I wake up to the feeling of fingers ghosting along my waist.
Not the full drag of a hand—just the barest, lazy graze. Like whoever's doing it is half-asleep and doesn't even realize it.
Except I know exactly who it is.
Alex.
His arm is around me. His chest pressed to my back. And his palm is just under the hem of my shirt, fingertips grazing skin like it's muscle memory.
I stay still. Not because I'm nervous—okay, maybe a little—but because I don't want to scare the moment off. It's quiet and slow and unfiltered. No teasing. No biting back words. Just warmth and skin and him.
Then I feel him shift. His hand flexes slightly. Moves lower. Just a bit.
Right at my hip now.
"Are you—" I start to whisper, but he lets out a tiny, involuntary hum. Barely audible. Kind of sinful.
I swallow hard.
"Are you awake?" I try again.
He mumbles something into my shoulder. His lips are warm there. Still there. And now I'm awake in ways I probably shouldn't be.
I roll over—carefully, slowly—until I'm facing him.
His hair is a mess. His lips are parted slightly. His eyes half-lidded.
"Morning," I whisper.
He stares for a beat. "Was I…?" he trails off, like he's only now realizing how wrapped around me he was.
"You were very handsy," I smirk.
"Shit," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "I wasn't trying to… it just…"
"Relax." I lean in closer, lips brushing his ear. "I didn't say stop."
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan. "You're evil."
"And you're into it."
He opens one eye. "You know, I thought you were the shy one."
"I lied."
"Apparently."
He stretches, and his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of skin and the waistband of his sweats. I glance—just for a second too long—and when he catches me looking, his smirk turns into something else. Lazy. Confident. Dangerous.
"You know," he says, voice lower now, "if you keep staring like that, I'm gonna think you really like what you see."
"I plead the fifth."
"You're the worst liar I've ever met."
I grin, fingers brushing the edge of his waistband. "Guess we both have dirty thoughts in the morning."
Alex's breath hitches. "Nick—"
"I said I wasn't pretending anymore," I remind him, voice softer now. "I want you."
His eyes flick to my lips. "You're not making it easy to be a gentleman."
"Then don't be."
For a second, I think he might kiss me. His hand drifts to my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheek, then down to my neck. We're so close. Too close. And I'm buzzing—nervous and giddy and completely gone.
But he doesn't. He pulls back just enough to leave me wanting more.
"Breakfast," he says.
"You're cruel."
"You like it."
We stumble into the kitchen, still in sweats, still barefoot, still pretending we don't want to devour each other against the nearest countertop. I hand him a mug. He hands me toast. Our fingers brush a little longer than necessary.
"What if this gets complicated?" I ask suddenly, not looking at him.
He pauses. "Then we'll figure it out."
I nod. Take a bite of toast. Watch him out of the corner of my eye as he leans against the counter like he belongs there. Like we belong here.
And maybe we do.
Maybe we're just figuring it out.
One stolen look, one lazy morning, one almost-kiss at a time.
We both linger after breakfast. Not in a rushed way. Just… floating in the glow of whatever this is.
I'm brushing my teeth when Alex knocks on the bathroom door and cracks it open a little.
"Can I come in? I need to pee."
"I'm literally in here."
"I've seen you drool in your sleep, Nick. I think we're past this."
I snort and wave him in, still foaming at the mouth like a rabid squirrel.
He closes the door, eyes flicking to me in the mirror as he walks over to the toilet. "Don't watch."
"I wasn't going to—ugh." I cover my eyes dramatically, mouth full of toothpaste.
He finishes and washes his hands, bumping my shoulder with his hip as he reaches for the towel. "You're dramatic."
"You're invading my sacred alone time."
"Oh no," he deadpans. "Did I ruin your spiritual toothbrush ritual?"
"I take oral hygiene very seriously, thanks."
His brows lift. "You said oral."
I spit into the sink and flick water at him. "You're insufferable."
"You like that about me."
"Unfortunately."
I rinse off and reach for a towel, but he grabs it before I can. "Actually…"
He holds it up behind his neck. "Wanna do something dumb and domestic and definitely against personal space boundaries?"
I blink. "Like what?"
"Bath."
"…A bath?"
He shrugs. "You've got that fancy bath bomb stash under the sink. Don't pretend I haven't seen them. You light a candle, I'll run the water?"
I narrow my eyes. "You wanna share a bath?"
"Unless you're scared of naked me."
"I'm scared of so many things, but you naked isn't one of them."
The lavender bath bomb hisses quietly in the water, softening everything with its scent. Steam curls in lazy spirals around us, fogging up the mirror and making the bathroom feel smaller—more private. More ours.
Alex shifts behind me in the tub, his legs brushing along mine. Every little movement is a reminder. That we're here. That we're touching. That there's barely anything between us but water and skin and a hundred unsaid things.
"You good?" he murmurs near my ear.
I nod, tilting my head slightly so it rests against his shoulder. "Yeah. Just… not used to this."
"This?"
I gesture vaguely. "Intimacy that doesn't come with a fire exit plan."
He's quiet for a beat, then presses a soft kiss to my temple. "No exits here. Not unless you count the door I locked."
I smile, eyes slipping shut.
His hands, resting loosely on my waist, drift a little. Not grabby. Not rushed. Just gentle, explorative touches under the water. Like he's learning me by feel. Like he's tracing the outline of the moment.
His thumb slides just under my ribs, and I suck in a breath. Not from fear. From heat.
"You're sensitive here," he says softly, like he's filing it away.
"And you're smug," I shoot back, though it comes out breathier than intended.
"I try."
His lips brush behind my ear this time. Then lower. Down the slope of my neck, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle.
I shiver—half from the sensation, half from the anticipation curling low in my stomach.
"I can feel your heart racing," he whispers.
"That's because I'm sitting in a tub with a very attractive boy who keeps kissing my neck."
"I thought I was a man," he teases, voice lower now, rougher.
"Oh, you're definitely something," I say, turning a little to catch his gaze.
Our eyes meet. His are darker now, lashes wet, mouth parted just slightly.
And I can't help it. I lean in.
The kiss starts slow. Careful. Testing.
But then his hand moves—slides up my chest, over my shoulder, wet fingers tracing my collarbone—and it deepens. Our lips part, and it's less innocent now. A little more tongue. A little more need.
He pulls back just enough to whisper, "You taste like mint and trouble."
"You like trouble," I whisper back.
His smile is crooked and dangerous. "Only when it's you."
He pulls me closer until I'm practically sitting in his lap, water sloshing a little over the edge of the tub. Our bare chests brush, slick and warm, and I gasp softly at the contact.
His hands explore more boldly now—never crossing a line, but testing where the line is. My skin feels hypersensitive under his touch.
I wrap my arms around his neck, kiss him again. Deeper this time. More sure of it.
When we finally pull apart, we're both flushed, breathless, and smiling like idiots.
"Still think this was a dumb idea?" he asks, voice low and a little wrecked.
"Absolutely," I say. "But in the best way possible."
We stay tangled, skin to skin, water gone lukewarm but neither of us ready to move.
And maybe we don't have a rulebook for this.
But we're writing one. In steam. In touches. In kisses that say, I'm here. I want this. I want you.
And that's enough—for now.