Wanting

I look into her eyes as I hover above her. Nervous, searching. Hers are just as unsure, flickering between fear and something deeper. I can't tell whose heartbeat I'm hearing, mine, hers, or some shared rhythm drumming in the silence.

She's scared. So am I.

Three years of friendship hanging by a thread, about to snap with a single choice.

"Are you sure?" I ask, though I'm not sure who the question is really for.

She doesn't answer, not with words. Just a nod, slow and deliberate, as her arms slide around my neck.

"Okay. Here we go," I whisper, mostly to myself.

Then... I'm inside her.

"Oh God." The words slip out uninvited, raw and reverent.

She's warm. Wet. Tight. A velvet vise pulling me deeper, holding me like I belong there. They say if you jerk off too much, the real thing can feel like a letdown. Whoever said that has clearly never been inside someone who wanted them.

This... this is nothing like that.

This is a furnace, a flood, a grip so intense it feels like I'm being worshipped and punished at once.

I try to hold on. I've waited too long for this to end in one quick, clumsy moment.

But my body's stopped listening.

My hips move on instinct--fast, hungry, reverent. She gasps beneath me, her moans breaking into stuttered curses. Her eyes roll back, disappearing into that space where pleasure turns spiritual. Her grip on my neck loosens as her body arches into mine.

"It's coming--fuck--it's coming..."

Ring.

My ringtone yanks me out of a trance. I've been staring at my computer for way too long. It's Sloane.

"Yo," I say, answering the call. Three years of friendship and my pulse still does this stupid jump when she calls.

"Hey Elias. You coming to school today?" she asks.

"Oh do we have classes?"

"Yeah. They posted in the group this morning. Haven't you checked?"

"Nope. When's the class?"

"In five minutes," she snorts.

"Shit. I'll be there as soon as I can."

I hang up before she can say anything else.

I yank open my wardrobe. Of course there's nothing to wear. Nothing clean. I haven't done laundry.

I dig through my hamper and find a not-too-dirty T-shirt and jeans. You can never go wrong with jeans.

I get to class 30 minutes late. Luckily, the lecturer doesn't care. I slip into the nearest seat I can find and scan the room for Sloane.

I slump down, suddenly aware of how I must look--6'1" of rumpled desperation in yesterday's jeans, my hair doing its usual "I finger-combed it while running" bullshit. Not that Sloane cares. She's seen me worse.

Sloane and I have been friends for three years now.

And for three years, I've had a thing for her.

It started off small, just a crush. One of those harmless little sparks you brush aside. But it never really left. If anything, it just settled in quietly, like a habit I never outgrew. My friends think I should say something. They swear she likes me back.

But they don't know her.

Not like I do.

From the outside, it's easy to assume things. But inside, inside our friendship it's different. It's complicated. We've built something solid over the years, something warm and rare, and I'm terrified of cracking it open just to see if anything romantic ever lived beneath.

She's got this quiet way about her. Petite--maybe 5'7--but she carries herself with more weight than most people twice her size. Her skin's a soft ivory, the kind of smooth that makes your fingers want to linger just a second longer than they should. And when she smiles which isn't often. It's the kind of smile that knocks the air out of your lungs. Like a glitch in your brain. Password forgotten. Thought process fried.

She wears glasses. Big, square ones that slide down her nose when she's focused. They make her look geeky in the most disarming way like she doesn't know she's gorgeous, which somehow makes it worse. Or better. I don't know. Maybe both.

Her figure? It's... unexpected. She's joked that she should've been taller, but instead the universe rerouted everything to her chest and hips. She's not wrong. It's a kind of contrast you don't forget slim wrists, delicate hands, and then curves that make physics feel like a suggestion. Not that I fixate on it okay, maybe sometimes but it's more than that. It's how she moves. How comfortable she is in her own skin, even when she thinks no one's watching.

She doesn't laugh often. It's like she's afraid laughing too loud might make her vulnerable. Like joy is something you ration. But when I catch her off-guard usually with something stupid or wildly inappropriate she lets it out. A real laugh. Loud, open, unfiltered. Those are the moments I wish I could bottle.

They're also the moments that make it even harder to tell her the truth.

Because what if she doesn't feel the same?

What if I ruin everything?

I've never said anything. Not because I haven't had chances but because deep down, I think I already know the answer. She's older. Three years older, technically. She's 24. And yeah, I know age shouldn't matter when two people care about each other but the world doesn't always work like that.

Still, sometimes I wonder... if she ever feels it too. That almost between us. The thing we never say out loud.

And if she does...

what happens if one day almost becomes now?

The class finally ends. Felt like time was moving backwards. As everyone begins to filter out, I stay seated, eyes scanning the swarm.

Then I spot her. Front row, standing, searching for someone too.

At first, I think she's farther away. Then I realize. Nope. She's just small.

A grin creeps onto my face. Quietly, I walk up behind her and lean in.

"Who are you looking for?" I whisper, barely an inch from her ear.

She turns, slowly. Her eyes land on mine--and maybe I'm imagining it but I swear her gaze dips to my mouth. Lingers. Or maybe I'm just desperate.

She doesn't flinch, doesn't recoil. That should feel good, comfort, closeness but something about how unaffected she is makes me uneasy. Is it just me she's comfortable with? Or is she just... used to guys being that close?

Still. I'd rather not overthink. Not right now.

"When did you get here?" she asks, already grabbing her bag to leave.

"About ten minutes after your call."

She nods like that's expected. Like I'm predictable. Like I always show up.

