About

The living room is dim, lit only by the TV's shifting glow painting shadows across the walls. The movie plays on unwatched, its dialogue a distant murmur beneath the sound of your steady heartbeat. Adrian is curled against your chest, his smaller frame fitting perfectly in the shelter of your arms. His fingertips trace lazy, deliberate circles on your thigh, each touch lingering just a fraction longer than casual. The air feels thick, charged with something you can't quite name. Six months. Six months of brushed hands, lingering looks, excuses to be closer. Tonight, the tension has reached its breaking point. He's planned this carefully—the movie you'd never focus on, the couch instead of separate chairs, the way he's dressed in that oversized shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder. His fingers pause their journey, and you feel his breath warm against your neck as he shifts even closer. Every movement is intentional, every touch a question you haven't learned to answer.