I wake up disoriented.

Not in the study.

In bed.

The sheets are cool against my skin, the room is dim except for the light bleeding from under the bathroom door, and I can hear water running.

Shower.

Bael must be back.

I try to piece together how I got here.

The last thing I remember is working... residential density calculations that refused to cooperate no matter how many times I adjusted the ratios. Green space versus parking requirements, circulation flow versus lot efficiency, all of it tangled together in a way that made my head hurt.

I remember staring at the numbers until they blurred, remember my eyes getting so heavy I couldn’t force them open anymore, remember thinking I’d just rest my head on the desk for a second.

Just a second.

Then nothing.

He must have carried me.

The realization settles warm and uncomfortable in my chest.

I should probably be embarrassed about that, about falling asleep at my desk like a child, about needing to be physically moved to bed.

But mostly I’m just... aware of it.

Of the fact that he did that instead of leaving me there.

The bathroom door opens.

Steam billows out, and then Bael steps through it.

Wet hair pushed back from his face, skin still flushed slightly from the heat, wearing loose pajama pants and a matching top that hangs completely unbuttoned, doing absolutely nothing to hide the defined lines of his stomach and chest.

I pull the covers up to my mouth instinctively.

Hide behind them like that’ll somehow make the fact that I’m staring less obvious.

It won’t.

I know it won’t.

But my brain has temporarily stopped supplying better options.

He looks...

God.

He looks unfairly good, unreasonably good, the kind of good that should be illegal or at least come with a warning label.

My mouth goes dry.

"You’re awake," he says, tone completely neutral.

I nod because words have temporarily abandoned me.

Swallow hard.

Try to remember how to function like a normal person instead of someone whose brain has been replaced with static and hormones.

He moves to his side of the bed, and my eyes follow without permission.

Track the way he moves, all that controlled grace and unconscious confidence.

The shift of muscle under skin as he reaches for something on the nightstand.

The way the lamplight catches on water droplets still clinging to his shoulder.

When was the last time we had sex?

The thought hits suddenly, sharp and unbidden.

Weeks.

Has to be weeks at this point.

Maybe longer?

I’ve been so absorbed in the competition, so focused on designs and deadlines and Grandmother’s expectations, that I haven’t even...

But now I’m noticing.

Very much noticing.

Noticing the line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead when it’s wet, the fact that those pajama pants are sitting low on his hips and that unbuttoned shirt is basically decorative at this point.

Stop.

Stop that.

Focus on literally anything else.

Bael settles against the headboard, and I realize he’s been watching me stare.

Great.

"Need anything?" he asks.

There’s something in his voice, curiosity, maybe, or amusement.

Like he’s noticed exactly where my attention has been and is waiting to see what I’ll do about it.

My face feels hot.

I open my mouth to answer...though I have absolutely no idea what I was going to say, when my phone buzzes.

Loud in the quiet room.

Saved.

Thank god.

I grab it immediately, grateful for the distraction, for something to look at that isn’t Bael’s stupidly attractive everything.

Ling Yue: *How’s the competition prep going? Surviving?*

I smile slightly despite myself.

Me: *Surviving. Barely. But making progress.*

His response comes almost immediately.

**Ling Yue:** *I’ve been meaning to ask, we should catch up properly sometime. One on one, I mean. I feel like we’ve only talked in group settings and I’d really like to get to know you better. I have a lot I want to talk about.*

A small flutter of something pleasant moves through my chest.

Different from the heat that was there a minute ago.

Lighter.

It’s nice.

Genuinely nice.

The idea that someone wants to spend time with me just to spend time with me, not because of family obligations or business connections or any of the usual reasons people seek out the Wuchen family.

Just because they think I’m interesting enough to talk to.

Another message appears before I can finish processing that.

Ling Yue: *But I know you’re busy with the competition and everything, so whenever works for you.*

I’m typing a response, something about how I’d really like that too once the deadline passes... when Bael’s voice cuts through.

"Who are you talking to?"

I glance up.

He’s watching me with one eyebrow raised, expression carefully neutral in that way that somehow makes it not neutral at all.

"A friend," I say.

"Oh?"

That single syllable is loaded with something.

Amusement, definitely.

Maybe something else I can’t quite identify.

"What?" I ask.

There’s a pause, and then he shifts like he’s about to lie down properly, that almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"It’s just good to see that our Runze has a friend now."

Our Runze.

The words hit like a small electric shock.

Our Runze?

What the hell does that mean?

