left to hide.

You sigh into him, your body softening in his hold, and the sound makes him tighten his grip, his lips moving over yours with an urgency that feels like confession.

The storm rages outside, but here, in his arms, it’s only heat, only the two of you unraveling, piece by piece.

He pulls away so sudden, it leaves you shaken with lust and drunkenness.

His eyes flick down to your lips again, dark and certain now. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

“Are you on the pill, Y/n?”

The words are low, steady, deliberate. Not a slip — a choice. His gaze pins you in place, daring you to look away, daring you to deny the fire sparking between you.

Your breath hitches, your pulse stutters. Heat shoots through you at the certainty in his voice, at the way he asks it like he already knows the answer, like he’s already decided what happens if you say yes.

“Yes…” Your voice comes out thin, trembling, but his grip only tightens, pulling you a fraction closer.

“Okay,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, confident, unrelenting. “Okay.” he repeats, like he is calming the racing thoughts in his head.

Before you can form words to calm him down, his hand is moving — steady at your waist, then sliding higher along your side, his palm warm even through the thin fabric between you. The contrast is unbearable: his touch confident, grounding, while your body betrays you, shivering under the weight of it.

You can’t hide it. He feels it — the way your breath falters, the way your chest rises too fast against his. His thumb brushes slow circles against your skin, as though he’s both calming you and staking claim in the same motion.

“Kylian…” His name spills from you, fragile, a warning or a plea—you can’t tell which.

He leans in, his lips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, the words almost a hum. “But you’re not pulling away.”

Another shiver runs through you, sharper this time, and his grip tightens—not to trap, but to anchor, to keep you from drifting apart in the storm of your own nerves.

And still, his touch lingers, steady and sure, while you tremble beneath it—your body answering every question you’re too breathless to say aloud.

„Can I make you feel good?”

Another shiver runs through you, sharper this time. Instead of pulling away, you let yourself sink further into him, your hand sliding up his chest, curling against his bare shoulder. Silent, wordless, you choose him.

„Yes.”

And that’s all it takes. His restraint breaks. His mouth crashes back onto yours, hungrier now, no hesitation, no testing — just the raw heat of everything you’ve both buried for too long. His hands roam, reverent but desperate, as though he needs to memorize every curve, every shiver, every silent plea your body gives him.

The storm outside roars louder, thunder shaking the windows, but in his arms you feel only his warmth, his weight, his certainty. And in your silence, he hears everything he’s been waiting for.

His hand sneaks under your cotton shirt and he takes your left breast in his hand, moaning in response. Your nipples errect.

He doesn’t need permission to take your shirt off, so he does.

He sits up. Admiring you with pleasure.

„You are a beautiful woman.” He confesses, and it almost gives him a reason not to tarnish beauty with his hands.

You caress his warm cheek and he blinks back to reality. He smiles ever so purely and plants butterfly kisses to your neck.

You hum. Tilt your head because you want more.

His kisses trail further down.

Down.

Till he reaches your cool stomach and reaches the rim of your not so flattering panties.

At least the color complements your skin.

But then he reaches your lower belly, and he stops. He kisses the inner side of your hot thigh, and then slowly, he moves his hands up to your sides, his touch gentle but insistent, slipping your underwear off with careful precision. His fingertips trace the curve of your hips, then slides down the smoothness of your skin, igniting a fire inside you that you couldn’t ignore.

You meet his gaze, your own breath rags. „Kyks...?” You whisper, your voice trembling. „No regrets.”

“No regrets.” and his words are a release, a confession, and as he looks down to what his hands do next, everything between you shifts. There were no more barriers, no more fears. Only the raw, undeniable desire that had built up between you for far too long.

He slides them down. And you tremble. But when he licks your clit you shiver.

„Oh, fuck.” You whimper.

He licks it again, boldly this time. Like he has already learnt the secrets of your body.

And the next thing you know? He was sucking you good.

