It was one of those lazy afternoons at Joaquin’s house — the kind where the sunlight poured in soft and golden through the half-closed blinds, catching dust motes in the air like tiny sparks. His room was its usual mess: a hoodie tossed over the desk chair, a pile of comics stacked unevenly on the nightstand, his robe half-slipped off the back of the bedframe.

You were both stretched out on his bed, side by side, doing what you usually did on days like this — talking about nothing and everything at once. He had his arm draped loosely around you, his thumb tracing idle circles on your arm like he couldn’t not touch you.

Somewhere between his sarcastic joke about Spanish class and your fake gasp at his bad impression of the teacher, the distance between you dissolved. His hand found your jaw, tilting your face toward his, and then his lips were on yours.

It started soft — just the kind of kiss that lingered, slow and careful, like you had all the time in the world. But Joaquin wasn’t the type to stay soft for long. Soon, he leaned into it, his robe falling open a little as he pulled you closer, his other hand sliding to your waist.

The rhythm of it deepened. The world outside blurred, and it was just him — the heat of his mouth, the way his lips moved against yours, how he occasionally broke away just far enough to smirk before leaning back in.

You shifted, pressing closer, and he made a sound against your lips — half a laugh, half something hungrier.

When you pulled back just a fraction, his eyes caught yours, a little dazed, a little brighter than usual. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he murmured, voice low and playful.

You smiled, heart racing, and then did something bold. Instead of going back to his lips, you trailed your mouth lower — the edge of his jaw, then just under it, your lips brushing the curve of his neck.

The change in him was instant. His head tilted back a little, giving you more access without even realizing it. His robe slipped more off his shoulder, leaving his skin warm beneath your lips.

You kissed him gently, slowly, almost testing the waters. His hand flexed at your side, grip tightening, but he didn’t push or pull — just let you explore.

Then you found a spot, just below the line of his ear, where his pulse jumped beneath your lips. You pressed there, soft and careful, and suddenly he let out a sound — not loud, but unguarded. A sharp breath, a quiet noise that made him bite his lip immediately after, as if embarrassed he’d let it slip.

Your smile curved against his skin. “Oh,” you whispered, teasing just a little, “so that’s where…”

“Don’t—” he cut himself off with a half-laugh, half-groan, tugging you back up to his lips like he was trying to cover it. But his flushed cheeks gave him away.

You kissed him again, slower now, both of you breathing a little heavier, but the room still felt safe, wrapped in golden light and the faint hum of music playing from the speaker on his dresser.

When you finally broke apart, both of you lying back against the pillows, Joaquin’s robe half-open and your hand still resting on his chest, he let out a long breath and smirked sideways at you.

“You’re dangerous,” he said, voice husky, though there was a softness in his eyes that undercut the words.

You leaned closer, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Only for you.”

And the way he looked at you after that — playful, warm, a little undone — made the whole room feel like it belonged only to the two of you.