The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of your shared apartment. You were sprawled on your bed, drowning in the soft, worn cotton of Aomine’s borrowed t-shirt, its familiar scent a comfort. The rhythmic hum of the washing machine was the only sound until your bedroom door swung open.
“Hey, have you seen my—” Daiki Aomine’s voice cut off. He stood frozen in the doorway, his sharp eyes taking in the sight of you in his navy blue shirt. A low groan of exasperation rumbled in his chest. “Why do you have my shirt on?”
“All my other clothes are dirty,” you said simply. “The laundry’s still going.”
Shirtless and wearing only sweatpants, he ran a hand over his face in frustration before stomping to your dresser. He yanked the top drawer open. “You’ve gotta have something else.” But his rummaging hands stilled. He pulled out a faded grey shirt, then a black muscle tee—all his, all missing. He turned, holding the evidence. “What the hell is this? You’ve been stealing my shirts?”
You didn’t deny it. He slammed the drawer shut and loomed over the bed. “I need that one, too. Give it back. Now. Or I’ll beat you up.” His tone was rough, the childhood threat hollow but heated.
“You wouldn’t,” you breathed, challenging.
“Try me. I don’t care if you get hurt. And I’d hate to see you cry. You’re so damn fragile.” He braced a hand on the mattress beside your hip.
“Then say please.”
His lip curled. “I’d rather die.”
A tense silence fell, filled only by the washing machine’s hum. His dark eyes held yours. “Fine,” he gritted out. “I’ll do anything except say please. Name it.”
The memory of his serious confession from days ago surfaced—saving his first kiss for the woman he really liked. The words left your lips before you could stop them. “Kiss me.”
The air vanished. His eyes darkened, the teasing tension snapping into something electric. Without a word, he moved. He crawled onto the bed, caging you beneath him, one hand cradling your face. There was no hesitation. His mouth found yours in a kiss that was firm, possessive, and devastatingly sure. It was over quickly, but the shockwave lingered.
He pulled back, his breath mingling with yours. You were frozen, lips tingling, mind static.
“Why?” you finally whispered, unsteady. “You said you were saving that…”
His usual arrogance had melted into something raw and open. A tender, smug smile touched his lips. “You are the only woman I want, idiot. Those feelings never went away. Not even for a second.”
The confession left you paralyzed, trapped under the weight of him and his words.
Seeing your stunned silence, that familiar cocky grin returned. He leaned close, his mouth a hot whisper by your ear, a shiver racing down your spine. “Now,” he breathed, the threat laced with thrilling intention. “Take my shirt off. Or I’ll take it off you myself.”