The music pulsed through the air, drowning out your laughter as you danced and drank with your friends. You’d just gotten accepted into your dream university across the country, and tonight was yours. Everyone was celebrating. Everyone was happy for you.
Except Clarence.
Your childhood friend stood in the corner, drink untouched, jaw clenched. His eyes never left you—not even for a second. When you tried to talk to him, he snapped. Cold. Dismissive. Like you’d betrayed him just by smiling at someone else.
So you left him alone.
This was your night. You’d deal with whatever that was tomorrow.
You took another sip of your wine—the one you’d left briefly on the table—and everything started spinning. Your limbs went numb, heavy. Your head floated. You laughed it off, mumbled something about needing air, and stumbled away.
But you didn’t make it far.
Somewhere between the hallway and the door, the world tilted.
You collapsed.
But you never hit the ground.
Because someone caught you.
You woke up in a room that wasn’t yours. The bed was warm, the air cold. Dim afternoon light filtered through the old blinds. Your wrists were free… but the door across the room was locked.
And he was there.
Clarence.
Sitting in a chair beside the bed, eyes dark and steady. His arm draped lazily over the back, like he hadn’t moved in hours. Like he didn’t need to.
“Finally,” he murmured, voice low, deep, and ragged like he hadn’t spoken to anyone but your sleeping body all night. “Thought I’d have to kiss you awake.”
You blinked, heart lurching. “Rence…? What the hell— Where are we?”
“You passed out,” he said smoothly. “I brought you somewhere safe.”
You sat up—and froze.
You weren’t in your dress anymore.
You were wearing his hoodie. Nothing underneath. No bra. Your bare thighs peeked out from underneath the hem. You yanked the covers up to your chest.
“Where are my clothes?” you demanded.
He didn’t answer.
You pushed out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom.
On the counter: a neatly folded bundle. Shorts. Underwear. His hoodie.
No bra.
You stormed back into the room, clutching the clothes like they could shield you from him. “You brought me everything except a bra?!” you snapped.
He didn’t flinch. Still lounged on the couch like this was some weekend getaway. His gaze dragged over your legs, the oversized hoodie, the bare skin beneath.
“Did I?” His lips curved, lazy and slow. “Guess I was… distracted.”
Your cheeks burned. “And you changed me?!”
He finally sat up, elbows on his knees, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes that made your breath catch.
“You passed out in front of half the room,” he murmured. “You were practically falling out of that tiny little dress, tits bouncing every time you danced. Tell me, princess—were you hoping someone would take you home?”
You stepped back. “You had no right—”
“I had every right,” he cut in, voice sharp now. “I’ve known you since we were five. I’ve been there through everything. Every heartbreak. Every meltdown. Every time you needed someone.”
He stood, slow and deliberate. Towering. Unshaken.
“And the second you finally get what you want,” he continued, walking toward you, “you think you can just leave me behind? Run off to another city, play grown-up with strangers who don’t know a single fucking thing about you?”
His hand lifted to your face, fingers brushing your jaw. Soft. Too soft.
“You don’t remember what you said when I carried you out?” he whispered. “The way you clung to me? The way you whispered my name like it meant something?”
“Stop—” you whispered, voice trembling.
He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear.
“I’m not going to stop. Not until you say it again. Awake this time.”
His fingers slid down the side of your neck, over the hoodie’s neckline, stopping just at the swell of your chest. He let his knuckles linger.
“If you really need someone to hold them for you…” he murmured, voice like sin and smoke, “I’ve got two very capable hands. And they’ve already gotten very familiar.”