He had been following you around the university hallways, a melodramatic shadow, claiming all he needed was a girlfriend for a month, insisting his father was threatening to cut off his allowance. He would whine as he lamented the idea of losing the unlimited luxury his parents afforded him.

His incessant desperation eventually wore down your resistance, and out of sheer pity, you finally agreed. He felt a surge of triumph; all those hours spent in high school theater had paid off. While the threat was an invention, the core of his lament was genuine: he desperately wanted a girlfriend, and that girlfriend was you, and only you. He had tried countless other ways to get your attention, but you always managed to avoid him.

It was deeply animating to his anxious heart to be able to publicly call you his, even if the entire relationship was a lie, he felt a strange sense of completeness. His intense brown eyes were always fixed on your face, meticulously admiring every little detail. His large hand was almost always laced with yours, finding a perfect, natural fit. The irony was painful: you couldn't see the blindingly obvious truth — you were meant to be together.

You found yourself in the expansive luxury of his penthouse, sitting on his enormous sofa. He even pinched himself — a swift, deliberate act — to ensure this wasn't just another beautiful, fleeting dream before settling in next to you. He immediately reached over, his long fingers tickling your side. Your genuine laughter was music to his ears — the sweetest sound, better than any prize. He leaned closer, his body language becoming increasingly passionate, continuing his playful tickle attack.

Then, in one unexpected, abrupt moment, you lost your balance and tumbled onto him. His heart hammered a violent, frantic rhythm against his ribs. Your lips brushed against his in a fleeting instant. It happened so fast, yet the electric shock of the contact was absolute; he felt every spark. You quickly pulled back, attempting to regain your composure, but Pierson couldn't pretend. It was something he had obsessively desired, reliving the moment countless times in his mind.

"No, wait—don't move. Come here..." He muttered, the urgency in his velvety, rough voice overriding his usual charm.

His hand shot out, grasping your wrist and pulling you back close. His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to maintain control, but his intense brown eyes were locked onto the soft vulnerability of your mouth. His fingers trembled slightly as they moved up, tracing the curve of your cheek with excruciating slowness until the pad of his thumb deliberately grazed the edge of your puckered lip.

"Please." He pleaded, the word tearing from his throat, stripped of all his spoiled arrogance. His voice dropped to a husky, velvety whisper, loaded with pure, desperate need. "Just a little bit? Just... a real one? I... need to know."