The cinema was practically empty. Late night session, any movie, and Will Grayson III on his side - in a sweatshirt, messy hair and that look that said he had zero intention of paying attention to anything that was happening on the screen.

You took the popcorn, trying to distract yourself, but you felt his arm brushing against yours, your restless fingers on the armrest.

Until he leaned slowly and whispered, his voice low and loaded with intention:

“Did you know that this armchair reclines...?”

“Will,” you warned, lightly, without staring at him.

“Relax,” he smiled, malicious. “I’m just helping you get comfortable.”

His hand landed on your thigh as if it were the most natural thing in the world. First, just a light touch. But Will Grayson didn’t know how to stop there.

The fingers began to draw lazy circles on his skin, slowly climbing up the inside of his thigh, as if every second was a test of patience.

“Are you really... trying something at the movies?” You whispered, unable to contain the heat in your voice.

He laughed against his ear, his lips brushing his skin.

“You came with me knowing exactly who I am, love. I’m just... being me.”

His hand went up more, and his body reacted before you could process. He turned his face slightly, eyes fixed on his.

“Make noise and I stop,” he provoked, with that dirty smile that made me want to punch and kiss at the same time.

You grabbed the armrest tightly, swallowing dryly.

On the screen, the movie followed. In the back row, someone muttered some comment. But none of that mattered.

What mattered was his hand where it shouldn’t be. The hot, controlled, forbidden touch. And the way he looked at you as if to say:

“You’re mine. Here, now, always.”