"You heading straight to work?"

"Yeah. So much work."

She makes custom bags for people. Knockoff luxury with better craftsmanship than half the originals. Her clients are mostly broke fashion girls with expensive taste and somehow, she makes them look like they belong on a runway. She's that good.

"Then when I get home, study for our seminar," she adds. "God, I just hope it doesn't suck."

"You're overthinking it," I tell her, parroting the same cliché they fed us during orientation. "Doesn't matter what you say--just how you say it."

I chuckle at the corniness. She chuckles too, and for a second we're just there in our rhythm again.

Seminar Day.

I'm in black slacks, a white shirt, and a black suit jacket that feels like a straightjacket. My knee bounces with every second. Nervous. Too nervous.

Sloane sits beside me.

Her hand slips onto mine. Firm. Reassuring. I turn to look at her. I don't say anything. I can't. I think she sees the hope in my eyes.

"Stop fidgeting," she mutters. "It's annoying. You've got this we already practiced. Don't overthink."

"Elias," the PA calls my name.

She lets go of my hand, but her fingers linger just a beat too long. Enough to confuse me. Enough to make me hope again.

"Good morning, Head of Department, esteemed lecturers..."

I begin.

About halfway through, I scan the crowd and there she is.

Sloane.

But she's smiling at someone else.

Some guy beside her. Tall. Taller than me. I recognize him. Old friend. Maybe more than a friend, once upon a time. Her laugh reaches him before it ever reaches me.

And yeah, it's petty.

And yeah, I know I should be focused.

But right now, all I feel is heat behind my eyes.

"Thank you for listening."

I step down. I don't look for her. I sit somewhere else. Anywhere else. I just need to calm down.

Then my phone buzzes.

Sloane.

I don't open the text. A few seconds later, another one comes in--a short video clip of me presenting. The caption reads:

"Congratulations. All thanks to me by the way ???? "

Cute. Teasing. Maybe an attempt to cheer me up. Or maybe she's feeling guilty. Or maybe she really is just that proud.

I don't know. I don't reply.

We walk home together after the seminar. Like we always do.

Eventually we reach the corner where we usually say goodbye. Where we usually go our separate ways. But not today. I don't stop walking. I follow her.

She halts. The streetlight catches the confusion in here eyes. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know. Your place?" The words hang between us, reckless and raw.

Her lips part not in protest, but something quieter. Surprise, maybe. Or hesitation. Because she's right: in three years of friendship, I've never followed her home. Never stepped over that line.

But right now, I'm not thinking about lines. I'm thinking about the way she laughed at his joke earlier, the way my chest burned watching it. Thinking about the way her fingers lingered on mine after the seminar, like a question neither of us dared to ask out loud.

This might end badly.

She gives me a look. Soft, confused. Concerned.

"What's going on? You haven't said a word since--"

I kiss her. Hard. She doesn't return it at first just a frozen heartbeat where our lips meet but then her hands clutch at my shoulders, pulling me closer like she's afraid I'll vanish.

When we break apart, we're both panting. It couldn't have been more than a minute, but time's turned liquid.

"I think I have feelings for you."

The words tear out of me, unfiltered and unplanned.

She blinks. "Wow."

Not a rejection. Not acceptance. Just... airless silence.

"Okay..." she says slowly. "Umm... do you... want to come in and talk about it?"

This must be the outside her apartment building. My pulse thrums in my throat. I search her face for clues--the way she bites her lower lip, the flicker in her eyes like she's weighing a risk--but she's always been better at hiding than I am.

"Yes." The word leaps out before my brain can catch up, before doubt slithers back in. Before she changes her mind.

The walk to her apartment is a minefield of silence. Every step screams with things we aren't saying--her keys jangling like an accusation, my pulse loud enough to drown out the city around us.

She unlocks the door. I walk in. Sit down on the edge of her bed.

The silence stretches. Her back is turned as she takes off her shoes. Then her jacket. For a second, all I can hear is the soft creak of the bed beneath me and the distant buzz of traffic outside.

And then she turns around, arms crossed, unsure. Vulnerable, maybe. Or maybe guarded.

This could be the moment that changes everything. Or ruins it.

I clear my throat.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. I just... couldn't keep pretending I didn't feel it anymore."

She doesn't speak. She just sits beside me. Close. Her thigh brushing against mine. Still no words.

I look at her. She looks ahead.

The silence now. It's not awkward. It's dense. Charged.

Then she turns. Quick. Like she's made up her mind about something mid-thought. Her eyes catch mine--and hold. Not looking at me, but through me. Scanning. Searching.

And I know.

I know what's about to happen before it does. Maybe I've been waiting for it. Maybe I've just been too much of a coward to admit it.

"Fuck it," I mutter maybe to myself, maybe to her. Doesn't matter.

I move forward, and she doesn't pull away. My arms wrap around her, lifting her small frame off the bed with ease. We fall back together. Clumsy, tangled, desperate. It's not smooth or choreographed. It's real. Messy.

She pulls her shirt off, eyes never leaving mine. I follow suit, hands shaking slightly. From nerves but also from something deeper. Something hungry. Something scared.

There's laughter, It's brief, breathless. A moment of ridiculousness in the middle of everything. And then, silence again. Our breathing and heartbeat the only sounds in the world.

This isn't just a hookup. It's not just lust. There's history here. There's uncertainty. There's feeling.

I don't know what this night will mean tomorrow. But right now, in this room, with her--this feels like the most honest I've ever been.