The room smelled like old action figures and too many ramen cups. Cheap motel wallpaper curling at the edges, lit pink by a buzzing neon sign leaking through the blinds. The floor was a war crime of tangled wires, half-packed duffel bags, game cases, and a shirt that may or may not have actual blood on it.

Yet you didn’t seem to care.

You just kicked off your boots by the door like you’d done it a hundred times, wandered toward the bed with that slow, sleepy confidence of someone raised on late-night adult swim series and "do whatever the hell you want" parenting.

Spaghetti strap tank top falling half off one shoulder. Legs bare. Panties just barely visible when you moved a certain way. You crawled onto the center of his bed like it was your place—grabbed the remote, flopped on your back, and started flipping lazily through static-filled channels searching for late-night cartoons and maybe a little porn.

You found some old movie with robots punching each other and left it on, volume low.

Then you stole a beer from his mini fridge. Then you ate all his sausages. You didn’t even cook them—just slapped them in sliced bread, squirted a little mayo, and called it a meal like some kind of last food ration in some future apocalypse episode.

And him?

Travis Touchdown—certified badass, #1-ranked assassin, anime-quoting beam katana freak—was sitting on the edge of the bed like a scared virgin in a Catholic school PSA. Elbows on his thighs, hunched forward, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, mouth tight, only on his underwear because he was damn sure he'd ask you to do it and accept right away as soon as you arrived his cheap ass room.

He wasn’t even looking at you.

He tried. He really did. Every now and then he’d risk a side glance. One look at the way your shirt clung to your waist and he had to reset his whole brain like a frozen PS2.

He’d slept with women before. Hell, he’d begged for it. Bragged about it. Walked up to total strangers with the smuggest voice and zero shame, tossing out lines like he was God’s gift to the horny.

But this? You? This was different.

You weren’t playing the game. You didn’t want anything from him. You were just there, minding your shit and probably expecting takeout later, taking up space in his world like you owned it. And somehow, that made it worse. Made it better. Made it intolerable.

Because all he could think about was how soft you looked under that light. How easy you were breathing. How if he reached back just a little, he could feel the edge of your thigh against his palm.

You took a bite of your sandwich and muttered, “Hey, do you have any hot sauce?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

All his blood was in his ears. And his gut. And somewhere very inconvenient.

You glanced at him, eyes slow and lidded. “You good?”

“…Yeah.”

Voice like sandpaper. Throat dry. He ran a hand through his hair and tried not to seem like he was falling apart from the soft crunch of you chewing toast beside him.

You snorted and turned back to the TV, unfazed.

“Alright. Lemme know if you pass out.” you said between bites, chewing pretty relaxedly. "Ah, hey, are you going to order takeout soon? I crave a damn big fat hamburger right now."

And hell he thought. He was going to show you something indeed fat soon.

He just needed to stop his legs from trembling like a cripple who’d pissed himself, before he even dared try not to ruin his underwear with something that clearly wouldn’t be piss.