"Between friends, unspoken feelings can feel like a fragile thread pulled taut; one denies its existence while the other hides behind its delicate weave, both yearning for the courage to unravel what lies beneath."
Ian and Julian, long-time best fri...
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The air was thick with the warmth of Julian pressed against me, his body draped over mine like he was trying to become a second skin. His limbs tangled with mine, a slow sprawl, his breath ghosting over my collarbone, his fingers tracing idle, absentminded patterns against my ribs. Every so often, his lips brushed my skin—not deliberate, not even conscious, just a lazy, thoughtless thing, like he couldn't help himself. Like he belonged there.
I turned another page in my book.
Space and Form in Classical Architecture.
It wasn't exactly thrilling, but it was precise—each paragraph peeling back layers of symmetry, breaking down the way architects shaped light and shadow, how columns were tapered just so to create the illusion of perfect proportion.
Julian sighed against my throat, shifting closer, his body a slow, languid weight over mine. His thigh slid between mine, bare and warm, his arm curled tight around my waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of my shorts.
"Tell me about your book," he murmured, his lips brushing my jaw this time.
I barely glanced at him. "Julian."
"What?" He blinked up at me, all false innocence, though the way he was pressing against me, the way his breath hitched just slightly, betrayed him. "I'm being supportive."
I gave him a flat look. "You just want an excuse to keep talking."
Julian grinned, utterly unapologetic. "And?"
I hummed, turning another page. His fingers flexed against my hip, impatient, like he expected that to get a reaction.
"It's coming along," I said.
Julian made a wounded noise. "That's not a real answer."
"It's my answer."
He groaned, tipping his head back. Then—because he couldn't just be eccentric in silence—he threw a leg over my waist, pinning me down, shifting deliberately until his hips settled snugly against mine.
I exhaled through my nose. He was impossible. His fingers creeping under my shirt, skimming over my stomach, his nails dragging lightly, testing my patience.
I let him. For now.
"Hm," I said absently, scanning a paragraph on the optical refinements of Greek columns, how they manipulated perspective to create effortless balance. The concept of precision designed to feel natural. Julian could never.
His mouth was at my neck now, his hands moving slow, teasing shapes against my ribs.