You’ve never been with a man that is that good with his tongue.

He knew your spots.

When to stop, when to lick, and when to go harder.

He is alternating between sweet and short and hard and dirty.

The moment he starts to hum against your opening, you let go of everything else the danger, the consequences, even the fear. Because in that moment, there is nothing but you.

The room seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you locked in a magnetic pull that neither of you can resist. Kylian’s hands, firm yet tender, move with purpose as he takes his boxers off.

And oh my God.

You knew he was big, but...?

You gulp. But you don’t panic. Because you will take him good and you both know it.

He positions himself, looking down at you the whole time. „If it gets too much...” He gives you a chance to turn him down.

But you look him deeply in the eyes.

The Kylian you were too scared to touch in the past is now on top of you, willing to connect with you the way you had hoped for.

So you grab his neck and pull him in for a heated kiss.

And he takes it as a sign to dive into you.

He is rough yet tender, his touches a contradiction of the man you are beginning to know. And for all your softness, you match him, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you meet his intensity with your own.

This night, in the safety of the storm’s embrace, Kylian and yourself became more than just two people drawn together by a bond of friendship. You became something raw and unbreakable, your connection forged in the fire of your emotions.

„You feel... so good,” he breathes. „This is ridiculous.”

You whimper when he moans, his lips apart. And his thrusts turn more needy.

„I’ve never been touched the way you touch me, Kylian.”

„I’ve never touched anyone the way I touch you...” he confesses to you in a whisper, awed by how it feels to have his hands on you in a way that is all about love.

„Can I go faster?”

You nod timidly, watching him as he does what he wants with you, holding you with cherishing fingers, easing every tensed muscle, every burn of chafed skin. You can’t stop staring at the way he’s examining you, consuming gaze traveling the same route as your head does when it turns.

„Kylian...” Your eyes fall shut when he presses deeper into you, his hand gently cupping your face. Too good to be true...

„Y/N..” he breathes.

You moan in response.

Because the way he says your name makes your soul soar high.

Kylian tilts your head to meet his gaze. He’s looking at you like one would admire the most precious thing to their heart.

You grasp his jaw and bring his mouth quickly to yours, kissing him impatiently while you can.

„This is different, baby,” He hums in between frantic kisses. „Tell me it’s different for you too...”

You nod fast while your lips chase the high. „It’s different. It is.”

„What does it mean?” you hate the desperation in your own tone.

You don’t want to be the one freaking out over this, but you are. You’re teetering, not knowing where he stands. Not knowing if this will last... Not knowing fucking anything other than how you feel about him, which is so spectacularly inconvenient it makes you shiver down to your bones even while laying with him in one bed.

But suddenly he stops.

His thrusts stop.

And you wonder why, because he didn’t cum yet, that you know for sure. Now, suddenly you’re so damn scared this heat will run cold.

„I don’t... I don’t know.” His voice shakes a little, and it kills you, because you don’t want him to be afraid.

You can’t both be afraid... it’ll never work. You want him to know for both of you, but you just don’t think he does.

It sucks.

„I think...” He says. „I think it means we are too scared to admit the truth.”

You instinctively brush his shoulder blade with your thumb, soothing his nervousness.

„And that would be?” you ask.

„That I’m holding it back just to not fuck it up.” He admits. „or to lose you for good.”

You blink and then stare down, he’s still inside you, deeply. You glance up and see his teethy grin, followed by his loud giggle.

His laugh stumbles halfway, softening into something quieter. When his eyes meet yours again, there’s nothing playful left there—only heat, sharp and startling.

“Y/n, I…” He stops, jaw flexing, searching for words. “This… this isn’t something I just decided to do out of the blue.”

His voice is rougher now, stripped of its usual ease. His eyes don’t leave yours, as if he’s afraid you’ll miss it if he looks away. “It’s not just because of the storm. Or the movie. Or whatever excuse I could make.”

