The smell of rain is ripe, and tonight the air is thick enough to suffocate. It is late summer, and out in the country the sun leaves the town humid and blistering clear past evening. He can smell the asphalt, that sickeningly sweet, and the grain of dirt just over the pavement. His hair feels like it's sticking to his skin but those strange wisps of cold short on the breeze keep him from peeling off his jacket entirely. His face feels hot and his tongue parched and he hurries through the streets toward his wayward apartment, just a few blocks in this direction. He's got a few to spend, and before he passes the corner store he pauses to wonder if he still has coffee mix for the morning. In his kitchen there is a pot of cold pasta waiting on the stove, half a pack of booze, a quarter carton of two-percent milk, a stick of butter, and a few cups of chocolate pudding in his fridge. There's a small salt shaker he has to refill in the cupboard, a loaf of white bread and a box of generic brand cereal. He can't remember if he's washed the dishes or wiped clean the counters, but his bed is made and his clothes are folded to be washed tomorrow and that's okay, too.

Some off-key bell chimes when he enters the store, and aside from a sleepy cashier and an old guy in the tabloid aisle, he's the only one here.

He picks a basket from a stack by the entrance and makes his way down the first row. A few packs of instant noodles, a box of white rice, a narrow container of coffee mix, and a baggie of salted peanuts. The next row, some peanut butter, sugar, a candy bar, and a family-sized bag of potato chips despite living very much alone. Someone comes into the store, from that off-key bell chime, but when he cranes his neck over the aisles he can't see who.

At the end of the row, where the entirety of the wall is covered in cold goods, he stops to get coffee cream, milk, and a small bottle of apple juice. The basket is terribly heavy now and he considers leaving it at that. He'd have to go to a proper grocery store for the rest, once his paycheck comes in, but as he passes through the second to last row toward the cash register he notes the cardboard boxes lined up neatly on the shelves. He'd lent quite a few more than necessary to his friends when they'd asked the other day, he must be short now.

There are some bottles of lube, and while he pauses to consider them he notices a slight figure at the very end of the aisle. He almost rears back, somewhat embarrassed, but they are much more preoccupied with the items down that way. In this same aisle, there are the basic essentials for babies, pain medication, and feminine hygiene products. This small girl is dressed in a dark red hoodie, gray jeans, running shoes, and a beige overcoat. She is contemplating between a few boxes of pads and tampons, these little pale fingers twitching between the selections before her indecisively. He drags his gaze away to give her the necessary privacy and fidgets by the condoms. She can't be any more interested in knowing about his choices than he is about her predicament.

So he settles back into his thoughts, mulling over types and colors before deciding upon a more trusted brand. After another moment, he picks a bottle of lube for good measure, backs up a step, and then quickly and quietly sweeps past her toward the cash register.

The sleepy cashier is twice his age, some lady with tattoos decorating both arms and a nose piercing. She pops her bubblegum and he remembers to add a pack to his items. She rings him up without preamble and bags up everything for him nicely. As she counts out his money he hears the subtle squeak of sneakers behind him and holds his breath. The lady does nothing to hide the box of condoms and he wonders if the small girl behind him is judging him for it. Face burning, he thanks the cashier and takes his things, shuffling toward the entrance and slipping outside to the enigma of hot-cold rain.

It's picking up, and as he sets down some of the plastic bags to check his phone he considers going for a quick shower before making up dinner. His friends had offered him a drive home but he does not regret refusing them that. There is something surreal about this night, the twinkle of street lights every few buildings and how the sign above the corner store buzzes loud and yet mute at the same time. How the apartments crowding in tight against the sidewalk look like bystanders, overlooking him. How the clouds paint gray-black and ominous, how the asphalt glistens odd. He breathes in and is almost choked by sour-sweet, by grainy-rich, by thick and humid and cool and lonely.

He is bending to pick the bags from the ground when the off-key bell chimes and a door pushes open. It snaps back shut as he peers over his shoulder at the small girl, standing nervous and culpable behind him. The white fluorescents bleach out past her narrow figure and casts her face in shadow, darkest where her hoodie plasters tight against her head from the rain—picking up now, heavy and invasive.

