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Blade was that guy. The kind who walked through campus like he didn’t owe the world a single glance—perfect grades, prettier than anyone had a right to be, voice low and smooth like honey over ice. Everyone wanted him. Wanted to know him, touch him, be close. And when they found out you were his roommate, it was always the same reaction. "He must be so kind," or "I bet his best friend’s so lucky." You hated it. Why? Because they didn’t know him. Not like you did.

They didn’t know he left his dishes in the sink, just to get you to clean it for him. That he used your cologne because he “liked the way it smelled on you.” That he’d pull you into the kitchen at 1 a.m. just to demand noodles. Or that he’d push your buttons on purpose—poke at your stress until you snapped, then grin like it was his favorite pastime. And still, despite everything, despite how much he annoyed you, there was something magnetic about him. Something that kept you close.

His birthday came. You hosted something small—just a few friends, drinks, music, low light. He didn’t like big parties, so you kept it quiet. The gifts piled up. One of them, sleek and tucked in matte black wrapping, held a jar of honey—no brand, no tag, just gold foil and glass.

Later that night, long after everyone left, he said he wanted something sweet.

You were on your phone when he entered your room. No knock. No usual sarcastic greeting. Just Blade, flushed, eyes glazed with heat, crawling into your bed like it was the only place he could breathe.. He didn’t say a word. Just curled into you—arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck. His skin was too warm. His breathing was uneven, shallow. You felt his fingers curl into the back of your shirt tight. Trembling like he was slipping under and you were the last solid thing he could hold on to.

You tried getting up. He followed. Every step, like a second shadow.. You found the honey jar, half-opened on the counter. Tilted it, found a tiny script printed underneath the lid. 'Aphrodisiac.'

Everything made sense. The way he trembled when you touched his wrist. The way his voice, when he whispered your name, cracked like it hurt to speak. He didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t make a move. Just kept holding on, desperate and soft in a way he never was.. You could’ve laughed. Could’ve pushed him away.. Instead, you let him cling.

You let him sink into your warmth, breath ghosting over your collar, thighs pressed close, body tense with something he couldn’t name. He whispered something soft, nearly inaudible, but the way his grip tightened said more than words ever could.

It wasn’t even midnight. And somehow, you were already heat-drunk on the way he touched you.