A few seconds pass in silence, the low hum of the fridge the only sound. And then I feel it: his lips on my neck.
It’s not a kiss so much as a graze, a brush of heat against the hickey he left there last night.
He lingers, breath warm on my skin, like he’s reminding himself he put it there.
“Phoenix—” I start, but his mouth presses again, firmer this time, making a thrum of pain burst across my skin.
“You don’t know what this does to me,” he murmurs, voice rough against my skin. “Seeing my mark on you.”
I swallow hard, gripping the edge of the couch. My body betrays me, heat flooding under his mouth, shame tangled up with want.
He doesn’t push, though. Just kisses the same spot again, softer, almost reverent, before leaning back like nothing happened. His hand drops onto the back of the couch, brushing my shoulder every so often, a constant reminder of him.
The TV clicks on. Some movie starts, loud and colorful, but I barely register it. My focus is entirely on the way Phoenix shifts closer, the way his arm ghosts around me without fully settling, the way he keeps dropping those absentminded kisses on my neck as if he can’t stop himself.
The sandwiches get eaten halfway through the film, Phoenix stealing bites from mine with a smirk until I swat at him. He laughs, and the sound is dangerous—it sinks under my skin, makes me forget I should be wary of him.
I turn my head slightly, watching him from the corner of my eye. He’s pretending to focus on the screen, but his thumb is tracing idle patterns against my shoulder, his lips still ghosting my neck whenever he leans too close.
He’s obsessed. I can feel it in the way he touches me, in the way he won’t stop checking my knee, in the way he looks at me like I’m already his.
Time moves strangely all afternoon. One movie bleeds into another, the sky outside darkening. Phoenix gets up once to grab more water, then comes back and drapes a blanket across both our laps without comment. The quiet between us isn’t awkward—it’s charged, heavy with everything we aren’t saying.
At one point, his hand ends up on my knee. Not the injured one, the other. Just resting there, solid and warm. His thumb makes lazy circles through the fabric of my sweats. My chest tightens with every pass.
I should tell him to stop. I should put space between us. But all I can think about is how it felt last night when his hands weren’t careful, when he pushed and pulled and broke me open—and then how it felt after, when he touched me like I was something fragile. Both things live in him. Both things terrify me.
When I shift slightly, his hand slides away. My skin burns in the absence of it.
He puts his head in my lap at some point, the exhaustion of the hangover pulling him into sleep. Phoenix sprawls, taking up too much space, but every time I think of moving away, I don’t. His warmth is addictive, his weight pressed against me, grounding in a way I don’t want to admit.
Phoenix stirs, mumbling something in his sleep. His cheek presses deeper into my thigh, his breath puffing against me. I glance down, and the sight nearly undoes me: this man who burns too hot on the ice, who smirks like the world belongs to him, looking so unguarded, so…soft.
I brush a piece of his hair back before I even think about it, and my hand lingers. My chest aches with the weight of it—how different he is when it’s just us.
When the credits roll on the movie, I shift slightly, but he makes a sound, low and almost needy, like he doesn’t want me to move. My pulse spikes. He has no idea what that does to me.
Eventually he blinks awake, stretching, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth when he realizes he’s been sleeping on me. “Comfortable,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “You’re better than a pillow.”
I roll my eyes. “You drooled on me.”
He grins lazily, looking at me from my lap. “Worth it.”
I roll my eyes again, not saying anything further. I feel settled for once. I feel almost safe here with him. Because this—this closeness, this quiet day—it feels like something I could drownin. Once I let myself sink, I don’t think I’ll ever want to come up for air.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says, sitting up.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Different kind of quiet.” His eyes search mine, sharp and insistent. “Thinking too much kind of quiet.”
“I always think too much,” I counter, but my voice wavers.
He leans closer, so close I can see the flecks of lighter brown in his irises. “Then tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
The air between us feels thin, stretched too tight. My heart pounds. I can’t tell him the truth—that every second in his orbit makes me sink deeper, that I’m terrified of how much I want him. So I do what I always do. I deflect.
“I’m thinking you’re a pain in the ass,” I mutter.
