Chapter 2: Aftermath

Felix's POV

I woke up slowly, bit by bit.

Warmth first. Someone's skin under my hand, going up and down with their breathing. My hand was already moving before I really woke up, touching his chest, going down over his muscles, like it already knew where to go.

It felt good. It felt right, in that soft, dreamy way where you don't ask questions yet.

I made a small happy sound, moved closer, chasing the warmth, and letting my hand slide lower without thinking—

"Morning."

That voice snapped me out of it like cold water.

My eyes snapped open.  

He was propped up on one elbow, watching me with an expression I could only describe as delighted, like he’d been lying there for who knows how long just enjoying the show. Dark hair messy from sleep, sharp jaw, and those eyes, far too alert for whatever ungodly hour this was, tracking every inch of my very obvious, very mortifying realization.  

My hand was still on him.  

“Oh my god.” I yanked it back like I’d touched a stove, scrambling upright so fast the room spun in protest. Hangover. Right. That too. “I..that’s not…..I wasn’t..”  

“You were very committed to it actually.” The corner of his mouth curved. “I wasn’t going to interrupt.”  

Heat rushed up my neck, my ears, probably my whole face at this point. “You could’ve said something.”  

“And miss that?” He tilted his head, entirely too pleased with himself. “No.”  

I grabbed the sheet, dragging it up over myself like that was going to undo whatever just happened a few minutes ago. I  glared at him with absolutely no real heat behind it, because how do you glare convincingly at someone who just watched you sleep grope them.  

“This didn’t happen.”  

“Which part,” he said. “Last night, or five minutes ago?”  

That was when it truly hit me, what had actually happened. My back ached dully when I moved. And my ass was sore, a deep ache that throbbed with every small move, proof my body wouldn't let me deny it, no matter how hard I tried.

I froze mid stretch, sheet clutched to my chest, staring at nothing in particular while my brain caught up with what my body already knew.  

“Oh my god,” I said again, quieter this time. Less annoyed and more horrified.  

He didn’t bother hiding his smile now. “There it is.”  

“Shut up.”  

“I didn’t say anything.”  

“You were thinking it very loudly.”  

He just watched me with that same infuriating calm, entirely too comfortable, like waking up next to a stranger currently having a slow motion crisis was the most normal thing in the world to him.  

I dropped my head into my hands. "I need coffee. Or maybe just to die here."

"Coffee I can do," he said, swinging his legs out of bed. "Can't help with the dying part.”

I watched him stand. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the clean white band of his boxers visible above the waistband. The tattoo I’d traced last night started at his waistline and disappeared downward, framing the V of his abs in dark ink. His black hair was neck length and messy in a way that somehow still looked deliberate. He looked Asian, but not entirely, something broader in the bone structure, sharper in the eyes.  

Four years of living next door and I still didn’t even know his name.  

I stayed frozen while he moved around the kitchen like this was nothing. The smell of coffee eventually pulled me out of bed. I wrapped the sheet tighter and followed, legs unsteady.  

He handed me a mug without comment. Black. Strong. Exactly what I needed.  

I took a sip and tried to find words that wouldn’t make this worse. “I don’t… usually do this.”  

“Do what?”  

“Guys.” The word felt too small for everything that had happened. “I don’t do guys.”  

He leaned against the counter, watching me over the rim of his own mug. Not mocking. Just… attentive. “Okay.”  

“That’s it? Okay?”  

"You were drunk." He paused, his mouth slowly curving into a smirk "And besides. I enjoyed it too." 

He leaned in slightly, voice staying even despite the smirk. "So it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to.”

I flushed harder. The memory of how I’d begged for more, how I’d taken every inch of him, how it hadn’t felt repulsive at all sat heavy in my chest. I quickly looked away.  

Silence stretched for a moment. Then I heard myself say, quieter, “We’ve lived next to each other for over four years now…. and I still don’t know your name.”  

He looked at me over the mug. Something softer flickered across his face. “Renato.”  

The name settled into the space between us. I repeated it once under my breath, testing the shape of it.  

“Felix,” I offered in return, though he probably already knew. The building was small and names traveled.  

He gave a single nod, accepting it. “Stay until you feel better,” he said after a moment. “Then go. No pressure.”  

I nodded once, still too raw to trust my voice.  

He pointed me toward the bathroom. Clean towels. A spare toothbrush still in its packaging. And clothes folded neatly on the counter, soft grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt that were clearly his. Both were clearly too big.  

I locked the door and finally looked in the mirror.  

Hickeys trailed from my left ear, down to my collarbones. Ending at my chest area.

I looked thoroughly and  unmistakably fucked.

I pressed two fingers to the darkest mark and felt the ache answer back.

“Jesus,” I whispered to my reflection.  

I showered quickly, hot water stinging every mark he’d left. When I pulled on his clothes they swallowed me, I quickly rolled the waistband twice. I smelled like him.  

Back in the kitchen he had toast and eggs waiting. We ate in relative silence. He didn’t push. I didn’t offer more than clipped answers. Every time I shifted in the chair the deep ache reminded me exactly how thoroughly he’d been inside me.  

When he eventually said he needed to step out for a bit, that I should rest, I could only nod in response to him.  

I waited until the apartment went completely still.  

Then I moved quickly leaving the plate in the sink. Folded the sheet I’d used, and slipped out with the quiet care of someone who did not want to be caught. The hallway felt longer than usual. My own door opened under the familiar key, and the moment it closed behind me the silence of my apartment pressed in.  

I stood in the middle of the living room still wearing his clothes and tried to reconstruct the night. The heat that had lived under my skin had not felt like ordinary alcohol. It had been sharper. Hungrier. Almost chemical. Something had been given to me. I was almost certain of it now.  

I reached for my phone, ready to start tracking down whoever or whatever could have led to last night's incident.

My phone screen lit with an incoming call.  

'Father’

The single word on the screen changed the air in the room.

My stomach dropped. All the warmth from Renato's apartment  went cold at once, like someone had opened a window in winter.

I stared at the name. Two rings. Three. My thumb hovered over the screen the way it always did, some old, tired part of me still hoping that this time might be different, that this time he was calling for something other than an order.

I answered on the fourth ring, and my voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. Already bracing for whatever was coming.

"Hello.”

____

Renato's POV

His hand had been moving for a while before I decided to speak.  

Soft, half asleep strokes down my chest, over my stomach, fingers tracing the lines of muscle like they already knew the path. He made a small sound, almost purring and shifted closer, chasing warmth. His palm slid lower.  

I watched him the entire time.  

Messy hair, flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted. Completely unguarded. The marks I’d left on his throat were darker in the morning light. He looked wrecked in the softest way, and still reached for me like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

I could have let it continue.  

Instead I said, quiet and amused, “Morning.”  

His eyes snapped open. Panic, realization, mortification all of it flickered across his face in rapid succession as he yanked his hand back like he’d been burned.  

Interesting.  

I stayed propped on one elbow and simply watched the show. The scrambling. The sheet clutched to his chest. The way he tried to glare and failed.  

Four years of living next door, Four years of nodding in hallways, of never once learning his name.

 And it took one drunk night and one very embarrassing morning for him to become the most interesting thing in this building.and this was the first time I’d seen him like this. 

He looked Flustered and vulnerable, trying so hard to pretend last night hadn’t happened while his body still carried every proof of it.  

I watched him go refusing to look back, practically fleeing down the hall like the building was on fire.

I didn't move for a while after his apartment door clicked shut.

Something about him had lodged itself somewhere I wasn't expecting, and I had a feeling it wasn't going to be easy to shake.