She breathes in and her eyes are terribly wide, he can't tell how old she is but she grips the plastic bag against her chest tight enough he worries some. The air is becoming cooler and he can feel it on his skin, the scatter of shivers it sends down his spine and toward his numbing toes.

"T—they're not for me," she suddenly says, and her voice is so faint he nearly misses it. It rings like silver bells, so sweet. "They're for my friend—she asked me to get them but now—now she won't pick up her phone and I don't know where she lives and…"

He glances down at the cellphone in her hand. He can't tell what color the case is supposed to be, but there are charms dangling off one side over her tiny hand. Maybe it's pink, maybe it's blue. Maybe neither—the point is, she looks so scared and small he feels his chest tug sharp.

"I've never been to this side of town," she tells him, and he knows she doesn't trust him. She grips her phone like a safety net and backs up a step when he turns toward her more fully. Her gaze swipes over him quickly, perhaps noting his age. Perhaps growing more afraid. "I just wanna get home."

"Is your phone dead?" he asks, and he almost wishes she hadn't. She flinches and nearly cowards back into the store. It had been her only sense of control, hoping he'd assume she'd have at least that amount of power over him and not take advantage of it. He has been in this position before, and it leaves an awful, gnawing feeling at the pit of his heart, the base of his throat. He has to swallow around it and put a little more space between them.

Girls generally like him, but unless he proves otherwise he is no different from the next guy.

"I'm Oikawa Tooru," he says, and when she doesn't say anything he adds, "I'm a college student, and my apartment is nearby. I'd be happy to let you charge your phone."

For a moment, there is nothing else but the loud pattering of rain on cement and fabric, the incessant buzz of the sign high above her, and the pounding of his heart against his ribs. She is frozen, as if weighing her options. Her shoulders are tense and her chin tucked in and it's like she's getting ready to bolt, like she's getting ready for some fight she's been warned about her whole life.

Oikawa doesn't know how to make himself any less threatening. It's near pouring outside and he's wearing this old pale blue jacket, unzipped at the front were a graphic of a cartoony alien peers back at her. His jeans are torn at the knee and his shoes are comfortable and spotted in the Clorox he cleans his kitchen floor with. His clothes cling to his tall, lean body like a second skin and his hair now hangs over his eyes and down his neck in ways he's never quite liked. The plastic bags he holds are some off pink, with yellow smileys on the faces. He can't very well do anything to her without dropping his precious purchases and he honestly doesn't very well have the energy for it.

He'd been hanging out with his friends all day and a few rounds of volleyball at the park and the last couple movies they'd watched in someone's living room have left him somewhat worn.

He just wants to go home. He just wants to change into something warm and dry and eat something and watch a late night comedy show and curl up in bed and sleep a few hours.

He just wants the day to end.

"I won't do anything you don't want me to," he says as earnestly as he can, dropping his shoulders and lowering his head. He can't make himself any smaller. He can't meet her in the middle like this. "I promise. I won't touch you."

She hugs her things to her chest, searching his face frantically. It is a few beating seconds before she lifts her head a little. "I—I'm Yachi Hitoka."

.x.

It isn't anything impressive. A hole in the wall, so to speak. In the night, all the buildings look like one endless mass of brick and shadow, and as late as it's getting there are less and less lit windows to distinguish one place from the next. His particular building looks all cement, this dark opening framed on each side by blackened windows through which neither one can make out anything. Some water has sloshed inside the short hall, and while he struggles with all his bags for the keys in his front jeans pocket, she lingers by the opening as if debating running right then and there.

He unlocks the metal screen door, and then the thicker wood door beyond that. He allows her in before him, awkwardly pressing close into the door frame to give her as much space as possible. She slips past quickly and wipes her feet dry on the mat inside while he shuts and relocks both doors in turn. Immediately, there is a narrow stairwell that from this angle looks long and endless, this trailing thing that goes on and on and on with no escape. He becomes so much more aware of how frightening this all might look to her, and so he takes it upon himself to go first, to give her all the freedom in the world to flee if she so chooses to.

