#ngba

You fell asleep in his arms three weeks ago. 

And what happens when roommates fall asleep in each other’s arms? 

They wake up and pretend like nothing happened. 

Only, it wasn’t nothing. It’s never been nothing and you’re sick and tired of pretending that it is. How could it be nothing when it felt like everything? The weight of his arm draped around you, the way his nose pressed against your shoulder, how safe you felt in the half-dark…

However, for the sake of your living arrangement, you always carry on. Woe is me; shoving it all down as far as it will go, swallowing the truth with every word and looking away too quickly before it gets awkward. He kept himself at arm’s length, moving through the apartment like a ghost with keys and you tip-toed around the silence that now hangs in the corners with the cobwebs. Even the couch felt unexplainably more stiff. 

Regardless, you agreed. Of course you did. You loved going to parties where you don’t know anyone and your date knows everyone. Sounds like a great way to end up sitting in a corner, alone, with a handful of cheese cubes and a glass of wine while you listen to couples in black tie and satin drone on about mortgage rates and investing. 

You’ve never seen Aegon in a suit. 

He wears it well but you can tell he’s uncomfortable; fidgeting with his cufflinks and pulling at the collar as he adjusts in the mirror that hangs next to the front door. His typical unruly silver strands are slicked back and his lips are pouted as he huffs at his reflection. You step into the hallway, heels clicking on creaking hardwood, and he turns– suddenly looking at you as if all of the oxygen in the room had evaporated. He swallows thick as his eyes drag down your frame slowly, lingering subtly in certain places. 

“You know,” you tell him with a small smile, unable to hide the blush that begins to creep up your neck. “We don’t have to go.”

His eyes meet yours and the breath he’s been holding bursts through his lips in a laugh. “And miss the opportunity for the world to see you in this dress?” He asks with a smirk. “Are you mental?”

You shrug in response, reaching for his slightly crooked tie, “You’re crooked.”

“I was going for rakish,” his voice is a deep breath. “Adds character.” 

“Mm,” you hum as you softly tighten his tie for a more polished look. “Or incompetence.”

His eyes burn into you as you smooth the fabric between your fingers. The mint of his toothpaste is sharp, clean, so close it whispers against your cheek. You’re more than aware of the proximity, the heat rolling off him in waves, the way his body stills as if he’s afraid to move. Your fingers linger for a moment too long, you both notice. 

“You’re beautiful.”

The words slip from his lips, soft and stripped, as if he didn't mean to say them out loud but couldn’t stop himself. For a moment the room holds its breath as the silence begins to settle in. You look up, caught in his gaze, and your pulse spikes. Before you can respond– before you can even decide what to do with it– he’s already moving. 

He clears his throat and steps back, “Shall we?” 

The rooftop is clean, understated; white linens and champagne flutes, soft string lights that really allow the skyline to show off. The city hums below you, a low buzz that blends with the music and conversation. It’s minimal and rich; a far cry from the vibrant colors and coziness of Helena’s art show. 

You don’t fit here, not really. 

And truthfully, neither does Aegon. 

His hand stays at your back; a steady and deliberate pressure that steers you through the crowd. He snags a champagne flute from a passing tray and hands it off to you without looking and immediately goes back for two more. The first goes down fast, the second even faster. You watch as the muscles in his jaw shift, something fragile flickers just beneath the surface before he hides it behind a crooked grin.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says, looking over your shoulder. 

Before you can ask, a shout answers back across the rooftop. “Mate, he lives!”

Aegon laughs and steps forward into the noise. He meets his friend halfway– palms snapping, shoulders bumping– then another voice joins in, another round of teasing, and suddenly the crowd invites him into the mix. You hang back half a step, watching him slip into the rhythm of familiarity. It’s effortless, the way he plays it, but you can tell it’s performative. 

He introduces you as his friend, but pauses as if the word didn’t taste right in his mouth, then cleanses his pallet with your name. 

One of them smirks, nudging the guy beside him. “So this is her, yeah?”

Her. 

You glance at Aegon, narrow eyes, searching for his reaction. He only smiles, small and tight-lipped. His friends glance between the two of you, half-drunk grins that have just figured something out. You can feel the heat climbing up your neck, desperate for someone to change the subject before you catch fire. 

“You’re the one who finally got him to settle down, huh?” 

An automatic, ingenuine laugh forces its way from your throat, trying to match the energy of the group, “I don’t think anyone could get this guy to settle.” 

