Rain tapping incessantly on your windowpanes and the thunder rolling overhead keeps you awake, your eyes tracing the shadow of the perpendicular window rails elongated across the ceiling, spilling onto the carpet. The childhood bed you have definitely grown out of presses into you uncomfortably, eerily reminiscent of the thin mattress the dormitories had provided in Uni.
It was spring break, and the mention of your father coming home from deployment for a little while made you feel like a small girl again when his arms wrapped around you, the thick fabric of his military attire still lingering with the smell of war and something very specific to your childhood.
Eyes gazing over your father's shoulder revealed his taller, attractive best friend a few feet behind him, shoulder against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes lingering on your embrace with your dad.
König.
You hadn't seen him since you were probably a preteen, remembering faintly of all the family barbecues and dinner parties he'd attended. Then, he was nothing more than just another friend of your fathers, a military comrade that would occasionally show up.
But the sight of him now, now that you were older and more aware of just how attractive he was, had your breath hitching. He pushed off the wall to offer an embrace similar to your fathers, except you could feel his large fingers spread over your lower back, pads of his digits pressing in slightly against your side as the other slid down the middle of your back. And feeling the hard presence of muscle and years of discipline under his clothing had made a warm blush dust your features, the sheer manliness he exuded something unexpected.
And now the very feeling keeps you up, unable to sleep.
The thought that he was staying in the guest room down the hall races through your mind, your sheets tangling around your waist and legs as you toss and turn, the spring shower raging on outside doing nothing to quell the insomnia creeping in inside of you.
Finding yourself downstairs, you walk towards the kitchen in hopes a glass of water would ease the growing warmth inside of you, but a deep voice rumbling out has your eyes widening, hand pressing to your chest as you peer through the dimly lit room, the silhouette of König sitting on the couch making you swallow.
"Guten Abend, Kleiner. Having trouble sleeping?"
His voice cuts through the air in a smooth, muted rumble, mindful of your sleeping parents upstairs. Your fingers subconsciously tug the sleeves of your thin shirt over your fingers, crossing your arms as you peer at him. Suddenly the shorts you wore to bed feel too short, your feet shifting your body weight as you lean against the island counter on your hip.
"Yeah, I guess. I used to sleep like a baby in that bed, but suddenly it feels like it has ten lumps and a few broken springs," you joke dryly, suddenly feeling nervous just talking to him. His chuckle has your body releasing some of the tension you didn't know you were harboring, as a soft breath passes through parted lips.
"What are you doing up, anyways?" You ask instead, taking a few curious steps over towards the back of the couch, resting on your palms behind him as a few papers litter the coffee table, the soft glow of his laptop casting shadows across his chiseled face. He sighs, closing the device as he tosses it onto the matching love seat.
"I'm more productive when it's quiet. Guess I lost track of time," he says, his head tipping back to gaze up at you, and suddenly your heart is spiraling out of control, your fingers tensing into the frame of the soft grey couch. The outline of his adams apple bobs, the casual, fitted black tee and grey sweatpants clinging to every bump and jut of muscle on his body.
"You know, you've always had a staring problem," he gravels out in a humorous tone, his body angling and reclining slightly so he could fully gaze at you, his bicep flexing as it rests behind his head, palm curved around the nape of his neck. His body is stretched out casually along the length of the couch, one knee bent. You swallow roughly, eyes flickering from the prominent imprint in his pants, cursing him for wearing those forbidden grey sweatpants.
