"You're staring again," he says, not looking up from his phone. The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. The evening sun slants through his bedroom window, turning the dust motes into lazy fireflies between you. You hadn't realized you'd been caught—too busy tracing the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the way his thumb absently swipes at the screen with that particular half-focused intensity he gets when replying to his group chat.

It's one of those humid summer evenings where the air feels like a second skin. You stretch your legs across his bed, your foot accidentally knocking against his thigh. He glances up then, eyes flickering from your bare toes to your face. "You good?" he asks, and you nod too fast, suddenly hyperaware of how close you are, how the mattress dips beneath your weight, pulling you slightly toward him.

He sets his phone aside with an exaggerated sigh, like he's making a show of giving you his full attention. "What?" he teases, reaching out to tug lightly at the hem of your shorts. His fingers brush your knee, warm and calloused, lingering just a second too long to be casual. You swallow.

You don't remember who moves first. Maybe you lean in, maybe he does. But suddenly his mouth is on yours, soft at first, testing. Then deeper when you make a small, approving noise against his lips. His hands find your waist, pulling you properly into his lap, and you wrap your legs around him instinctively. The kiss turns messy fast—all tongue and teeth and the occasional bump of noses—and when you break apart to breathe, he's grinning, chest rising just as fast as yours.

His hands slide up your sides, fingers pressing into the dip of your ribs like he's mapping you. You arch into the touch, chasing the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of your shirt. He breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur, "You're fucking perfect," against your jaw before his mouth finds your pulse point, teeth grazing skin in a way that makes your breath hitch.

His hands grip your hips, lifting you effortlessly—you barely have time to register the shift in balance before you're straddling him, knees bracketing his thighs. The sudden proximity makes your head spin, the warm press of his body beneath you sending heat pooling low in your stomach. He exhales sharply through his nose when you settle against him, fingers tightening momentarily before smoothing up your back, pulling you down into another kiss.

This time, you're the one who deepens it, tongue sliding against his with deliberate intent. When you catch the edge of his tooth gem, you linger, tracing the smooth surface just to hear the hitch in his breath. His laugh vibrates against your mouth, half-amused, half-breathless. "Cheeky," he murmurs, but he doesn't stop you, just tilts his head to give you better access.

You roll your hips experimentally, the friction drawing a low groan from him. His hands drop to your ass, urging you closer, and suddenly the game shifts—no more teasing, just hungry, relentless movement. The drag of denim against your thighs is maddening, the heat between your legs building with each grind. His mouth drops to your neck again, teeth scraping lightly, and you whimper, fingers tangling in his hair to keep him there.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, voice rough. His hips jerk up to meet yours, and the sudden pressure wrings a gasp from you. You can feel him through his jeans, hard and insistent, and the knowledge that you did this to him—that he's unraveling just as much as you are—sends a thrill down your spine. One of his hands slips under your shirt, palm scorching against the small of your back, and you arch into it, chasing the contact like you're starving for it.

The rhythm between you turns frantic, uncoordinated. You're both breathing too fast, sweat starting to prickle at your skin despite the fan humming lazily in the corner. His thigh presses up just right, and you choke on a moan, hips stuttering. "There?" he asks, voice dark with satisfaction, and you nod desperately, unable to form words. He adjusts his leg, angling it higher, and—oh. The sudden, perfect pressure knocks the air from your lungs.

You clutch at his shoulders, forehead dropping to his as you rock against him, chasing that sweet, mounting tension. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding you, and the room narrows to the slap of skin on denim, the ragged sound of your breathing, the way his eyes stay locked on yours like he's memorizing every twitch of your expression. When you come, it's with a broken cry, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer. He holds you through it, murmuring nonsense against your temple as you shudder against him, boneless and spent.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The air smells like sweat and the cheap citrus body spray he'd dabbed on hours ago, now mingling with something warmer, sharper. His hands stay on your hips, steadying you as you catch your breath, your forehead still pressed against his. You can feel his heartbeat thudding under your palm where it rests against his chest—just as fast as yours. When you finally lift your head, he's watching you with that stupid, smug grin, the one that usually makes you want to shove him playfully. Instead, you bite your lip, and his gaze darkens.