The towel hits the bathroom tile with a wet slap. I don't even look back at it. Grey lounge pants sit folded on the counter, fresh from the drawer, and I pull them on one leg at a time, still dripping from the shower. Water trails down my chest, beading on my tattoos, catching in the waistband. I don't bother drying off. She's out there.
I step into the bedroom and stop.
She's sprawled on her stomach across my bed, phone propped on the pillow in front of her, both legs kicked up behind. Her feet cross at the ankles, then uncross. Wiggling. The soles are pink, soft, small enough to fit in one of my hands. My shirt — my grey band tee with the cracked print — hangs off her frame, the collar slipped so far down one shoulder that her bra strap is fully exposed. Thin. Black lace. The kind that makes my throat tight.
Her pink shorts have ridden up just enough to show the underside of her thighs. The fabric hugs her ass like it knows what it's holding.
I stand there like an idiot. Water still dripping off my hair onto my chest. Barefoot on the hardwood. Just watching her scroll.
How did I get this lucky?
She doesn't even know I'm here. She's humming something under her breath — not a song, just a sound, the kind of contented noise a cat makes in a sunbeam — and her thumb drags lazy across the screen. A manhwa, I think. Some romance thing with sparkly-eyed characters and dramatic speech bubbles. She's been reading it for three days, gasping and kicking her feet at plot twists I don't understand.
I should say something. Announce myself. Not stand here like a creep drinking her in.
But God, the way the lamp light catches the curve of her spine under my shirt. The way her hair has started to escape her messy bun, dark strands fanning across the pillow. The way she bites her lower lip when something on the screen surprises her.
I cross the room before I can talk myself out of it. The floorboards creak under my weight — the third board from the door, always, I keep meaning to fix it — and her head turns slightly, catching the sound, but she doesn't look up. Just a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She knows it's me.
The mattress dips as I climb in beside her. I prop myself on one elbow, close enough that my shadow falls across her screen. Water drips from my hair onto her pillow, a dark spot spreading next to her cheek.
"Sorry," I mutter, already reaching to brush it away.
She laughs. That low, soft sound that hits me right in the chest every single time. "You're dripping all over my pillow, Ash."
"Your pillow?" I raise an eyebrow. "Pretty sure that's mine."
"It's mine now." She doesn't look up from her phone. "I've been lying on it for like two hours. It knows me."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling. Can't help it. She does that to me — turns me into some grinning idiot who can't even pretend to be tough around her. The guys at the shop would never believe it.
My hand settles on the small of her back. Warm. She's so warm, and so small under my palm. I can feel the rise and fall of her breathing, the gentle rhythm of her scrolling. Her spine arches slightly as I press down, just a little, just to feel her move under my touch.
"Whatcha watchin, beautiful?"
My mouth finds her ear. Close. Not quite touching, but close enough that my breath stirs the loose strands of hair there. Her skin smells like my body wash and something underneath that's just her — warm and sweet and faintly floral.
She tilts her head, just slightly, giving me more access. "It's a manhwa."
"A what?"
"Manhwa. Korean comics. I told you about this last week."
I didn't remember. I was probably looking at her mouth when she explained it. "Right. The one with the... red-haired guy."
She laughs again, and this time she does look up — rolling onto her side just enough to peer at me over her shoulder. Those big brown eyes. Puppy eyes, I call them. She looks at me like I'm the only person in the world, like she's about to get caught doing something she shouldn't, and I feel my chest do that stupid squeeze thing I've never been able to control around her.
"The red-haired guy is the villain," she says. "You're thinking of the black-haired one."
"See? I remembered there were two of them. That's basically the same thing."
"It's really not."
She turns back to her phone, but she doesn't pull away from my hand. If anything, she presses back into it, just a fraction of an inch. A small surrender. An invitation to keep touching her.
I trace a slow circle on her spine with my thumb. Right over the fabric of my shirt. Feeling the warmth of her skin bleeding through. "Anime again?"
" Manhwa." She stretches the word out, patient, teasing. "And yes. Again. Some of us have hobbies that don't involve getting grease under our fingernails."
"I showered." I hold up my hand, palm open, the calluses catching the light. "See? Clean."
She glances at my hand, then back at her screen. "You missed a spot. Right there." She points vaguely at my wrist without looking.
"Where?"
"There. The... wrist part."
I grab her hand — that small, delicate hand with its short nails and the little silver ring on her index finger — and press my wrist against her palm. "Show me."
