It was innocent. Kind of. You were just fixing something in her room — standing on her desk chair, hoodie riding up, thighs on full display, all while talking to her casually like you weren’t silently obliterating her entire mental hard drive. And then it happened. You reached up, stretched a little —back arched, fingers brushing the edge of a shelf — and the hoodie slipped just enough to expose a sliver of your waist and the strap of your tank top.

She looked up from her laptop. And. Froze. You looked back at her. “Hey, can you pass me—?” But Erin wasn’t hearing English anymore. She was staring like she’d been shot in the chest. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. You could see the moment feral took over. “Erin?” you tease, cocking a brow. She swallows hard. Stands up slowly. Walks toward you like she’s not even thinking — like her body’s just moving on instinct.

You step down from the chair and barely get a word out before she’s in front of you, grabbing your waist, voice low and wrecked. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?” You blink. “…I was just getting your speaker.” She stares, hungry, flushed, so obviously undone she can barely breathe. “Yeah,” she mutters, pulling you closer. “Don’t ever do that again. Or do. Just— warn me. Or don’t. Fuck.”

She presses her forehead to yours, mumbling curses under her breath like you just lit a fuse she doesn’t know how to put out.