mornings start the same way, slow, tangled, lazy. jeno wakes up hard, always pressed to your back or curled around you like he can’t sleep unless you’re in his arms. sometimes you fuck before you even speak, breath warm against skin, your hips rocking back into him without needing words. other times it’s soft—his lips pressing kisses along your shoulder, arms tightening around your waist, voice all gravel when he murmurs “five more minutes.” you shower together most days, your back to his chest, his hands wandering, lathering shampoo through your hair like he was made to touch you. breakfast’s an afterthought—cereal stolen straight from the box, toast half-burned, jeno kissing peanut butter off your fingers while you scroll through your schedule. it’s domestic in the most intimate way, ordinary but yours, like every moment’s been built through muscle memory and want. he never lets you leave without pressing you against the doorframe and whispering “come back to me.” and you always do.
you’re out the door as quickly as possible if it’s a college day, not because you’re a morning person but because you have to be. you’ve got three classes and two ongoing projects that keep you bouncing across campus from lecture halls to study rooms, earbuds in, tote bag dragging, your voice hoarse from over-participating. there’s always a notebook folded under your arm, a black coffee clutched in one hand, and jeno doesn’t see you until close to lunch most days. he tries—stalks the library, leans against the railing near your psych lecture, even lingers outside the studio where you record vocals for some side gig, just to catch you between breaks. but you move too fast and stay too busy and it drives him insane.
the only time you really see each other on campus—really spend time together—is when you’re working on the project. it’s supposed to be academic, something neat and impersonal, but it never stays that way. you sit too close. your knees brush under the table. you argue over wording and formatting until he leans over your laptop and you forget what you were fighting about. sometimes he kisses you between slides. sometimes you grind on him while pretending to look for a citation. it’s the only quiet time you get together that isn’t soaked in sex or sweat or music, and still, it’s never really quiet.
jeno’s always at practice in the late afternoons, sometimes earlier depending on the schedule—conditioning drills first, laps until his legs ache, then scrimmages that go harder than they should, elbows thrown, bodies crashing. coach suh rides him more than the others because he can take it, because he’s supposed to lead, set the tone. he does, even if it kills him. he shoots until his shoulders burn, until the gym lights blur, until mark’s the only one left rebounding for him. he tapes his wrists himself. drinks from your water bottle. he’s the last one out of the locker room, always. but when he’s done, he’s texting you. where are you, are you at the bar? want me to come?
and you always say yes. you try to make room for the bar. always. it’s your place, the one thing that still belongs to you in a world where you’re starting to feel out of place. you dress for it—short skirt, glossed lips, that corset he laced up for you last time with shaking fingers. you sing like you’re not scared. like no one else exists. you sing for him, always. he watches from the back, lit cigarette forgotten between his fingers, chest rising slow beneath that same hoodie he fucks you in later. sometimes you both get too high backstage—pills shared from his palm to your tongue, breath caught somewhere between a kiss and a dare—and you’re already slipping into his lap before your set ends. sometimes you’re bouncing on his cock before you’ve even taken your boots off, your panties shoved to the side, his mouth against your throat, whispering, “sing for me like that, come on.” sometimes you’re wet halfway through the chorus and he knows it, feels it, grins while he palms you in the dark, mouthing the lyrics into your neck. sometimes he’s got you spread on the couch after, licking the sweat off your thighs like he’s starving, your voice hoarse, eyes fluttering. you bounce on his cock a lot. you never say no. he calls you his little performer, says you only ever sound that sweet when you’re up there or on top of him, and you believe him every time.
if there’s time—if you’re not buried in deadlines and he’s not limping from drills—jeno makes it matter. dates with him are never half-hearted. he plans them like he’s memorizing you, like every detail has to be perfect or it won’t feel like you. he’ll drive hours to find the exact beach you said you missed once in passing, bring you there just to watch you breathe deeper. he’s the type to pack a bag with your favorite snacks, a playlist cued up, a soft blanket already laid out in the trunk. you’ll park somewhere quiet, far enough that the world feels pretend, and he’ll fuck you slow in the backseat under the stars like he’s trying to make the sky jealous.
other nights, he’ll rent out the old music studio for an hour, the one with the good acoustics and the shitty couch, just so you can sing with no one listening but him. he’ll sit in the booth with his chin on his fist, watching you like you’re art. later, he’ll pull you into his lap, slide his hands under your top and tell you you sound like sin, like silk, like everything he’s ever wanted to ruin. you giggle into his mouth and it’s not even about sex anymore, not really—it’s the way he looks at you. like you’re it. when you go out, it’s candlelit tables and his hand on your thigh all night, his thumb brushing the hem of your dress while you talk about something academic and complicated and brilliant, and he just watches. you’ll find hidden corners of the city together—late-night bookstores, rooftops above old laundromats, quiet galleries where he fucks you in the restroom just because you wore that perfume he likes. jeno doesn’t care how much it costs or what it takes—if you have a night to yourselves, he’s making it count. and you always come home glowing. always.
when you go home, you fall into a rhythm without meaning to. days bleed into nights, and nights stretch long past sleep. it’s quiet sometimes—him helping you hang your coat, you folding his hoodie at the end of the bed, brushing your teeth side by side, laughing when he swears your face wash stings too much. you cook for him. he always insists on washing up, even if he doesn’t know where everything goes, asking you with that drowsy grin where the bowls are while water drips from his wrists. sometimes he sits on the counter just to be near you, sleepy and shirtless, fingers lazily tracing the hem of your shirt while he murmurs you always look pretty like this, and you roll your eyes but don’t move away. other times he drapes himself over the couch while you fold laundry, pretending to nap but peeking through his lashes just to catch glimpses of you. you lie on his chest when it’s late, record spinning low in the background, tracing the lines of his collarbone with your fingertip while he runs his thumb slowly over your hip. he presses kisses into your hair between sentences. holds your ankle beneath the blanket like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. you share playlists and sweaters and lighters and leftovers, tangled up in a thousand tiny pieces of each other. there are mornings where you wake up with his leg thrown over yours, his nose tucked into your shoulder, and you stay still just to feel the weight of him there. he leaves you notes—on mirrors, on napkins, on sticky tabs folded into your laptop—sometimes sweet, sometimes ridiculous. you kiss him for each one.
the night doesn’t end there. a lot of the time you’ll fuck all night long. you shove him down onto the bed, strip with purpose like you already know he’ll be begging before you’re even halfway done. he’s on his back for hours, eyes blown wide, chest rising in shaky gasps, wrists pinned beneath your hands while you fuck him into the mattress over and over again. you ride him slow at first—deep, torturous, grinding your hips until he’s crying under you, whispering “too much, can’t take it” while you smile and tell him to shut up. you slap him when he whines. choke him when he moans too loud. make him look at you while you use him. when you go to his, you make him wait. keep your foot pressed between his legs while you talk on the phone. touch him just enough to keep him desperate, not enough to let him cum. you ruin the sheets. ride him until your thighs burn. spit in his mouth when he gets mouthy. you make him cum on your fingers, your thigh, the pillow, the floor. he always says he can’t keep going and you always make him anyway. you fuck the voice out of him and the love out of you and by morning, all that’s left is bruises and silence and the way his hands still reach for you in his sleep.
