He stirs again in his sleep, slow and lazy, then lets out a quiet yawn, stretching one arm above his head, the other curling back into the sheets. His lashes flutter open, his bleary, sleep-heavy eyes finally meeting mine. There’s a pause — that tender, quietmoment where sleep and wakefulness blur, then he blinks slowly and props himself up on one elbow.
“What are you doing?” he signs, but also mouths the words, his lips barely parting. He rarely speaks when he doesn’t have his hearing aid in. He once told me that without it, he feels like his voice changes—like it’s too loud, too rounded at the edges, like he’s speaking underwater. I told him I don’t see anything wrong with it. But Lucas, being Lucas, can be very stubborn about anything.
“Just working,” I mouth back, my voice soft. There’s a laptop balanced on my thighs, propped against my bent knees, but truthfully, I’ve barely touched it in the last hour. Instead, I’ve been watching him sleep, all the while trying to hold myself.
I want to shut the laptop. Want to slide across the mattress, wrap myself around him, and wake him with kisses trailing down his spine, his neck, down to the parts of him that only I get to touch. I want to make him arch and moan and beg softly in that breathy, broken way only he can. I want to bury myself deep inside him and see just how much whimper I can pull out of him.
But I stay still, barely breathing, afraid that even blinking too loud might wake him.
Until now.
He gives a small “oh,” brows raised, still half-sleepy as he watches me with concern.
I snap the laptop shut, place it on the nightstand, and shift to face him fully.
“Come here,” I say gently, but I sign it too, letting my fingers move slowly and clearly so he can feel the words.
And as if he’s been waiting for that signal, he moves. Effortless. Familiar.
He climbs onto me with all the ease of someone who knows exactly where he belongs. His thighs slide on either side of mine, knees folding neatly behind him as he straddles my lap. I runmy hands over his ass and pull him flush against me, pressing us together until I feel the warmth of him everywhere. He gasps—just a little sound, but it makes my blood rush. His arms loop loosely around my neck, his fingers curling into the back of my hair.
“You slept for only two hours,” I say as my hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt, skin meeting skin.
He watches my lips as I speak, then gives me that sleepy, drowsy half-smile that wrecks me every time.
“That’s enough for an afternoon nap,” he signs with slow, careful movements, as if making sure I catch every word.
I do. And I nod to show him so.
His smile widens, blooming across his face like sunlight through fog, and I swear I feel it, like warmth spreading through the coldest corners of me.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, brushing my thumb along the edge of his jaw. “I can make you something before we leave for my parents’ place.”
He bites his bottom lip, then gives a slight nod. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but he hesitates. A frustrated little sound escapes his throat before he shifts off my lap slightly and reaches for his hearing aids on the nightstand.
I watch him quietly, the way his fingers move with practiced care, adjusting them over each ear. He blinks a few times, making sure they sit comfortably. When he finally looks back at me, I can tell he’s found the right balance.
“I’m hungry,” he says finally, his voice soft but steady, and signs it at the same time. It’s something he’s been doing a lot these past few weeks: speaking aloud and signing. He says it can help me improve.
“But,” he adds, “I need to save space for dinner at your parents’. Your mom said there’ll be a lot of Thai and Russian dishes.”
I smile, my heart warming at the excitement in his tone. “What else did she tell you?”
He rolls his eyes playfully. “I am not telling you what your mom and I gossiped about, Alex.”
The teasing in his voice is light, but the smile tugging at his lips is real, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across mine in return.
“Ah, I see how it is,” I murmur, leaning in, and before he can react, I cup the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss.
The moment our mouths meet, it’s like something breaks open between us. He lets out a soft moan, melting against me, arms looping tight around my neck as the kiss deepens, hungry and breathless. His lips part for me so willingly, so sweetly, and when our tongues meet, it sends a low burn straight down my spine.
He whimpers—just that soft, desperate sound he makes when he’s too far gone to pretend he doesn’t want more, and he shifts on my lap, grinding against me. I feel it. Every inch of his arousal pressed against mine. And fuck, I want it too. I want him.
But my hands fly to his waist, gripping tightly, stopping him from moving.
Still, we don’t break the kiss. His mouth clings to mine, like he’s trying to consume me. I bite down gently on his bottom lip, the way I know he likes, and he moans. He rocks against me again, but my hands tighten, holding him still.
That’s when he pulls away with a frustrated sound, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes meet mine, flushed and dark, annoyed and aching, like he’s trying to figure out why I keep stopping him.
