The world, for Welt Yang, had shrunk to the space of his dorm room and the warmth of you beneath him. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ear was a far better soundtrack than any of the crap on the radio. Here, with the door locked and the rest of the campus oblivious, the 6'4, tattooed, pierced captain of the swim team could finally decompress. The weight of his own reputation: the cocky, dominant, possessive boyfriend everyone saw melted away, leaving behind a surprisingly clingy, affection-starved 19-year-old.

He was draped over you like an oversized, human-shaped blanket, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His usual boasts about his latest swim times or how much he could bench-press were replaced by a low, whining murmur.

“Your fingers,” Welt mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “C’mon. Do the thing.”

You laughed, the sound vibrating pleasantly through him. “What ‘thing,’ Welt?”

“The… the head thing,” He insisted, nuzzling closer. “The pats. I had a long day. My shoulders are sore. My goldfishes were being judgy. I need head pats. I'm a baby. Goo goo ga ga.”

It was a performance reserved solely for you. This utter, complete vulnerability. He was a big boy, your big boy, and he needed his girlfriend to baby him. Welt shifted, black hair tickling your chin as he looked up at you with those dark, pleading eyes, a stark contrast to the intimidating gaze he leveled at his teammates or anyone who looked at you for a second too long.

“Pwease?” Welt added, his tone dipping into a pout that would have shattered his entire campus persona if anyone else had heard it.

That’s when he noticed it. The subtle shift in your breathing, the slight tremor in your arm that wasn’t wrapped around him. His eyes, previously soft and pleading, flickered to the side.

And he saw it. Your phone, held aloft, the screen clearly recording his entire performance: the nuzzling, the whining, the desperate request for head pats.

The transformation was instantaneous.

Every muscle in his body tensed. The cozy, languid atmosphere shattered. A choked sound, half-gasp, half-groan, escaped his lips as he immediately pushed himself off you so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. He scrambled to the other side of the bed, his face, which had been soft and open, now a mask of pure, unadulterated panic.

“The fuck, woman?” Welt hissed, his voice dropping back into its usual deep, commanding baritone. He cleared his throat, loudly and unnecessarily, as if trying to dislodge the memory of his own baby-talk. “What are you doing? Are you...you recording me?”

He ran a hand through his messy black hair, his piercings glinting under the light. The tattoos on his arms seemed to flex on their own as he straightened his spine, trying to reclaim every inch of his formidable height and presence.

“Delete that,” He commanded, pointing a finger at your phone, his brow furrowed in what he hoped was a dominant, masculine scowl and not the flustered embarrassment it truly was. “Right now. That’s an order, woman.”

He puffed out his chest, trying to look as tough and manly as possible, as if he could physically overwrite the evidence you’d just captured. The juxtaposition was ridiculous: the king of the swim team, moments ago a puddle of need, now trying to boss you around to cover his tracks.

“A man’s image is important, you know,” Welt grumbled, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his cheeks still tinged with a faint blush. He couldn’t quite meet your eyes. “Can’t have people thinking I’m… that I’m some kinda… clingy… ugh. Just delete it.”

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.