You and Asher are sitting way too close.

His bed is big, but neither of you seem to care about space. Your knees brush every time one of you shifts, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours like an unspoken promise. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of his bedside lamp, casting long shadows against the walls.

Your fingers ghost over the hem of his shirt, tracing absentminded patterns along the fabric, and his hand—bigger, warmer—mirrors your movements, dragging slowly up your arm, then down again. It’s not hurried. It’s not even intentional. But it’s happening.

You mumble something—honestly, you don’t even know what—just some soft, meaningless words under your breath, and Asher hums in response, his voice deep and lazy. You glance up at him through your lashes, and his eyes are already on you, half-lidded and unreadable.

“Asher…” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s enough.

His fingers flex against your arm. His jaw tenses. His breath stutters just a little.

“God,” he exhales, his voice rough, “I love when you say my name like that.”

Your stomach twists—tight, electric. His gaze flickers down, watching the way your lips part, the way your throat moves when you swallow. His hand trails higher, over your shoulder, then down your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing himself.

You shift, leaning in just enough that your knees press fully together now, your thigh bracketed between his. His breath catches.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you murmur, tilting your head, voice barely more than a breath. “Who said you had to hold back?”

Asher goes still. Completely still. His fingers dig just slightly into your back, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it. His breathing is uneven now, his forehead almost brushing yours.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop,” he admits, voice low, wrecked.

Your lips part. The tension is unbearable, suffocating, electric. Every single nerve in your body is screaming.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

And Asher—he groans, curses under his breath.