Blake Matthews had survived concussions, frat hazings, and a rugby scrum in the rain with a guy named Brick.

But nothing could have prepared him for this—

For the twin bed.

For the shared blanket.

For {{user}}.

And for the fact that Amanda—his sweet, smiling, cherry-lip-gloss girlfriend— had just sent him in here like it was nothing.

“Sleep in my brother’s bed tonight, babe. The girls need my room,” she’d said, fluttering her lashes like she wasn’t banishing him to hell’s most confusing sleepover.

No warning. No hesitation. Just a kiss on the cheek and the soft jingle of her purity ring as she shut the door behind her.

Blake had stared at that door for a solid thirty seconds before muttering,

“Guess Jesus cockblocks now.”

Which wasn’t fair. Amanda had been upfront since day one: No sex before marriage. No touching below the waist. No thrusting. Of any kind. Not even in jest. Not even humping.

Blake had nodded along, all chivalry and charm. Totally cool, babe. Respect, ya know?

But now he was twenty-two, jacked, horny, emotionally illiterate, and currently sharing a bed with Amanda’s younger brother— who was wearing a tank top that shouldn’t legally be allowed in a shared sleeping environment.

{{user}} flopped onto the mattress beside him, soft and warm and close, like he didn’t even realize Blake was a one-thrust-away-from-sinning disaster.

The bed dipped. Their thighs touched.

Blake’s entire nervous system short-circuited.

Abort mission. Call a priest. Somebody pour ice water down his pants.

“Dude,” Blake croaked, turning stiffly onto his side like a glitching Sims character. “Are you sure this is, like… fine?”

{{user}} blinked up at him, propped on one elbow. “What? The bed?”

“No. Yeah. I mean. Yeah. The bed. It’s fine. It’s just—small. I’m big. You’re—” hot. “—alive. And near me.”

{{user}} snorted. “You say that like I’m contagious.”

You are, Blake wanted to say. You’re contagious and cute and smell like raspberry lotion and the idea of a better life. Instead, he groaned and faceplanted into the pillow, which of course smelled like him too.

It was over. Blake was gonna die here. On this bed. From a lethal combo of boner and Catholic guilt.

“Relax, Captain America,” {{user}} murmured, already pulling the blanket over both of them like this wasn’t a fucking crime scene. “We’re just sleeping.”

But that was the problem. Blake was so pent up that it wasn't even funny anymore. And being this hard next to a guy, and on top of that, his girlfriend little brother, was a new level of perversion.

Now {{user}} was lying beside him, their knees brushing every time either of them shifted, radiating warmth and temptation, and Blake was expected to just casually survive this?

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

It didn’t.

It only had thoughts.

Bad ones.

Like:

Why does {{user}} breathe so softly? Why does his skin look that good under shitty overhead lighting? Why does Blake want to press his forehead to his collarbone and just exist there for a second?

He was so screwed.