The crowd laughs, of course they do. The sound is bright and easy and champagne-coated. Aegon rolls his eyes in jest, but his hand drops from your back in an instant and you immediately miss the warmth. 

“You’re not wrong,” he deflects sarcastically and excuses himself, probably for another drink.

You nod along with the next joke, pretending you’re still listening, but your ears are ringing. His friends ask where you’re from, what you do for a living, and you shrug a response but your eyes follow him for as long as they can until he disappears. 

The conversation dies almost instantly. 

After a few more polite exchanges, you excuse yourself before the air gets too heavy. You weave between clusters of people, looking for that flash of silver hair. And he’s easy to spot, standing across the terrace with another group. His smile doesn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes, but it’s convincing enough that no one else would notice. 

You hover a few feet away, half-hidden behind some geometrical floral arrangement, pretending you’re not watching. He’s gesturing mid-story, champagne glass in hand, playing the part like it’s second nature. He’s good at this, being charming. Being the version of himself that fits. The one who knows what to say and when to say it.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s actually having a good time. 

With nothing left to do but stand there like a creep, you reach for a distraction; fill a small plate with hors d’oeuvres, another glass of champagne, and find a quiet corner that overlooks the city. The breeze lifts the hair at the nape of your neck– carries on it the faint scent of exhaust and weed and some woman’s Black Opium. You trace the cold edge of the balcony rail with your fingertip, watching the blur of headlights below, and wonder what it would feel like to stope over-thinking everything for once.

You focus on that, on the skyline, on pretending you don’t care that he’s not beside you.

Until he is.

Without a word, he plucks a cheese cube off your plate and pops it into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. “They could’ve spent more money on caterin’, the cheap cunts,” he says, mouth full, eyes on the view instead of you.

He stands close enough that the fabric of his jacket grazes your arm whenever he breathes. You look at him– the side of his face, the slope of his jaw, the way the light turns his hair to something angelic– and your chest tightens in a familiar, humiliating way. Below, taxi lights decorate the avenues, a siren wails blocks away, the bell of a courier’s bicycle chimes as someone steps out into the bike lane without looking. 

You only see him. 

Someone behind you drops a fork; the sound is sharp and metallic as it hits the floor. 

You jolt back into yourself and turn to see the commotion. 

When you glance back at Aegon, he’s already looking at you; eyes soft and lilac. You want to say something, anything, but your lips are sewn shut, saving yourself from saying something you’ll immediately regret. The silence starts to stretch between you– elastic and thin– and he turns his gaze back to the skyline. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He looks down, a brief wash of fluorescent blue on his face as a familiar name lights up the screen. Otto Hightower. You catch the way his jaw sets before he presses the side button and slides it back into his jacket pocket. 

“What are you thinking about right now?” Your voice is softer than you intended. 

He doesn’t answer right away and you brace yourself for the eventual deflection or rejection. You focus instead on a custodian mopping an office floor in the building across the street. You can feel him look over at you, but you don’t dare meet his gaze. 

“How badly I want to kiss you right now.” 

Your neck nearly snaps to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, that soft champagne pink that makes him look unfairly beautiful. For a second, no one moves. The city hums below, a car horn blares in the distance, and you swear you can feel your pulse in your ears. 

“Ha ha,” You roll your eyes, leaning into him playfully. “Very funny.” 

Aegon doesn’t laugh. His eyes are soft, unguarded. The smirk fades slowly from his lips, replaced by something heavier, quieter. His gaze traces over your face like he’s trying to say something without using words. And in that moment, something clicks into place with a quiet finality that feels like a trapdoor opening beneath your feet. Your stomach lurches, the air catches in your throat, and for a breathless second you’re weightless– caught between falling and landing, between fear and desire.

You look away first, of course you do. 

It’s too much. Too real.

The space between you feels dangerous now, heavy with everything neither of you is ready to say. So you force a laugh that doesn’t sound like you and cross your arms over your chest like armor.

“Do you ever get tired of giving me whiplash?” You ask, aiming for playful and missing by a mile.

He shifts. “I’m not trying to–” 

“You barely look at me for three weeks and now you say something like that?” You finally look at him and when you meet his eyes, it’s almost unbearable. 

His phone buzzes again in his pocket. He kills it without even glancing, thumb pressing to the side as if he’s pinching a flame out. Jaw tight. Breath thin. 

Then, softly, “Do you really think that I couldn’t settle down?”

It lands between you like a dropped champagne glass. 

“I- I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, but the words sound wrong. 

