Your elbow definitely brushes his side — and you don’t move it.

Neither does he.

The air goes thick and warm, the silence stretching too long between two people trying very, very hard not to admit how bad they want each other.

His voice, this time, is quieter. Rougher.

“You ever think maybe… we’re not pretending as well as we thought?”

You roll to face him fully.

It’s dark, but not enough to hide the flicker in his eyes — like he’s holding something back with both hands, and he’s tired of it.

“I think,” you say carefully, “you’ve been waiting for me to say it first.”

He blinks. “Say what?”

You smile just barely. “That I want you.”

His breath catches — a sharp little hitch — like you’d just punched the wind out of him. Then slowly, so slowly, his hand lifts to cup your cheek.

“Say it again.”

“I want you.”

His lips crash into yours before the last syllable even finishes.

It’s not soft.

It’s weeks of held breath. Months of “we’re just friends.” It’s tension breaking, and mouths finding mouths like they were made to.

His hand slides into your hair, anchoring you to him. His body presses to yours like he’s trying to make up for every night he didn’t touch you.

And when he pulls back, just slightly, he’s breathless. His eyes searching yours like he’s scared he imagined it.

“This isn’t just tonight,” he whispers. “Not for me.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know,” you whisper back. “Not for me either.”

He leans his forehead to yours.

“Good,” he breathes. “Because I’m so goddamn tired of pretending I don’t fall harder every time you look at me.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt. “Then stop pretending.”

And he does.

You wake up tangled in limbs and heat, one of his arms thrown possessively around your waist, his face buried in your shoulder like you are the pillow now.

You shift just slightly, and he grumbles.

“Don’t move. I’m finally where I belong.”

You snort. “Clingy much?”

“Shut up,” he mutters into your neck, voice groggy and sweet. “I’m busy imprinting on you like a psycho werewolf.”

You laugh.

But he lifts his head a second later and looks down at you — real and serious and a little terrified.

“I meant it, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

“Last night. Every second. I’m yours if you want me.”

Your throat gets tight.

“I do.”

He smiles — wide and bright and unguarded for once — and leans down to kiss you slow.

And this time, there’s no joke.

No line.

Just the truth.