She laughs, tries to pull away, but I don't let go. "Ash, I'm trying to read—"
"You said there was a spot. Show me where."
She huffs, but she's smiling. Her fingers close around my wrist, and she drags her thumb across my skin — not checking for dirt, just touching me. Just because she can. Just because I let her.
"There," she says softly. "All clean."
I don't let go of her hand. Instead, I turn it over, pressing my thumb into the center of her palm, feeling the small bones shift under her skin. Her fingers curl reflexively, catching mine.
"Your hands are so big," she murmurs, not looking at me. Still watching her screen, but her voice has gone quiet. Soft. The way it gets when she's about to fall asleep on my chest.
"Your hands are small," I counter. "Like a doll's hands."
"I'm not a doll."
"You're something." I lift her hand, press my lips to her knuckles. Quick. Barely a brush. "Not sure what. Something cute."
She goes still. Her phone screen glows, forgotten, a panel of some dramatic confession frozen mid-frame. I watch the back of her neck, where the fine hairs are starting to stand up.
"That was cheesy," she says, but her voice cracks on the last syllable.
"I know. I'm trying new things."
"Try less."
"Can't. Came out of the shower with no material. Running on instinct."
She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest. She lets her phone drop onto the mattress, face-down, and rolls fully onto her side to face me. Now we're both propped on our elbows, facing each other, close enough that I can count the individual lashes framing her brown eyes.
The lamp light catches the gloss on her lips. That pout. That permanent, slightly-parted pout that makes me want to kiss her until she forgets her own name.
"You're staring," she says.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"No. Staring is creepy. Admiring is romantic." I reach out, catch a strand of hair that's escaped her bun, and tuck it behind her ear. My knuckles brush her cheek. She leans into the touch before she can stop herself. "There's a difference."
"And you're an expert?"
"I'm an expert on you."
She blinks. Her mouth opens, then closes. For a second, she looks genuinely lost for words — that sharp, teasing girl who always has a comeback, reduced to silence by a simple sentence.
Got her.
I grin, duck my head, press my forehead to hers. She doesn't pull away. Her breath hitches, warm against my lips.
"You're so cheesy," she whispers.
"You love it."
She doesn't deny it.
I kiss her. Soft. Barely there. My lips brush hers, once, twice — testing, tasting, asking. Her hand finds my chest, fingertips pressing into the damp skin above my heart. She's still got that slightly-out-of-breath quality, like she's just been caught, and it drives me insane in the best way.
I deepen the kiss. My hand slides from her back to her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt where it hangs loose on her. She makes a small sound — a hum, a whimper, something caught between — and I feel it vibrate through her mouth into mine.
Her legs move, shifting under the sheets. Her knee brushes my thigh, and I feel the heat of her skin through the thin material of my lounge pants. She's so close. She's everywhere. Her scent, her warmth, the way her fingers are curling into my chest hair like she's holding on for dear life.
I break the kiss. Slowly. My lips drag across hers one last time before I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips slightly swollen, her cheeks flushed. That messy bun is even messier now, strands of brown hair plastered to her temple. She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful.
"Hi," I murmur.
"Hi," she breathes back.
My thumb traces the curve of her hip. The hem of her — my — shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of her pink shorts. I press my thumb there, just resting, feeling the warmth of her body under the pad of my finger.
"You're addictive," I tell her. "You know that?"
She blinks, a slow flutter of those long lashes. "I'm literally just lying here."
"Yeah. And I can't keep my hands off you." I shift closer, my thigh sliding between hers, the mattress dipping under the new weight. "It's a problem."
"Sounds like a you problem."
"It is. It's definitely a me problem." I lean in, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "But you're gonna help me with it, right?"
Her breath catches. Her fingers tighten on my chest.
And I feel it — that shift in the air, that weight settling between us. The thing we're both dancing around, the question neither of us has spoken yet. It's there, in the way she looks at me, in the way my hand hasn't stopped moving on her skin, in the silence that stretches between one breath and the next.
I want to ask. I want to know if she wants this the way I do — not just the kissing, but everything. The staying. The waking up together. The slow, terrifying slide into something real.
But I don't. Not yet.
Instead, I pull back, just enough to look at her. To memorize the way the lamp light turns her brown eyes gold. The way her lips are parted, waiting. The way her hand is still pressed to my chest, right over the heart that's beating too fast for a guy who's supposed to be cool and collected.