His things clank against the walls, it's such a tight fit. He can hear her shoes against the concrete steps further down and she moves much slower than him. She pauses at the first stop, turns to the left and to the right at the two hallways on either side. When he continues up, he knows she glances back down at the exit in alarm.

His apartment is in the top floor, and he is deeply sorry for all the anxiety it must be causing her. She's too deep in to run now and he doesn't want her to feel that way. His place is toward the left, near the end, and again he jostles around his bags to pull out his keys and allows her in before him. And again she lingers by the door as he locks it. She jumps as he toes off his shoes and hurries to do the same, hesitating as he continues toward the kitchen to put away his stuff.

"I'll go get my charger, I think you have the same type as me," he says, if only to soothe her nerves some. He tosses out the empty container of coffee mix, putting away the creamer and milk in the fridge and shutting the cupboards. There are only a few dirty dishes and he is relieved by this. His clothes are soaked straight through and while he carefully clutches the bag with the condoms and lube inside out of sight, he adds, "If you want, I can bring you a towel?"

He's already moving around toward his bedroom and she edges slowly toward the living room. It's small and furnished only by a loveseat, a flat screen and a coffee table. "That's very kind of you," she finally offers when he stops by the hallway entrance.

It's when he's safely in his room, moving to stash the bag in his nightstand that he realizes he hadn't turned on any lights. The street lights down below had illuminated the living room some from the large window but no more than that. He is used to keeping his home like this, but it must seem so creepy to her. He sighs and tries to drag his fingers through his hair. It's too wet, and he winces in discomfort. Right.

He quickly uses the restroom and peels off his jacket, hangs it up on the shower rail and rings out his shirt in the sink. He leaves his wet clothes to dry and uses a towel to pat himself off, ruffles his hair to damp and hurries around his room for a pair of warm sweats and a t-shirt. He snatches up another towel, his charger from the wall, and steps back out into the living room slowly. She seems uncertain whether to sit down on his couch, jolting as he lets his door click shut behind him.

"Here you go," he says, holding them out for her to take.

She presses the towel to her cheek and steps back, and here he moves back into the kitchen to flick on the lights. He keeps his back to her.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, opening the freezer to pull out the box of chicken strips. "I made some spaghetti earlier but I didn't get around to eating it. I think I have…ah, yeah. Still have some tomato sauce."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, and he hears a small beep as her phone begins to turn back on.

"It's okay if you don't really like tomatoes," he continues, hoping this isn't making it worse. "I'm making some chicken for the side." He tosses out the box and searches for a tray, a foil sheet, and sets the oven to preheat. "How many do you want?"

"Two?" she pipes up timidly, and she comes forward some to watch him from the other side of the counter. "Just two, if that's okay."

He lines up the chicken strips alongside one another and sets it aside. "Are you allowed out this late?" he asks, and then wonders if that isn't too weird a thing to ask.

"I'm also in college," she tells him, and steps forward into the kitchen to watch him rifle through the fridge for the butter. "I just started attending recently…and—I'm working toward moving out."

"That can be difficult," he hums, cutting a thin slice and then switching on the stove to start heating up the pasta. "Good luck—"

"I recognize you," she says suddenly, and he jerks back to look at her sharply.

Ah, yes, he thinks, and it all becomes clear. He remembers her, too.

She doesn't appear to have grown any taller, still very tiny for her age. Her hair is trimmed about the shoulders, this sunny blonde parted at the left and clipped by this pin adorned with two blue stars. The strands cling to her soft cheeks and throat but she hardly looks any different. Her eyes are still so big, so open and wondering. Her figure is masked entirely by her thick clothes, and he worries for a moment she's too cold.

"Karasuno," he murmurs, and her eyes brighten some. He hadn't gotten a good enough look at her before, but now he wonders how he could have missed it. She has lost some of that old shy and trembling demeanor, replaced now with some sense of worth she must still feel fits her like an oversized sweater—comfortable and too much.

She is still shaking. She is still scared.

But she does not cower at him any longer.

"Are you still in volleyball?" she asks, and he warms in her direction.

"Of course," he says, and then turns back toward the pasta to slide the small square of butter into the mix to soften them. "I could never leave it."

