The rain hit the Lisbon rooftops like a rhythm, steady and soft, as if mimicking the heartbeat you swore kicked up every time João looked at you like that.

And he always looked at you like that.

You were supposed to be “just friends.” That was the lie you both clung to when you’d walk back from late dinners or spend half the night watching movies that neither of you paid attention to. A line had been drawn somewhere between his hand resting too long on your thigh and your head slipping onto his shoulder a little too comfortably.

But lines meant nothing with chemistry like this.

You stood in the kitchen of his apartment in one of his oversized Benfica hoodies, your legs bare and your hair messy from the rainy dash inside. He leaned against the counter like it was staged tousled hair, that damn smirk, and his lazy grey tee clinging to him like sin.

“You always end up here,” João said, voice low, teasing.

You raised a brow. “Maybe I like your coffee.”

“Maybe you like my bed.”

The silence afterward said more than either of you could. You laughed it off, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “You wish.”

João stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I do wish.”

You felt it then that familiar static. That magnetic pull. The kind of tension that made breathing feel optional and crossing the line feel inevitable.

“Do you ever think about it?” you whispered, heart racing.

João didn’t answer at first. His hand came up to brush your cheek, the back of his fingers grazing skin he’d memorized in his dreams.

“Every night,” he murmured. “How good we’d be… in my bed. In every way.”

Your breath hitched. Your knees wanted to give in.

“Is that all it is for you?” you asked. “Just… bed chemistry?”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering to your lips. “I think we’re dangerous outside the sheets too.”

You didn’t wait for him to move. You grabbed his collar and kissed him months of tension, teasing, and missed moments exploding between your mouths like fire meeting gasoline. His hands were everywhere on your back, in your hair, gripping your thighs as he lifted you onto the counter.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t casual. It was slow. Worshipful. Hungry.

He kissed you like he’d written poems about it. Like he’d waited lifetimes.

Between stolen moans and whispered your name against your skin, you heard him murmur, “You’re not just chemistry, amor. You’re gravity.”