It started out innocent enough. Late night. Training ended. The DWMA dorms quieted down, the hum of activity dying with the setting sun.

You’d been stuck in the common room with Soul after a study session he pretended not to hate. He’d sprawled lazily across the couch halfway through, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

You had no intention of staying long. Just enough to finish what needed finishing before you went back to your room.

But Soul had other plans. He fell asleep on you. Literally.

At some point—between blinking slowly and muttering something about how uncool Maka’s flashcards were—he’d leaned over, slouched sideways, and landed against you with the dead weight of someone who’d passed the point of no return.

His head tilted into the crook of your neck, one arm winding around your waist as naturally as if he did this every day.

You froze. His breath was warm. Even. m And you figured maybe, if you sat still long enough, he’d shift away on his own. But he didn’t.

Minutes passed. Then… something changed.

The slow, steady breathing turned heavier. His hold on your waist tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to pull you closer.

His fingers twitched against your side like they were tracing invisible lines. His chest rose against yours, exhale deep, groaning quietly like he was dreaming…

That’s when you felt it. His lips brushing your throat. Barely there. Then again. A kiss. Slow. Lingering. Slightly parted. Your entire body stiffened.

Was he dreaming this? Your breath hitched as he shifted again, now fully burrowed into you, mouth pressing lightly just under your jaw.

A low, muffled sound escaped his throat—almost a whimper. Heat radiated from him, and not just warmth. Desire.

Another kiss, sloppier this time. His teeth grazed your skin like he was trying to say something in sleep-language, a wet, half-formed murmur against the sensitive line of your neck.

And worse—his body was reacting to it.

You needed to get out. Now.

You moved an inch. His arm tightened. You tried shifting to the side. His leg draped over yours.

He groaned again—louder now—and pulled your torso flush against his. A wave of heat surged under your skin.

His nose nudged beneath your ear, breath stuttering like he was chasing something in the dream. Your heart pounded. Not from fear.

From pure, paralyzing disbelief. Soul Evans was having a wet dream. And he was having it on you.

The rhythm of it was unmistakable now. The rocking of his hips. The desperate, muffled sighs. Every time you tried to slip away, he clung tighter—needy, instinctive, completely unconscious.

You were trapped. Held hostage by his sleep-hazed affection.