You walk into your room—lights off, apartment quiet, end of a long day—and something catches your eye.
Not movement.
Glow.
Soft, pulsing blue light under the covers.
You don’t even flinch. You know who it is.
And he knows you know.
Sans:
“heh. hey there, sunshine.”
You flick on the lamp—and yeah. There he is. Again. Sprawled across your bed, arms behind his head, hoodie pushed halfway up. His grin’s already in place, lazy and smug, but it’s not what you’re looking at.
It’s the way his hips shift just a little—sheets falling low—and there it is: a slow, steady blue glow between his legs. Pulsing faint like magic, but definitely real.
*Like a glow stick cracked at midnight. And it’s glowing for you.
Sans:
“missed me?
…or just missed the light show?”
You blink. He grins wider.