And why does he sound like he’s talking about a particularly unsocialized pet who’s finally learned to play nicely with others?

Heat rushes to my face.

Not the good kind.

The indignant kind.

"You’re the one without friends!" I snap, already reaching out to punch him in the chest.

The absolute audacity of this man.

Acting like I’m some kind of social disaster when he’s the one who treats human interaction like a quarterly business review.

My fist connects with his chest, not hard, just enough to make a point, but before I can pull back, his hand wraps around my wrist.

Catches it mid-motion.

His grip is firm.

Warm.

Completely unbothered by my attempt at violence.

"I’m just happy for you," he says, and there’s that hint of amusement again, clearer now. "Why are you punching me? How ungrateful."

"I don’t need your foolish happiness!"

I yank my arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

Uses just enough force that my momentum works against me.

Pulls me forward instead of letting me retreat, and suddenly I’m much closer than I was two seconds ago.

Close enough that I can smell that sandalwood soap he uses, the expensive one that probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent.

Close enough to see the water droplets still clinging to his collarbone, trailing down toward his chest.

Close enough that my brain stops working properly again.

My heart kicks up, beating too fast.

Not from anger anymore.

From something else entirely.

"Then what do you need?" he asks.

His voice has dropped lower.

Rougher.

The kind of tone that does things to my nervous system I’m not prepared to deal with.

I can’t help staring at his mouth, watching the way his lips shape the words, the slight curve at the corner that means he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

Then I drag my eyes back up to meet his.

Dark.

Focused entirely on me with that intensity that makes everything else in the room fade to static.

My pulse is so loud I can hear it in my ears.

"Would you give me anything I want?"

The question comes out quieter than I intended, more vulnerable, more honest than is probably safe.

His thumb brushes against the inside of my wrist.

Just once.

Light enough that it might have been accidental.

Except nothing Bael does is accidental.

"That depends on your sincerity," he says.

The words send heat straight down my spine.

I swallow, and try to remember how breathing works.

"Then... would you let me lick ice cream?"

The sentence hangs in the air between us.

Completely ridiculous, completely transparent.

Not fooling anyone.

Especially not Bael, whose eyes go even darker, if that’s possible.

Something shifts in his expression... heat, interest, that particular look that means he knows exactly what I’m really asking for and is deciding whether to make me work for it or just give it to me.

I don’t wait for him to decide.

Don’t give him the chance to turn this into a game or make me beg or any of the other things he might do just to watch me squirm.

I push him back against the pillows.

Not gently.

His body yields with that controlled ease that means he’s letting me, that he could stop this if he wanted but he’s choosing not to.

Choosing to let me take what I want.

My hand slides down his stomach, feeling the muscles tense slightly under my palm, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight dampness still clinging from the shower.

Then lower.

To the waistband of his pajama pants.

I slip my hand inside without hesitation.

He’s already hard.

Of course he is.

Heat floods through me at the feel of him, solid and ready under my palm.

My fingers wrap around him, and the sharp intake of breath he makes is extremely satisfying.

Proof that I’m not the only one affected here.

"I see," he says, voice rough now, strained in a way that sends another wave of heat through me. "Eat all you want."

Permission.

Explicit, undeniable permission.

Like I needed it at this point, but hearing him say it anyway does something to me.

Makes my heart race faster, makes my hands less steady.

I shift position, kneeling between his legs, my hand already moving in slow, deliberate strokes.

Just to watch his jaw tighten, to see the way his breath catches.

He’s watching me.

I can feel it without looking up.

That focused attention, that intensity directed entirely at me like nothing else in the world exists right now.

It makes me bold.

Reckless.

I bend down slowly.

Close enough to feel the heat of him against my face.

I lick my lips deliberately.

Look up at him through my lashes, watching his expression shift into something darker, hungrier.

Then back down.

Open my mouth.

Stick my tongue out.

Pause.

Just for a second, just long enough to let the anticipation build, to let him see exactly what I’m about to do.

To let myself feel the full weight of this moment...the wanting, the heat, the fact that I’m about to do this because I want to, because I’ve been thinking about it without realizing, because apparently I’ve reached the point where I’m perfectly willing to get on my knees for Bael Wuchen and I don’t even care how pathetic that makes me.

Runze, oh Runze.

It’s one thing to go from straight virgin to gay in another world.

But now you’re just a slut craving dick.

The thought flashes through my mind with perfect, crystalline clarity.

Absolutely true and shameless.

And I don’t even care.