Heat spreads low in my gut as I imagine the rasp of his stubble against my skin, and my muscles coil tight in a way that’s foreign and familiar all at once. There’s no ignoring the insistent pressure buildingin my jeans. I’m half-hard already,aching, and the thought doesn’t scare me the way it should.
It just… settles. Heavy and right and terrifying all at once.
“What, uh… what should we do?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be. My mouth feels dry despite the nearly empty drink in my hand.
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays on my lips for a long second, then flicks up to meet my eyes. “We could go inside,” he whispers, the words barely carrying over the distant party noise.
“No, not inside,” I say immediately. The idea of going back into that crowd where others might demand his attention makes my stomach twist. Right now I don’t want to share him.
I want him to myself.
I track the movement of his throat as it dips in a thick swallow, picturing what it might feel like to drag my tongue up the line of it. Imagining tasting salt and skin andhim.
“Or we, um…” He trails off, sliding the tip of his tongue across his lower lip again.
“Hmm?” I hum, leaning closer as I fixate on the shimmer of gloss left behind on his mouth. The limits of my fraying inhibition are tested when he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t evenflinch, just sits frozen, breath shallow and eyes fixed on mine.
Gathering every scrap of liquid courage churning through my veins, I push to my feet. The world tilts for a second as vodka and adrenaline make everything unsteady. His gaze drops, catching on the obvious bulge straining against my jeans, and a quiet, involuntary groan slips out of him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, climbing to his feet. He sways hard enough that I instinctively grip his arms to steady him, fingers digging into solid muscle through his hoodie. He’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to hold his eyes.
“You really don’t drink that often, do you?” I tease.
He shakes his head with a sheepish grin, dimple carving deep in his cheek. My attention snags on it, the same way it always does, except this time I want to press my mouth there, taste it, then make him smile wider just so I can see it again.
“Now,” I say, voice low, “what were you going to say?”
He closes his eyes for a second, tilting his face skyward like he’s gathering strength from the stars. When he looks back down at me, his gaze is steady despite the flush riding high on his cheeks. “Or we could go to the dorms?” he says quietly, like he’s testing the question. “I’m not sure if my roommate is home or not.”
“I have a private room,” I whisper, never quite so thankful for that turn of events than I am in this moment. “Luck of the draw, really.”
His eyes flare, surprise shifting into something far more potent. “What building do you live in?”
“Stratton Tower.” He gives me a small, crooked smile as we head that direction. “You’ve never asked me before.”
“I haven’t,” he agrees.
“Why not?”
He stares at me for a long moment, then his shoulders sag with a heavy exhale. “All those sleepless nights you texted me at 2 a.m., I wanted to run to you. If I didn’t know where you lived, I couldn’t do that and ruin everything.”
I take a deep breath and nod, wondering how this would’ve played out if he’d come pounding at my door in the middle of the night. I probably wouldn’t have been ready, and I probably would’ve run.
“Do you still think it will ruin everything?” I ask.
“It might,” he whispers.
We stare at each other for a long moment, both of us weighing the decision and the potential fallout for acting on these complicated feelings. After a moment, I turn toward the dorms decisively, and he falls in step beside me.
The night air feels colder now, cutting through the vodka haze and making every brush of fabric against my skin electric. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips as my hand brushes his.
It’s accidental at first, then deliberate.
I let my fingers linger against his, testing his reaction. He doesn’t pull away. Instead he turns his hand palm-up, inviting me to slide mine into it as our fingers lace together. The contact sends a rush through my body, almost dizzying with its intensity.
He squeezes once, like he’s telling me he’s right here with me.
We don’t speak the rest of the way. We don’t need to. The silence between us is thick with everything we’ve been circling for months—every lingering touch, every late-night text, every almost-moment we’ve pretended wasn’t there.
