#r15

You wake to warmth.

Not the gentle kind that comes from a blanket kicked half-off in the night, nor the soft brush of morning sun through the curtains. This warmth is solid. Heavy. Wrapped around you with possessive insistence.

Chuuya’s arm is slung over your waist, his gloved hand absentmindedly fisted in the fabric of your sleep shirt like you might vanish if he loosens his grip. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, breath slow and deep, the faint scent of wine and expensive cologne clinging to him even in sleep.

He makes a low sound—half a sigh, half a hum—and shifts closer.

Much closer.

You stiffen.

Because now there is absolutely no mistaking the situation.

He presses against you, hips rolling forward instinctively, and your entire body goes hot as you realize just how awake a certain part of him is.

Chuuya, however, is very much not.

He nuzzles into your shoulder, nose brushing your skin, and tightens his hold. His thigh slides between yours, dragging you flush against him. You let out the tiniest, most betrayed squeak.

He doesn’t wake. He just exhales softly, content, as if he’s found exactly what he was searching for.

You know he doesn’t remember his dreams. He’s complained about it before—how he wakes up with the vague feeling that something happened but can’t grasp any of it. “Like trying to hold water in your hand,” he once muttered, scowling over his coffee.

Well.

Whatever water slipped through his fingers this time clearly left evidence behind.

You try to gently pry his arm off you. It’s useless. Even asleep, he’s strong. His ability might be inactive, but the years of Port Mafia training aren’t.

He shifts again, hips rocking faintly as if chasing something just out of reach. A quiet, almost frustrated breath escapes him.

Your face feels like it could combust.

“Chuuya,” you whisper, barely audible. It’s more breath than sound.

He only burrows closer, his lips brushing your collarbone in an absentminded graze. Not a kiss—just a sleepy, instinctive motion—but it sends a ripple down your spine anyway.

You try to ignore the way your own body reacts.

His hand slides from your waist to your stomach, fingers splaying, then slowly drifting lower. Not deliberately. Not consciously. Just following warmth.

You grab his wrist before he gets any ideas.

That, apparently, is enough to stir him.

His brows knit together, lashes fluttering as he surfaces from sleep. A soft groan leaves him, voice rough and gravelly. “Mm… what?”

You freeze. You are acutely aware of everything. The weight of him. The press of him. The fact that you are very much trapped.

He blinks at you, still hazy, blue eyes unfocused. For a second, he looks peaceful—unguarded in a way he never is during the day.

Then he shifts again.

And immediately goes very, very still.

There’s a beat of silence.

His eyes sharpen. Awareness snaps into place.

He glances down between you.

Then back up at your face.

You have never seen him look so genuinely confused.

“I—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Did I…?”

You can’t even form words. You just shake your head rapidly, mortified and strangely amused all at once.

His expression shifts from confusion to dawning horror. “I was asleep.”

“I know,” you mumble, staring determinedly at his collar instead of his face.

There’s another pause. He frowns slightly, as if mentally flipping through empty pages.

“I don’t remember anything,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Not even a little.”

That somehow makes it worse.

Because whatever his subconscious conjured up, it clearly involved you.

Heat creeps up his neck, dusting his ears pink. He clicks his tongue softly in irritation—at himself, at his traitorous body, at the unfairness of it all.

“Tch. This’s stupid.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. It’s soft, breathy, and entirely fond.

His eyes flick back to yours, embarrassed but stubborn. “Quit that.”

“You’re the one who attacked me in your sleep,” you murmur.

“I did not attack you.”

“You absolutely did.”

He huffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. Carefully—almost cautiously—he loosens his grip, shifting back a few inches to give you space.

You immediately miss the warmth.

He notices.

A slow, knowing look crosses his face.

“…You want me to move back?” he asks, quieter now.

You hesitate.

He arches a brow.

Your silence is answer enough.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Can’t remember the dream,” he murmurs, leaning in again, slower this time. Intentional. His hand settles at your waist, thumb brushing small circles against your skin. “But I’ve got a guess.”

Your breath stutters as he presses a gentle kiss beneath your ear—very much awake now, very much aware of what he’s doing.

“Chuuya…”

He hums softly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Relax,” he whispers, far more composed than he was moments ago. “I’m awake this time.”

And when he pulls you close again, it’s not confused or instinctive.

It’s deliberate.

Tender.

Still a little heated—but controlled.

You hide your face against his chest, heart racing, while he chuckles under his breath, clearly pleased with himself now that he’s regained his footing.

He may not remember his dreams.

But judging by the way he holds you—careful, reverent, and just a little bit smug—you have a feeling he doesn’t mind recreating them.