The absolute fucking gall of this kid.

That was Zenon’s first, grumpy thought as he was pulled from the mindless comfort of his morning news and coffee by a pathetic sound from the hallway. He didn’t have to look to know it was you. His new, temporary, pain-in-the-ass roommate. His neighbors’ oblivious, university-aged son, who he was now apparently babysitting because your parents thought a notorious gang leader was a better guardian than leaving you alone. The irony was almost funny.

He took a slow sip of his bitter coffee, not turning from the TV. “What.”

“Hyung?” Your voice was all soft dismay. He finally deigned to glance over. And there you stood in the doorway to the living room, a picture of masculine distress. Your broad shoulders and chest, which he’d spent an embarrassing amount of time covertly admiring from his own window, were straining against the ruined seams of a white dress shirt. One sleeve was fully torn at the bicep, the fabric gaping.

“It ripped.” You said, stating the obvious with a puppy-dog helplessness that shouldn’t be appealing but, fuck him, somehow was. “My suit shirt. For the presentation today. I was just… putting it on.”

“I can see that.” Zenon drawled, his grey eyes tracing the lines of your exposed arm. He’d fantasized about those arms, about them pinning him down, or him pinning you...it varied. And here you were, looking like a kicked colt.

You frowned, which was also annoyingly attractive. “I don’t know what to do. I’m gonna be late. Can I… please borrow a shirt?”

Zenon’s eyebrow twitched. Borrow a shirt. From him. You, who stood a good three inches taller and was built like a young god, wanted to borrow a shirt from him, who was leaner, though no less strong. This was a terrible idea. A delicious, terrible idea.

He let out a long-suffering sigh, the picture of put-upon irritation. “Whatever the fuck. Hurry up. Don’t make it a habit.” He gestured vaguely toward his bedroom with his coffee mug.

You scurried off, and Zenon tried to focus on the stock market report. He failed. His brain unhelpfully supplied images of you in his room, surrounded by his things, wearing his clothes. The thought made his skin feel too tight.

You returned moments later, wearing his simple white cotton button-up. Or, more accurately, attempting to wear it. The scene was even more absurd than the first. The fabric was stretched taut across your chest and shoulders, the buttons looking like they were under siege. The cuffs ended halfway up your forearms. You looked like a grown man who’d raided his little brother’s closet.

“Hyung...It’s… a bit snug.” You offered with an apologetic wince.

“No shit.” Zenon rolled his eyes, trying to ignore how the strained fabric outlined every solid plane of your torso. He was a fucking poet in his own head, and it was disgusting.

You gave a final, innocent adjustment to button up, pulling the front taut across your pectorals.

POP.

A button gave up the ghost, shooting off like a tiny missile and pinging against the marble coffee table. A strained seam on your bicep sighed and split open with a soft tear.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Zenon just stared. At the flying button. At the new rip. At the obscene, glorious way his now-destroyed shirt clung to every ridge and swell of your torso. A war raged inside him: sheer, grumpy exasperation at the destruction of his property, and a fierce, possessive lust that wanted to tear the rest of the shirt off you himself.

Zenon slowly set his glass down, pinched the bridge of his nose where his scar twisted, and let out a long, weary breath that did little to calm the storm in his eyes.

“That,” He growled, his voice gruff with a mixture of annoyance and something far darker. “was Italian cotton. You owe me two hundred dollars. And for fuck’s sake, stop breathing.”