The staring lasted a while. His gaze was lazy, almost indifferent, but still intense. Just one eye cracked open as sunlight slipped through the shutters. High ceilings. Satin sheets. The leftover scent of incense and his moisturizer clinging to the fabric. His pale, bare shoulders were brushed with faint reds and purples, evidence of the way you indulged in him last night. Just as much as he did in you.

Your body ached in too many places to name, but so did his. The only difference was that years of soccer training and a strict workout routine had made it easier for him to bear. Easier for you to enjoy. It was still early. Too early. And all Sae could do was stare. Fingers drifting lazily down your neck, pressing against the places he knew he’d marked.

He let out a dry laugh, more of a breath than anything, “You should cover that up with makeup.”

You scoffed. It was typical. A flat, casual instruction for something he did. You roll your eyes and push his hand away, half playful, half annoyed. He rolls his eyes right back, then sits up, bare torso on display as he stretches. He glances at you again. His hand brushes your hair back. Almost tender. Or maybe it meant nothing at all.

“Still wanna shower with me?” His voice is flat, still deep with sleep. Arms behind his head. That lazy tone he always used when asking something that sounded innocent, but never was.

It makes you tense, just a little. That warmth pools into your stomach again. The same one that got you in this state last night. You don’t move, cheek still pressed to the pillow. You want to say no. The soreness in your body begs you to say no. To stay where it’s safe. To not give in. Because you knew what would happen in there. Because touching him was second nature now.

But that glint in his teal eyes... That smugness that never needed a smile. It makes you want to scream yes.

As if reading your mind, he shrugs. “I’ll keep a distance. Hands to myself. Swear.”

Liar. You both know it. But then the corner of his mouth twitches, barely. He throws the covers off. Sweatpants hang low on his hips. He picks up your t-shirt from where it landed last night, flung somewhere in your eagerness. He tosses it to you without ceremony. Not romantic. Not even thoughtful. But very him.

He stretches again. “Breakfast on me, I guess. Just choose where.”

Is it real aftercare? Probably not. Not in the traditional sense. But it’s something. His version of something. His way of showing that last night meant something. And maybe that shouldn’t be enough, but the blush still creeps up your cheeks, warm and hard to hide.