She hesitates and then reaches to undo her coat. "If you don't mind. I feel more at ease knowing it's you."

"By all means," he assures, and opens the oven to slide the tray of chicken strips inside. "I was debating lending you some clothes to wear—if they weren't too big for you—but I figured it would make you uncomfortable."

She drapes the coat over one chair. She reaches for the hem of her hoodie. "Well… Maybe, but it would've been very kind of you. I'm sorry, for how I acted."

"Don't worry," he says, pulling out another pot to boil the frozen vegetables. He wipes his hands on his jeans and turns back to her. She's reaching for the towel to pull around her shoulders. "I understand completely."

She meets his gaze. "Has that happened to you a lot?"

"Not like this," he says. "Girls would never approach me this late. They're always afraid I'll do something."

"…Would you?"

"Of course not," he sighs, appalled at the idea. "I would never lay a finger on them without their permission."

"I heard," she says, "that back in high school, your girlfriend had left because of…your games."

He levels her gaze. "She left because I had a problem. It's okay to acknowledge that."

"Does that still happen?" she asks, avoiding his eyes.

"I haven't dated much since," he replies, fiddling with the knobs of the sink. He can't tell her how many people he's been with, how many times he's hoped it would evolve and how many he'd been let down. "It turns out a lot of people just…really like how I look."

She considers this, rubbing a corner of the towel at the back of her ear. "You seemed nice in high school. Intimidating and…intense, but. Nice."

He laughs a little. "I don't anymore?"

She has the mind to look sheepish. "I have a better impression of you now. You're much kinder than you look."

"Thanks," he says. And he means it.

.x.

It's nearing midnight, and as he's serving them plates she checks her phone. He pours them both apple juice and waits by the table with some napkins and forks as she finishes up her text.

"I told my mother I'm staying with a friend," she tells him, voice small. "She'd rather I stay in tonight, just until it's daylight again."

Reflexively, he glances past her toward the window at the pitch black sky and hums, "Smart. Who are you gonna stay with? I'd be happy to walk you there."

"I—I don't…have anyone to stay with tonight," she mumbles, and then very slowly meets his gaze. "I was wondering if…maybe I could stay with you?"

.x.

"Absolutely not," he says, and she turns bewildered eyes up to him. "You are not sleeping on that couch—that would be cruel!"

"I've done it before," she protests, face coloring. "Where else will I sleep? Your bed?"

"I don't see why not."

"This couch is too small for you!"

"Listen—"

"I'm—I'm fine with sharing a bed with you, Oikawa-san—I'm just scared other people might think that's weird."

It hadn't really occurred to him, sharing a bed. Very few people have slept in that bed with him, and never under these specific circumstances. This amount of trust is entirely unearned on his part. He's never been on particularly good terms with Karasuno, but his malice had never once been directed anywhere near her.

In fact, if she hadn't been associated with the team, he might've even liked to get to know her better.

"Nobody really has to know," he says, and she looks at him strangely. "It can just be between us."

.x.

There is no clear cut reason as to how it started, or why. He folds back the covers on the bed and she says something about needing a shower, and perhaps out of habit he had jokingly said something about joining her. In truth, he, too, needed a shower. A large part of him is uncomfortable with the fact that he is wearing clean clothes over his sweaty, sticky body and another is entirely disgusted with the state of his hair, and the fact that she is witnessing it. And in the light of the bathroom, she had looked at him curiously and there had suddenly been too much space between them.

Maybe he's always wondered about it, inside. Maybe he's always wanted to know how it'd feel like to touch her.

Or maybe he just got swept up by the moment.

He's been in this position before. Some pretty girl taking his words the wrong way and his taking advantage of that, some pretty girl looking straight into his eyes and meeting him head on.

The rain pours loudly on the roof and windows and thunder rolls deep beyond the clouds, filling this space with noise. His room smells stale and cold, and he does feel so cold.

And he wonders if she does, too.

