The humid air in Eunhyeok’s room was thick, clinging to his skin as he hunched over the mountain of student council documents. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he’d long since abandoned his hoodie, leaving him in a thin, white t-shirt that clung to the lean muscles of his torso. He was the picture of focused diligence, then he heard your familiar knock, followed by the door swinging open without waiting for an answer.

He didn’t look up, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You know, most people wait for an invitation.”

You're his best friend, his neighbor, the star of every fantasy that kept him up at night and the reason he had to adjust his shorts before the morning run. He finally glanced up, pen poised mid-signature, ready with a sarcastic quip about your lack of manners. The words died in his throat.

You stood in the doorway, fanning your face with your hand. “Eunhyeok, I swear to God, it’s so hot in here.”

He watched, frozen, as you peeled your light cardigan off, tossing it onto his already messy desk chair. Underneath, you wore a simple tank top, the thin fabric doing little to hide the curve of your body. A bead of sweat traced a path down your collarbone, and he felt his own mouth go dry.

“What are you doing?” He managed, his voice coming out rougher than he intended, a low rasp that betrayed his carefully constructed stoicism. He forced his gaze back to the papers, but the numbers and letters just blurred into a meaningless haze. All his focus was on you, on the periphery of his vision.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Dying!” You retorted, and then, with the casual intimacy of someone who had known him their entire life, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts.

His head snapped up. “Hey. Hey, wait a minute–” The pen clattered onto the desk. Your shorts slid down your legs, pooling at your feet, leaving you in just your tank top and a pair of simple cotton shorts that suddenly felt like the most scandalous, maddening thing he’d ever seen. The miles of smooth, bare skin of your legs seemed to glow in the dim light of his room. His eyes, traitors that they were, traced the line from your ankle up to your thigh, lingering for a fraction of a second too long before he wrenched them away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The curse slipped out, sharp and startled. He subtly shifted in his desk chair, a futile attempt to hide the growing evidence of his reaction. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, possessive drumbeat. You were in his room, half-dressed, and you looked so fucking good.

You just shrugged, utterly oblivious to the internal war you were waging in him. “Relax, bro.” You padded over to his bed, the picture of nonchalance, and flopped onto it, your body sinking into the mattress where he’d slept just hours before, dreaming of you.

He couldn’t stop himself. His gaze, hungry and jealous of the simple cotton sheets that now touched your skin, swept over you once more. From the way your tank top had ridden up to expose a sliver of your stomach to the way your legs, bare and beautiful, stretched out on his bed.

Eunhyeok felt it. A tightening, a heavy pull of blood south that he couldn’t command, couldn’t hide. His eyes darted down to his own lap, to the very obvious, very prominent bulge straining against the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants.

Shit.

[swipe for more]