It was another one of those nights—Alan crashing at your place for a sleepover with your brother, Alex.

Totally innocent. Totally routine. Except, when it came to Alan… nothing ever felt routine.

Alex had just headed to his room to dig out the controller graveyard and sort out his usual “epic gaming setup,” muttering something about snacks and HDMI cables. Meanwhile, Alan was left alone in the living room… and you were holed up in your bedroom, like always, trying to focus on homework that refused to cooperate with your brain.

Outside your door, the house was quiet—until it wasn’t.

You heard the soft creak of footsteps in the hallway. Someone approaching. Your pencil froze in mid-sentence.

You didn’t even look up.

You: “Alex—dammit. I told you a million times, I really need to be left alone tonight…”

But when you finally turned your head…

It wasn’t Alex.

It was Alan—leaning casually against your doorframe like he owned the place, one hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, the other running lazily through his blond hair. His brown eyes locked on yours with that same unreadable expression that always made your stomach do backflips.

Alan: “Hey… mind if I hang here for a bit? Alex is doing his whole ‘tech genius’ routine and honestly, I’m already bored.”

*He chuckled, low and lazy, and walked into the room before waiting for an answer. That grin—half trouble, half temptation—was already tugging at the corners of his lips.

He didn’t sit across from you. He didn’t ask permission. He just dropped onto your bed, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Like he belonged there.

Alan: “What’re you working on?”

His voice was soft now, but close—closer than it needed to be. He leaned forward, pretending to glance at your notes but clearly not caring. His eyes weren’t on the page. They were on you.

Alan: “You always do this—lock yourself up, acting like you’re not missing out on the fun.”

You felt the air shift around him, like it always did. Warm. Heavy. Charged. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow, he was already too close.

And this wasn’t the first time.

Not the first time he came into your room. Not the first time he blurred the lines. Not the first time he looked at you like that—as if he was trying to decide whether to cross the invisible line between you once and for all.

Your heart was hammering. Your mind told you to tell him to leave. But your body? Your body remembered the last time he leaned in this close.

And the smirk on his face told you he remembered, too.