He nods once, eyes flickering back to the skyline. The distance between you grows farther with every silent second that passes. Your brain short circuits before you can say anything in defense of yourself and before you can fully explain, he excuses himself, muttering something about needing another drink. 

The evening comes to a close in stages: unfinished drinks, polite goodbyes, the aching realization that you’ve overstayed your welcome. He says his last goodbyes as you wait for the elevator, his tie loosened, hair no longer slicked neatly back but falling into his eyes again. The glow that carried him through the evening has dulled, replaced by glossy, red eyes and flushed cheeks. 

The elevator dings. 

You hold the door until he drags himself away from his friends, making promises to stay in touch that he doesn’t intend to keep. 

The doors close and vacuum seal you both in, suddenly everything feels compressed. He leans against the mirrored wall, eyes heavy. You don’t know where to look, so you keep your eyes down. There’s no music, just the soft chime of each passing floor, like a countdown to something inevitable. 

By the time you’re back at the apartment, it’s after midnight. The air is thick with leftover cologne and city noise through an open window. He unlocks the door, lets you step in first, and the sound of it closing behind you feels final in a way that you can’t explain. Like there’s no going back to whatever you were before tonight. 

You drop your clutch onto the counter with the junk mail and loose change. He tosses his keys somewhere in the same vicinity and kicks off his shoes, saying nothing as he heads straight into the kitchen. 

You slip off your heels by the door, watching as he disappears around the corner. Your bare feet flex against the hardwood for some relief. When you step into the threshold of the kitchen, Aegon’s reaching for a glass from the cupboard. The sound of the faucet running is too loud in the silence. 

He turns and offers the glass to you and then makes one for himself.

Neither of you speaks. The hum of the refrigerator fills the space where your words should be. You both lean against opposite counters, pretending this is normal. That you’re not thinking about the same exact thing at the same exact time. He’s looking at the floor. You’re looking at him. 

You sip the water, even though you’re not thirsty. 

He clears his throat like he’s about to say something, then doesn’t.

Neither of you moves.

You exhale slowly, “This is weird, right?”

He glances up and smiles like he’s trying to keep it casual. “What is?”

“This. Us. Tonight. All of it.”

Aegon shrugs, but there’s something behind his eyes, giving away that he knows exactly what you mean, and he’s just buying time. You take another sip of water. It’s lukewarm. Everything feels too warm.

You both move at the same time and it feels magnetic and inevitable; meeting somewhere in the middle. The tile is cold under your feet, grounding you before the rest of you can float away. His eyes catch yours and it’s the same unguarded softness from the rooftop. Suddenly he’s right there, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. His hands find your hips, tentatively and delicate, as if you'll fade away with his touch.

You lean in, just barely, just enough to tilt the axis. Your heart flutters as everything begins to fold in on itself. His breath hitches, surprised, like even now he’s not sure if you’ll let him. But then he closes the gap slowly, cautiously, waiting for the moment to crack right down the middle. His hands tighten on your hips as he pulls you against him. 

It’s not gentle. 

It’s careful. 

You don’t know if it’s shock or self-preservation or fucking momentary paralysis that keeps you from kissing him back, but your body involuntarily stiffens. His lips are hesitant and soft and gone before you can even register what’s happening. He steps back half a pace, eyes wide and filled with immediate guilt. 

Before he can apologize, your hands pull him back in.

The breath he exhales stumbles into your mouth as his hands return to your waist, trembling at first against the fabric of your dress but steadying as he learns the geography of you. His lips are soft and warmer than you expected, tasting faintly of champagne and a cigarette he smoked hours ago. The kiss deepens, caution giving way to certainty, his thumbs brushing slow against your hips until the air feels too thick to breathe.

You can feel the press of him as your back meets the counter. His hands trace the curve of your spine, fingers splaying wider, finding confidence in the way you don’t pull away. One hand trails upward, brushing the back of your neck; the other stays at your waist, holding you there as if letting go would undo everything.

His lips curve into a smile as he pulls away slowly, forehead resting against yours for a beat. You can hear his breath tremble. He swallows hard, jaw flexing, a muscle ticking near his temple before he takes a step back and combs a hand through his hair.

A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him. “We’ve fucked it, haven’t we?”

“Probably,” you say, biting back a smile. “Isn’t the number one rule of being roommates, don’t kiss your roommate?”

He nods, smiling, eyes still lingering on your lips. “Is it?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Definitely shouldn’t do it again.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Right,” he tips his head back, looking at you with half-lidded lilac eyes and a lazy smile. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Aegon.”

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