"Tell me about your manhwa," I say.
She blinks. "What?"
"The one you were reading. Tell me what's happening."
A slow smile spreads across her face. She knows what I'm doing. She knows I'm giving her an out, a way to slow down if she needs it. And the way she looks at me — soft, grateful, a little bit amazed — tells me I made the right call.
"Okay," she says, settling back onto the pillow, turning onto her stomach again. I follow, lying beside her, my hand finding its home on the small of her back. "So there's this girl, right? And she gets transported into the novel she was reading—"
"Wait, she gets transported? Like, into the book?"
"Yes. It's a genre. It's called isekai."
"That sounds... complicated."
"It's not. Just listen." She picks up her phone, scrolls back a few panels. "So she wakes up as the villainess, and she knows she's supposed to die at the end, so she's trying to change the story—"
I watch her talk. The animation in her hands as she gestures. The way her voice rises and falls with the drama of the plot. The way she keeps glancing at me to make sure I'm paying attention — and I am. I'm paying attention to all of it.
To every single detail of this girl who wandered into my life and turned it upside down.
To the way her feet find my shin under the covers, pressing warm against my skin.
To the way her voice softens when she reaches the emotional part of the story, like she's personally invested in whether the fictional red-haired villain gets a redemption arc.
To the way her hand finds mine on the mattress, threading her fingers through my calloused ones like they fit there.
I lift our joined hands, press my lips to her knuckles again. Slower this time. Deliberate.
She pauses mid-sentence. Looks at me.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing." I hold her hand against my chest, right over my heart. "Keep going. I'm listening."
She smiles. That real smile, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. And she keeps talking — about the novel, about the villainess, about all the ways she hopes the story ends.
I don't hear half of it. I'm too busy memorizing the sound of her voice. Too busy feeling her heartbeat through her palm, matching mine.
How did I get this lucky?
I don't know. I don't care. I'm not gonna question it. I'm just gonna lie here, with my girl in my bed, her hand in mine, her voice filling the room like it's the only sound that matters.
And I'm gonna hold onto this for as long as she lets me.
I don't think. I move.
My hands find her waist — that impossible dip where her hips flare out from nothing — and I lift. She gasps, a small surprised sound, and then she's on top of me, her thighs bracketing my hips, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of me. The shirt — my shirt — hangs loose off her frame, the collar slipping further, and I get a flash of black lace before she catches herself, palms flat on my chest.
She looks down at me. Brown eyes wide. Lips parted. That pout.
"Ash."
"What?" I try to sound innocent. Fail completely.
"You just—" She gestures vaguely at the space between us. "—lifted me."
"Yeah. I did." My hands slide up her sides, thumbs tracing the curve of her ribs through the thin fabric. She's so small. I can feel every bone, every shift of muscle under her skin. "You're light."
"I'm not—"
"You are." My fingers spread across her back, spanning from her shoulder blades to the small of her spine. "Tiny. Like a doll."
She pouts. That full lower lip juts out, and I want to bite it. "I'm not a doll."
"I know." I grin, letting my hands settle on her hips, my thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her shorts. "You're my girlfriend. Big difference."
She opens her mouth to retort, but I reach up — slow, deliberate — and catch the pink scrunchie holding her messy bun together. I tug. Once. Twice. It slides free, and her hair spills down around her shoulders in a dark cascade, catching the lamp light, falling in waves past her collarbone.
"There," I say, tossing the scrunchie somewhere behind me. I don't care where it lands. "Enough of that. Now I want attention."
She blinks. Her hair falls forward, framing her face, making her look softer. Younger. Like something I need to protect with my whole body.
"You're ridiculous," she says, but her voice is breathy.
"Yeah. And you're on top of me. So who's really winning here?"
I let my hands wander. Up her sides again, slower this time. Feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric. The curve of her waist. The way she shivers when my calloused fingers drag across a spot just below her ribcage.
I could crush her. One hand, probably. Squeeze too hard and I'd hurt her. The thought makes my chest tight — not because I want to, but because she trusts me not to. She's up here, straddling me, completely vulnerable, and she's looking at me like I'm the safest place in the world.
My hand drifts lower. Rests on the curve of her ass, cupping it through her pink shorts. She's so soft. Round and warm and perfect in my palm.
I spank her. Light. A quick, playful slap that echoes in the quiet room.
