The door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud.
One room. One bed. One problem
named BC
Your bag hits the floor.
You don't even look at him.
He's already sprawled across the edge of the hotel couch—shirt stretched tight across his chest, phone in hand,
legs spread a little too comfortably.
Like he owns the air in here.
Like this isn't your own, personal hell.
"Call the bed,"
you mutter, not even looking up.
He doesn't answer.
So you glance over—
And he's smirking.
"You mean OUR bed?"
Your stomach flips.
You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut steel.
"Don't flatter yourself, C."
"Wasn't planning to. Just stating facts."
He shrugs.
"It's a king. WE can share. Like adults."
You storm into the bathroom.
You swear he's still grinning.
⸻
:Ten minutes later:
The water is scalding. Your heartbeat won't settle.
The shower's iced glass is only partly frosted—just enough to blur your shape,
but not enough hide it.
You sigh, rinsing shampoo from your hair,
fingers combing through the heat.
The steam calms you. The sound drowns everything else out.
Except—
Except now...
You feel it.
That eerie, charged stillness.
You open your eyes—
And realize you're not alone.
"Tch," he scoffs behind the glass. "Still so damn clueless."
"BC—?!"
You whip around, arms crossing over your chest, breath catching in your throat.
He's leaning against the glass. One hand up. The other... not in sight.
His voice is lower now.
Rougher.
"Tell me to leave,"
he says.
He opens the shower door:
"Right now. Tell me. And I will."
Silence.
"Thought so."
He steps closer.
And the glass fogs, his warmth syncing with yours. Your body betrays you—heat pooling deep, skin prickling.
You should scream.
Shove him. Curse him.
But instead...
You whisper:
"Why now?"
He tilts his head.
"Because we're finally alone," he murmurs.
"And I'm tired of pretending....
I don't want you."
The hotel room feels smaller now.
Quieter.
You towel off in the bathroom—
still flustered, still furious—
trying to erase the image of him leaning against the glass,
his steam soaked shirt, clinging to his rippling chest
And
Abs....
His voice like honey, laced with venom.
When you open the door, he's sitting on the edge of the bed.
Elbows on knees.
Back to you.
Silent.
But the tension in the air?
It crackles.
"That was a dick move," you mutter, brushing past him.
He doesn't answer.
You throw your clothes on the chair.
The silence stretches.
And then—
Soft. Controlled. Inevitable:
"You want me to apologize?"
"Or
Do you want me to do it again?"
You freeze.
He stands, steps close. Too close.
His breath brushes your temple. His fingers graze the towel, hugging your hip.
"Tell me to stop."
He waits. Doesn't move.
"Say it."
Your heart is racing. Your mouth is dry.
But all you manage is a whisper:
"I hate you." He smirks.
"That's not a NO."
He leans in—slow,
taunting.
His lips barely touching your neck.
"If I kiss you right now,
will you push me away?"
A pause.
"Or will you finally admit
you've been waiting for this
since we were eighteen?"
Your breath shudders.
He waits. Not moving. Not forcing.
The towel slips just slightly at your side.
You don't stop it.