OneShot #2
Youdon'tusually drink tequila.
But tonight has been too loud, too heavy, too long.
And Chan (your bff since grade school) is cut from the kind of comfort that makes you brave when you shouldn't be.
He walks you home with an arm around your waist—steady, warm, protective in that effortless way he has. You should pull away. but You don't.
Inside your apartment, he closes the door behind you with his foot. His laugh fades. The silence feels charged, thick with everything you've both tried to ignore for months.
His eyes drop to your lips.
You feel it like a spark under skin.
"You're staring," you whisper.
"And you're not stopping me," he murmurs, stepping closer.
He's so close you can feel the heat from his chest through your shirt. His hand trails up your arm, fingers following the shape of you until they rest at the curve of your shoulder.
"You're beautiful,"
he says—quiet, certain.
"You always have been."
Your breath catches—you've waited too long to hear it out loud. You reach for his shirt, fist curling into the soft fabric near his chest. You tug.
He doesn't budge.
Not because he won't—but because he wants to be sure.
"Tell me you want this," Chan whispers
"Tell me it isn't the tequila talking."
It isn't. It's never been.
"I want this."
You lift your chin.
"I want you."
His restraint shatters beautifully.
His mouth crashes into yours—hungry, relieved, years of held-back emotion finally snapping. His lips are soft but his hand at the back of your neck is firm, keeping you right where he needs you.
He breaks the kiss only to breathe against your lips:
"We should've done this a long time ago."
You barely have time to answer before he's kissing you again—slower this time, deeper, pouring every unspoken word into the shape of your mouth.
He walks you backward, hands on your waist guiding, until your back hits the wall with a soft thud. His body follows, pinning you gently—not trapping, just holding you exactly where you want to be.
Your fingers slide up the front of his shirt, brushing over his collarbones, the warm line of his throat. He shivers under your touch—just once—but you feel it.
"You okay?" you whisper, smiling slightly at the reaction.
Chan's breath hitches.
"You have no idea what you do to me."
His hands roam—careful at first—skimming your waist, your ribs, the small of your back. He feels everything, memorizing the shape of you like he's waited his whole life for permission.
You tilt your head, letting his mouth find your neck. He does—slow kisses trailing down, lips soft but wanting. One hand slides up your spine and his fingers curl into your hair, tilting your head for better access.
He bites—gentle, warning—and then kisses the spot like an apology.
"Chan…" your voice breaks.
He exhales against your skin.
"That's the sound. I've been waiting for that."
You grip his shoulders, pulling him closer, every inch of him solid and sure. His thigh slides between yours and you gasp—instinctive, breathless—your body answering before your mind can form a protest.
His lips find your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again—messier now, need pressing through every movement.
"I shouldn't stay," he whispers, but his hands refuse to leave your body.
"I know," you whisper back, pulling him even closer.
"Don't go."
He groans softly—low and helpless—the kind of sound a man makes when he's already lost.
His forehead rests against yours. His thumb strokes your lower lip. His eyes search your face like he's trying to draw a line he knows he's already crossed.
"One night," he says, voice rough.
"And in the morning?, we pretend we're still just friends?.."
You shake your head. "No pretending."
His answer is a kiss that steals every word from your mouth.
He lifts you—hands under your thighs, grip strong—and you wrap around him automatically. He carries you toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss, stumbling once because you're both too busy wanting, to care about direction.
He lays you down with care and urgency tangled together. His body covers yours, heat radiating through every layer of clothing still between you.
He pulls back, breath shaking, lips swollen from kissing you senseless.
"You're sure?" he asks,
one last checkpoint.
You nod, fingers sliding into his hair.
"Chan," you say, certain,
"I want all of this."
His smile is small—devastating—and only for you.
"Good," he whispers, kissing you again, slower, deeper.
"Because I'm not leaving until you forget what loneliness feels like."
The lights stay low.
The night stays young.
And for the first time in too long—
You don't hold anything back.