It's never been like this before. He can't think of anything to say and so he lets the downpour speak for him, the practiced way in which he removes her damp clothes from her, how he coaxes her into his bed like a scared animal—all conveying what he cannot possibly convey. She shrinks away at his touch but when he tugs his shirt off she tucks herself into his chest and soaks up his warmth; soft skin, small breasts, fragile bird-bones, all meld against him in one move and he shudders. And he moans. And he cannot remember the last time he's done this.

Weeks. Months. Or maybe just the other day. He can't tell anymore.

This is most certainly her first time. She's lying back against his pillows and her knees are drawn close together, her fingers curled into her palms by her shoulders, and she won't quite look at him. She swallows audibly as he peels her white cotton panties down her thighs, lifting her knees and locking her ankles over one another as he drops it somewhere on the floor by the bed. The bathroom light drapes across his back and colors her skin up pale where his shadow does not cast her dark. When he leans back to look at her it sweeps over her face, the furrow of her brow and her eyes, so wide and afraid. The slight swells of her breasts, the rose pink of her nipples, the small rise and dip of ribcage, of belly, of hipbone—and she does look beautiful.

Women do have the tendency of doing that, every time he's ever been lucky enough to see one naked he has been stricken by their beauty, breathless in the light of their brilliance.

Yachi Hitoka is no different.

And so he slides one hand up her side, over soft and pebbling skin, to cup her cheek, to caress the area underneath her eye, to tell her in one rushing sigh, "You are so beautiful."

Color rises underneath his hands and she feels so warm, so sweet. She struggles with how to reply and this is lovely, too. Her whitened skin looks stark against his tan, tiny fingers attempting to wrap about his wrist, and he wants so badly to touch her he can feel it burning at the core of him, this broiling longing. He only retracts to reach into the bedside drawer. She jerks upward when he rises to push his sweats down his hips. "Ah—a—already?" she asks, voice reduced to a panicked squeak.

He hurries to comfort her, smoothing down her hair and placing fleeting kisses on her forehead. "No, no," he murmurs. "We won't have to worry about this when we get to it, that's all."

She slowly sinks back into the pillows, but tries very hard not to look when he slides off the rest of his clothes. He's not completely hard, he's not the same, easily excited boy he used to be and he can pride himself in this. He has picked up on things, knows not to rush when it counts the most, and this counts the most. This small and pretty girl who trembles at the sound of tearing foil, of crinkling wrapper, of his hand slowly stroking himself to hardness. She swallows loudly a second time when he pops open the bottle of lube, eyes squeezing shut.

"We don't have to," he assures, adding a few drops into the condom before rolling it on. It's cold, and as expected he loses some of his erection at the sensation.

"…What is that?" she whispers.

"Lubrication."

"Do we…need that?"

"It helps," he says, and when she proceeds to look doubtful he explains, "Sometimes we need a little help, and that's okay."

He settles in beside her, tucking his arm underneath her pillow and bringing his other hand up to drift over her stomach. Without his body blocking the light, she is completely drowned in it. He moves until he can kiss her temple, her eyebrow, the tip of her button nose. He can feel her fingers against his chest, the way she turns her head away as his mouth trails down to her jawline, the hot skin of her throat. His hand squeezes her hip tenderly, this rising excitement building at the taste of her collarbone, the wet noise as he sucks around her jugular and the hitch in her breaths. His hand is sliding in between her soft thighs and he is tracing her lower lip, the edges of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, her slick tongue; he hums into her mouth and her legs snap shut, trapping his hand against her heat.

And she is so hot, so sweet and wet and quivering underneath the calloused pads of his fingers. She whines, shyly following his tongue with hers and licking the spit shining her reddened lips as he pulls away. "That's good," he murmurs, cups and then strokes at her slowly. "That's good, Yachi-san."

She swallows and presses her fingers over her mouth, as if uncertain she had just done that.

She gasps as he opens his mouth around one nipple, the arm under her pillow retracting to wrap around her waist, to tug her tight against his mouth. Her hips twitch and when the heel of his hand grinds down against her clit, she cries out, she bucks hard against his hand, she twists and turns and writhes in his arms for relief. He hums, flicking his tongue over her nipple and then switching to the other one smoothly. He nips and she jerks back, whimpering halfway between encouragement and protest when he all too confidently searches about for her entrance and slides his middle finger inside ever so slowly. She rolls her hips, arches her back, lets her legs fall open to allow him the space and draws a shaky breath, what starts against his mouth abruptly. He searches about her silken walls, turns his finger as they throb around it. He lifts himself back up to kiss her, to soothe her back down with every curl and pump of his finger. She rocks her hips and he softly molds his lips to the corner of hers and tells her, "That's it."