There’s a silence that hums between you, thick and alive. You feel the truth of it in the heat of his palm, the steady weight of his body keeping you close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he leans in just a little closer. Softer now:

“It’s you. It’s always been you.”

The words slip out quieter than a whisper, but they land heavy, undeniable. His forehead presses to yours as though he’s said too much and can’t take it back now.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t trust your voice. Instead, you stay perfectly still, your chest brushing his with every shallow breath, your silence speaking louder than anything you could say.

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh but not quite. “Say somet—”

He means to say, but your hand finds his jaw, tentative, feather-light. You turn his face back toward you, and the look in your eyes stills him. No running, no pretending. Just this.

„I love the man you are, Kylian.” You whisper, raw, trembling but certain.

His chest tightens beneath your hand, his breath catching as though no one has ever said that to him before. His eyes search yours, dark and almost disbelieving.

You lean closer, lips grazing his. Softer, shakier now:

“…and now I want to feel it.”

The air shifts instantly. His jaw flexes under your touch, his control unraveling. His hand slips to hold yours, pinning it up, fingers intertwine, and then he pushes dee into you, you flush against him as if answering without words.

His breath catches. The storm outside swells. And then his lips touch yours again — not playful, not teasing, but slow, reverent, trembling with everything he can’t seem to hide anymore.

This time, when you melt against him, it’s not just silence. It’s answer enough.

He seals himself to you, hands gripping yours tighter as his forehead drops

to yours. „I... Am close.”

Your chest opens up like a bloom for him.

Because so were you.

Kissing him for many more minutes, you eventually ease into him.

Thunder rattles the windows, rain streaking in furious rivers down the glass, but inside the world has narrowed to nothing but heat and breath and skin. Every kiss, every touch feeds the fire already smoldering between you, until it blazes out of control.

It builds in waves, sensual at first, then faster, stronger, until you’re lost in it — a rhythm you can’t resist, a hunger you can’t silence. You cling to him, nails pressing into his fist, grounding yourself in the only thing that feels real: him.

And then it crests.

The moment shatters like lightning splitting the sky, a rush so sharp and blinding it steals the air from your lungs.

„Ohmygod, oh my g—” You moan before you break against him, with him, the two of you carry over the edge together, held in each other’s arms as the storm inside finally crashes.

For a breathless heartbeat, there is nothing. No storm, no fear, no words. Only silence. Only the quiet press of your forehead against his, the pounding of his chest beneath your palm, and the undeniable truth of what just happened — and what it means.

The world slows in the aftermath. The storm outside, though still raging, feels distant now — like a far-off echo compared to the storm you’ve just survived in each other’s arms.

You’re breathless, pressed against him, your skin hot where it touches his, but it isn’t the fire that holds you now. It’s the quiet. The way his chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, uneven at first, then slowly finding its rhythm.

His hand stays at the small of your back, splayed wide, anchoring you there as if to remind you: don’t move. Don’t drift. You’re his.

He exhales, a low sound more like a sigh than a laugh, his lips brushing your hair. “Y/n…” He doesn’t finish the thought. Maybe he doesn’t know how. Maybe there are no words yet.

You tilt your head just enough to look at him, and his gaze is soft now — stripped of teasing, stripped of control. It’s just him, bare and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.

His thumb strokes absent circles along your spine, slow and thoughtless. He kisses your temple, gentle, lingering, as if he needs you to know this isn’t only hunger. “Stay,” he whispers finally. Just that. “Stay tonight and every other night as well.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The way you curl closer into his warmth, the way you let your eyes flutter shut against his chest, is answer enough.

The storm outside beats against the walls, but here, in his arms, it cannot touch you. Here, there is only the quiet glow of unexpected love.

A/N: so so sorry for my unannounced and unwanted hiatus. My life has turned upside down due to work. I am very tired and drained most of the time. That’s why I’m mostly resting. I missed you tho ♥️♥️

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