Tayvis One-Shots

24 hours

Taylor's POV

It starts as a joke.

I'm sprawled out on the couch, my legs stretched over Travis's lap, scrolling through my phone while he watches some sports documentary. His hand rests idly on my thigh, fingers tracing mindless patterns against my skin. He's not even paying attention to what he's doing.

Which makes this even more fun.

I smirk and shift slightly, just enough to make his hand move higher. He doesn't react. Yet.

"You know," I murmur, tilting my head back lazily, "I bet you can't keep your hands off me for an entire day."

That gets his attention.

His head turns, eyebrows lifting in amusement. "What?"

I shrug, biting back a smile. "You heard me. I don't think you have the self-control to go twenty-four hours without touching me."

Travis scoffs, shaking his head. "Angel, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Of course I can."

"Oh yeah?" I sit up slowly, moving just close enough that my breath brushes against his jaw before pulling away like it was nothing. "Then prove it."

His jaw tenses—just a flicker, but I see it.

"Fine." He squares his shoulders, giving me that cocky, challenging look that makes my stomach flip. "And what do I get when I win?"

I tilt my head, pretending to think. "Mmm... whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" His voice drops, the weight of it settling between us.

I smile sweetly. "If you win."

His eyes flicker down to my lips for half a second before he leans back with an exhale, dragging a hand down his face. "Easy. Consider it done."

Oh, Travis...

He has no idea what he just signed up for.

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The next morning, I wake up before him, which almost never happens. The early sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft golden light over his bare chest. He looks so peaceful, his arm thrown over the pillow where I was just laying.

It's tempting to let him sleep, but I have a bet to win.

I reach for one of his hoodies, the big, soft one I love stealing, pulling it over my head and rolling the sleeves up past my hands. The scent of him lingers in the fabric, all warmth and comfort, and it makes me smile as I start moving around the kitchen, gathering what I need for breakfast.

I decide to make pancakes. Not because I particularly want them, but because I know the smell will wake him up.

Sure enough, about five minutes later, I hear his heavy footsteps behind me.

"Mmm." His voice is thick with sleep, raspy and low. "You're up early."

I glance over my shoulder and, yep. He's standing there, shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his hair a complete mess. His eyes are still half-closed, but he looks me up and down anyway, and I know exactly what he's thinking.

I stretch up on my toes, reaching for a bowl on the top shelf that I don't actually need.

"Need help?" he asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

I smirk to myself. Bait taken.

"Nope." I lift my arms higher, making the hoodie ride up just enough. "I got it."