The second finger, and he parts them to make more room, turning his hand by the wrist to ease the friction. When he slides them deep enough, he searches about for her clit, circling it gently with his thumb when she whines and moans upon contact. Her knees lift and she is restless, meeting him quick and frantic and impatient. He watches her toes curl and her breasts bounce and he feels his mouth water, wastes no time moving in between her trembling thighs. At the sight of him there, her legs move to snap back shut, but he quickly extracts his fingers from her to catch them.

"Don't worry," he assures, moving down onto his elbows and kissing her inner thigh lightly. He parts her lips with the same hand and smiles up at her. "You'll like this."

He guides her legs over his shoulders and lowers his head until he can drag his tongue over her clit, until he can slide it inside of her and suck the juices from her pretty flower. She is framed with pale hair and they glisten with her, soaked straight through. He breathes her in and curls his tongue along her walls and when she moans, it's long and deep and pleading. He carefully holds her hips in place before they can snap upward too hard, they twitch and rock and wiggle and he wants so much more. He wants to bury himself as deep within her as he can and never move from there again.

She is so pretty and so sweet and so good he can't really think for a second. He doesn't stop until she's sobbing with pleasure, his chin smeared and dripping with her, his jaw aching for relief. He swallows her down and licks her from his own skin, greedy for her now.

He wants so much more.

"Yachi-san," he says, utterly breathless. "Please tell me you wanna keep going, Yachi-san."

Her eyes are glassy, the flush on her face spreading down toward her chest. She nods, fingers so tightly twisted in his sheets her knuckles are white. He crawls up until her thighs are settled on his hips, holding himself over her for a moment—how terrible small she is underneath him—and then reaches for the lube. She's very wet, but he doesn't want to take any chances. He pours it thick on the palm of his hand and tosses the bottle aside somewhere, coating himself thoroughly and lining up at her entrance. For a second, her eyes clear up a little, glancing down at his length and then meeting his gaze frantically.

"Will it hurt?" she thinks to ask, and he leans down until he's braced on his elbow above her head.

He kisses her hairline. "Not if I did my job right."

And as he sinks so very easily within her, this blistering heat, he moans low and pleased.

"See, that's not so bad," he says, mouth open and wet. "That feels okay, right?"

Her response is no more than a mumble, one soft hand gripping his hip and tugging him deeper inside. The other hand spreads over his waist, holds him in place as she rocks upward subtly. Her heels dig into his backside, urgent to keep going.

He parts his knees a little more, thrusts down into her once, twice, sets a slow, persistent rhythm that draws a shaky sigh from her. He cradles the back of her head, wraps an arm underneath her and pulls her flush against him. He pushes as deep inside her as he can, sinks down to the hilt and suddenly wonders at how well they fit together. He fills her so completely, and is so wholly held by her he shivers down to the base of his spine. He loses sense of himself in all the movement, forgets for a moment they are technically strangers to one another, so taken by her soft skin, her soft moans, her soft hair—he forgets they're two separate people.

"Fuck," he breathes, and thrusts hard enough to shake the bed entirely. A gasp tears out from her and he grits his teeth, curling his fingers into her hair and grinding down rough. His balls slap against her skin and she's so wet, so dripping for him he forgets all sense of control. He whispers in her ear the type of things people like her aren't supposed to be hearing.

Like, "Fuck."

Like, "You're so fucking good."

Like, "God—"

And her hand slides up to grip the back of his shoulder, to pull him down until she can kiss along his collarbone. She sucks on his pulse point, and he can't think anymore.

He can't remember a time he didn't feel like this.

