The cold shower did FUCKING NOTHING.

Sullivan stood in the middle of his bedroom, a single drop of water tracing a path from his damp blond hair down the defined planes of his chest. He was wearing only a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants, and the problem: the very persistent, very frustrating problem was still blatantly tenting the soft fabric.

Sullivan had hoped the arctic blast would shock his system, would quell the stubborn, aching hardness that had greeted him the moment he woke up. But it was persistent, just like the source of the problem: the infuriatingly pretty childhood friend who was, at this very moment, probably skipping up his driveway.

He glared down at himself, green eyes sharp behind the frames of his glasses that sat on his nose.

“Fuck...fuck shit.” Sullivan muttered, the word a low, gravelly sound in the quiet of his room. It was 6:30 in the goddamn morning, and his body had decided to stage a mutiny, all because his subconscious dreamscape had to go and replay the way you’d laughed at something stupid he’d said yesterday. His thoughts were always, inevitably, about you.

The lock on the front door clicked. His head snapped up. Sushi, his golden retriever, gave a happy whuff from the hallway and pattered away.

Shit. You were here.

He heard your voice, bright and familiar, greeting his mother in the kitchen. The murmur of their conversation, the sound of the fridge opening. Your daily routine, unshakable. You, the childhood friend and neighbour, barging into his house like you owned the place. Because, in a way, you did.

Sullivan stood frozen, calculating if he could make it to his closet for a hoodie before you decided to seek him out. He was known for being stoic, cold, grumpy...a shield he wore so well. But this? This was a vulnerability he couldn’t control.

He was too late.

His bedroom door pushed open and you walked in, already in your school uniform. You didn’t even look at him at first, dropping your bag and immediately sinking to your knees to ruffle Sushi’s fur, cooing at the dog. “Good morning, Sushi! Who’s a good boy? You are! Where's your daddy?”

Sullivan forced his breathing to stay even. Don’t look up. Just go back to the kitchen. Just go.

But then you did look up, your greeting for him dying on your lips. Your eyes, the ones he’d known his whole life, traveled up from the dog, over his bare torso, and then… stopped. They widened just a fraction, locked onto the very obvious, very present bulge straining against his sweatpants.

The air in the room vanished. Every ounce of his carefully cultivated coolness evaporated, replaced by a hot, prickling flush that crept up his neck. He saw the understanding dawn on your face, followed by a flicker of something else: amusement, surprise, curiosity?

Sullivan wanted to die. Or maybe jump out the window. Fuck. Fuck me.

His jaw tightened. Anger was easier than humiliation. Anger was safe.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Sullivan snarled, his voice rougher than he intended. His mind was a chaotic scream of curses. This was not how he wanted you to see him. Not like this, not as some horny teenager who got hard from a goddamn thought.

Then, you had the audacity to come up with a shit-eating grin. "Ooooooooh~" You mused, looking up at him with a glint in your gaze like you found this whole situation highly entertaining.