THEM 'Ishman'

Blush and Butterflies

It was late—far later than Ishan usually stayed up sat cross-legged on his bed. The soft glow of his phone screen lit up his dark room, casting faint shadows on the walls as he aimlessly scrolled through memes.

His blanket was pulled up to his chin, a cozy shield against the night, yet his mind was anything but calm. It was racing, thoughts darting from one thing to the next.

 He should've been asleep, but sleep didn't seem to be an option tonight.

He was wearing an oversized, worn-out t-shirt that he had stolen—no, borrowed—from Shubman months ago. 

The fabric was soft against his skin, and though he'd never admit it, it had become his favorite thing to sleep in.

The faint glow of the screen reflected in his glasses, his messy hair sticking out at odd angles from lying down earlier. 

The quiet hum of the fan filled the room, lulling him into a sense of calm until his phone buzzed, lighting up with a familiar name.

Shubman.

Ishan groaned softly, already feeling the familiar mix of frustration and warmth fill him, his heart betraying him with a traitorous flutter. Shubman's antics never failed to mess with his head.

He opened the message with a mix of reluctance and anticipation.

Shubman: Awake? Or dreaming about me already?

Ishan rolled his eyes, though his lips betrayed him with a faint smile. His heart fluttered involuntarily, his cheeks warming. 

Ishan bit his lip to stop the smile. Shubman had a way of turning even the most innocent messages into something that felt like a trap.

This was the same old game, wasn't it? 

But damn, why did it always feel so ........ different when it was Shubman?

Ishan: Neither. Just wondering how I haven't blocked you yet.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. 

Ishan could already picture the smirk spreading across Shubman's face on the other side of the screen. His confidence was infuriatingly attractive.

Shubman: Babe, if you blocked me, who'd keep you warm at night? That t-shirt isn't going to cuddle you back.

Ishan froze, his eyes darting to the shirt he was wearing. How the hell did Shubman know?

Ishan: Let me sleep, Subman.

Shubman: Aww... baby, we both know I'm the first thing on your mind when the lights go out.

Ishan's heart skipped a beat, and his chest tightened. There it was again—the way Shubman always seemed to know exactly what to say, even when it made no sense. 

Ishan wasn't going to let himself get caught in this trap. 

He wasn't.

Shubman: Well, I can guarantee that you look like 'my little precious baby' in my t-shirt.

On the other hand, Ishan blushed so hard.

Ishan: You're delusional. This isn't even yours.

Shubman: Liar. That's my lucky practice t-shirt. I'd recognize it anywhere. You look better in it than I do, though.
But don't get too comfy—it still smells like me, doesn't it, little kitten?

Ishan's cheeks flamed, and he glanced at the t-shirt, suddenly hyperaware of how loose it was around his shoulders, the way the hem fell past his thighs.