You don’t knock anymore.

You just swipe the keycard and let yourself in.

The lights are low. He’s in bed already, shirtless, curls damp from a shower, phone face-down on the nightstand like he’s been waiting. He looks over when you step in, eyes dragging over your body slowly, lazily, like he’s trying not to show how badly he’s been needing this.

He grabs your wrist, pulls you onto the bed with a soft grunt, and you’re in his lap in seconds — legs on either side of him, fingers already curling into his hair.

You’ve done this before. Too many times to count. It’s supposed to be simple.

But it never feels simple.

Especially not when his mouth finds your collarbone like it’s home. Or when his hands slide up under your shirt like they already know every inch of your skin — because they do.

“You’re late,” he murmurs into your neck, dragging his teeth over your pulse point.

“You won,” you breathe, grinding your hips just enough to make his breath hitch. “Figured you’d be in a good mood.”

He flips you effortlessly onto your back, eyes dark. “I’m in a better one now.”

The clothes are gone fast — months of familiarity making you move in sync. There’s no awkwardness, no hesitation. Just urgency.

And when he finally presses into you — slow, deep, so familiar it aches — you both groan, like relief and need tangled into one.

It’s always like this. Messy. Intense. Like it means too much even when you pretend it doesn’t.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, thrusts growing rougher, rhythm perfect. “I never get tired of you.”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into his back, trying not to say what’s been sitting on your tongue for weeks.

But it slips.

“You should.”

He stills.

His eyes search yours — not angry, just… confused. Or maybe something worse: knowing.

You’re both too close to stop. Too far gone to backtrack.

So he moves again. Slower. More careful. One hand brushes your face, like he’s not just fucking you anymore.

He’s touching you.