The rain is coming down hard, superimposed by the sighs of the bed springs and her rising moans. His name chokes its way out her mouth and before he can hear it clearly lightning snaps brilliant outside and it shakes them both down to the bones. For a second, it feels as if the whole world is crumbling in light of this and something splits down his chest and drags a growl from his throat. The rhythm breaks and slides and pops and he's on the precipice, too near the edge for comfort. He rubs and pinches her clit until she's crying out, thighs pressing in tight against his sides and back arching right off the mattress.

And as things flicker out of focus, he is rendered breathless—stricken by her beauty in this moment—

He comes in hot bursts, hissing and grunting and snapping his hips down into hers hard enough the bed squeals. His vision goes spotty for a second, sinking deep and close and burying his nose in her hair, what smells like sweat and rain and flowers.

Her voice stutters out, this high-pitched litany, "O—Oh—Oikawa —"

And that sounds so pretty. And so right. And so scarily natural he shivers down to the base of his spine. It takes all of his strength just to roll off of her, and for a minute he doesn't want to move at all. He's so spent, so utterly exhausted he just wants to catch his breath, he just wants to sleep for a few hours. But her breaths are just as loud as his, and she must feel as cold as he does.

And so he turns and pulls her into his chest, showers her face in kisses and murmurs sweet nothings until she is melting underneath his affections. He is tucking her hair behind her ear and mumbling something like, "So pretty," or, "So good," or—

"God, you're so fucking beautiful."

And when their skin is too hot to touch any longer, he slowly extracts himself so that he can dispose of the condom. The alarm clock on the bedside table shines red, it is two in the morning and he has work tomorrow. He can't bring himself to care, dragging his fingers through his gnarled hair and sighing from deep in his chest. He's sticky from earlier in the day and sticky from her, too. Part of him doesn't want to shower for that reason alone—how to keep traces of her long after she's gone again, how to tell himself it's real even when it's not anymore—but a larger part knows he can't go out in the morning smelling like sweat and rain and sex.

There is an extra set of sheets in the closet, and after returning with a warm damp towel to wipe her clean with, he urges her to the bathroom and replaces them quickly. He is tired. He very much does want to stretch out and shut his eyes for good, but when she's standing in the doorway again, so small and so delicate, he thinks perhaps he doesn't quite want this to end yet. Her hair is tangled, a rat's nest around her face, and there are marks on her skin from his mouth he hopes won't bother her later.

"Why don't we shower together?" he asks, and she hesitates. Her legs are trembling and she's still pink between the thighs. That same hunger rises within him and he wonders if she's awakened something dark and insatiable in him, if he will never know how to be satisfied again.

"Okay," she says, and he breathes out sharply.

He washes her hair and then his, sinks down to his knees and pins her to the wall. He eats her out a second time and she is whimpering, protesting when he tries to suck her clit and coming shakily against his mouth. He leaves her quivering and breathless and has to help her finish cleaning up. He lends her a shirt to wear and hangs up her clothes to dry properly.

She is already in bed when he flicks off the light completely, and as he slides in beside him she does not bother with uncertainty, tucks herself into his chest and drapes her arm over his side. She weighs next to nothing, so he breathes easy, soothed into sleep by her warm, warm skin.

The rain has softened against the window, a lullaby hush that washes all else away.

.x.

He wakes with a start, hand snapping out to feel the space beside him. It's almost cool now in her absence. He vaults out of bed and hurries out into the living room. The dishes are clean now, drying in the rack beside the sink, and there's some toast, a cup of coffee, and a peeled orange waiting for him on the counter. He spots something on his coffee table and rounds toward it. His charger coiled neatly, and a scrap of paper she must have taken from some notebook in his backpack.

"I didn't want to wake you," the looping ink tells him. "I had to get back before class, and I also stole some pudding from you. I know you might not want to, but it'd be nice to see you again. Maybe not under the same context, if you wouldn't like. I don't want what happened to get between…whatever friendship you and I might be able to have. Let me know. My number is—"

Immediately, he turns to retrieve his phone and save her number. His shift will be starting in an hour, so he opts to leave her a text instead.

The sky outside is a pearl white, and the air smells like new beginnings.

.x.

A.N.:So uh.

Let me, uh. Let me know what you think.