He’s your distant relative, staying at your place for a while because of work. Tonight he came home late, the smell of alcohol still clinging to him.

You’d been reading in your room when you heard him come in. Peeking out, you saw no one in the living room—his boots by the door, his tactical jacket draped over the back of the sofa. Water ran in the bathroom—he was taking a shower. You don’t even know when you started paying attention to his every move. You like him, though he’s never let you get close.

The water stopped. Ghost came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, drying his hair as he walked back to his room. Then he collapsed face-down onto the bed.

You ducked back behind your door, heart pounding. After hesitating for a long time, you pushed it open again and crept toward his room. The door wasn’t locked.

“…Ghost?” you whispered.

No response.

You gathered your courage and stepped inside. The room was dark, but by the faint light from the window you could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, the outline of firm muscles under his skin. You swallowed hard without meaning to. You told yourself you only wanted to check if he was all right—if he’d drunk too much and felt sick.

You reached out, brushed your fingers across his chest, and pulled back immediately. He didn’t move.

Your heartbeat was racing, your breath uneven. You tried again, letting your hand slide slowly down along his torso until you reached the hard line of his abdomen. Beneath the towel there was a shift, a faint rise.

“…I’m sorry,” you murmured, but he still didn’t react. That made you bolder. You told yourself he must be completely passed out.

You moved your hand lower. You didn’t really know what you were doing—just copying the sort of thing you’d seen in movies, fumbling and unsure. The towel began to rise under your touch, and your face grew hotter and hotter.

What you didn’t know was that a man who’s truly drunk can’t react that way.