She yelps. Her body jolts, and she squirms against me — her hips shifting, her thighs tightening around mine. The movement presses her chest forward, and I feel the weight of it through the shirt. Heavy. So much heavier than her frame suggests. I know she complains about it under her breath — the ache in her shoulders, the way button-ups gap at the chest, the impossibility of finding a bralette that actually fits. She thinks I don't hear. I hear everything.
"Ash!" Her hand flies to her butt, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"
"For looking too cute." I spank her again. Softer this time, my palm lingering. "And for being on top of me and not kissing me."
She huffs. Wiggles. Tries to look annoyed, but the flush creeping up her neck gives her away. Her thighs squeeze around my hips, and I feel the heat of her through the thin lounge pants.
"You're impossible," she mutters.
"You love it."
She doesn't deny it. Instead, she shifts her weight, planting her hands on either side of my head, leaning down until her hair forms a curtain around us. Her face hovers inches from mine. Her breath is warm. Her pupils are blown wide.
"You want attention?" she whispers.
I nod. Can't speak. My hands are still on her ass, fingers pressing into the soft give of her flesh.
She kisses me. Slow. Deep. Her tongue traces my lower lip before she pulls back, just enough to breathe.
"Is that enough attention?"
I shake my head. My fingers curl into her shorts, pulling her closer, feeling the weight of her settle against my hips. "Not even close."
She kisses me again. Harder this time. Her tongue finds mine, and I groan into her mouth, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass. She whimpers — that tiny, helpless sound that goes straight to my cock — and I feel her hips shift, pressing down against me. The heat of her seeps through the thin cotton of my lounge pants, and I know she can feel exactly what she's doing to me.
My palm comes down on her ass again. A sharp crack in the quiet room. She gasps against my lips, her whole body jolting, and I feel the sting reverberate through my hand, through her flesh, through the air between us.
She pulls back. Her cheeks are flushed — a deep, beautiful pink that spreads down her neck, disappearing under the collar of my shirt. Her hair is plastered to her temple, strands sticking from the heat. She looks wrecked. She looks like sin.
"Enough attention," she breathes, trying to sound firm. Her voice cracks. "I wanna finish my manhwa—"
I laugh. Low. In my chest. "Oh no you don't."
I spank her again. Softer, my palm cupping the curve, squeezing before I pull away. The sound is wetter this time. She whines — a real whine, high and breathy, her head falling forward, her forehead pressing against mine.
"Ash."
"What?" I spank her again. Then again. A rhythm. Left cheek, right cheek, alternating, my hand warming against the soft give of her. She's so soft. I can't stop. I don't want to. My fingers dig in, squeezing, kneading, feeling the weight of her in my palm like she's something I'm allowed to touch forever. "You were saying?"
She whimpers. Her hips rock against me — an unconscious grind, her heat pressing into my hardness through the fabric. I notice the damp spot spreading on my lounge pants where she straddles me. Dark. Growing.
Fuck.
I spank her again, harder, and she cries out, her nails digging into my chest. I watch her face — that pout, those big brown eyes gone glassy, her lower lip trembling between words. She's trying to look annoyed. She's failing. The flush on her cheeks says everything she won't.
"You're so mean," she whispers, her voice tiny.
"You love it." I spank her again, then let my hand rest there, palm flat against the heat of her skin through her shorts. She's warm. So warm. I can feel the sting radiating off her. "Say it."
She shakes her head. Her hair is completely undone messy now, dark hair falling around her face, and she looks so small on top of me. So breakable. And she's mine.
"Say it," I repeat, squeezing her ass. My thumb traces the edge of her shorts, dipping under the hem, finding the bare skin of her hip.
She shivers. Her thighs tighten around me, pressing her core harder against my stomach. She's so wet. I can feel it through both layers. She's dripping for me, and she's still pretending she wants to read a comic.
"I—" She swallows. "I love it."
The words come out breathless, cracked, like she's admitting something she wasn't ready to say. Her eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them — something that makes my chest ache.
I spank her one more time. Light. A farewell. Then my hand settles on her hip, thumb rubbing slow circles into the soft skin above her waistband.
"That's my girl."
She doesn't answer. She just looks at me, her breathing ragged, her lips parted, her thighs quivering against my sides. And she presses down. Deliberate. A slow grind that makes my eyes roll back.
Her manhwa lies forgotten on the mattress. Screen dark now. She doesn't reach for it.