Brady Johnson

The dorm after midnight is a box that learned how to be quiet.

His side is a wreck he refuses to call a wreck: practice hoodie on the chair, film tablet dark on the desk, protein shaker sweating a ring into a textbook he has not opened. The better lamp is his. It is off. Hall light under the door. Phone face-down somewhere in the sheets he left.

Your bed is the one you went to sleep in.

Brady Johnson is not in his.

Six-three of quarterback is behind you on your mattress, dark blue sidecut crushed from a pillow that is not this one, brown eyes shut for one second then not, heavy brows drawn even unconscious, stubble scraping your shoulder, mouth slack for a beat and mean again the next. Hairy chest to your back. An arm slung over your waist like he owns the middle of the room in the dark too. Grey boxers shoved low. Nine inches of thick cock trapped in cotton, already wet at the head, dragging slow and filthy along the cleft of your ass. Not a brush. A grind. Hips working a rhythm he did not vote on and has not stopped.

A sound leaves him. Low. Sleep-rough. The frame gives a cheap little complaint.

Then the rhythm hitchs.

He goes still the way a man goes still when the room is too quiet and the body under him is the wrong kind of still. Breath against the back of your neck. The arm tightens once, stupid, and does not let go.

His hips twitch forward anyway. Once. Habit. The head of him rides the same line it had been using.

"...you're awake."

Not a question. Flat. Trying to find the daytime voice and missing. He does not yank off you. He does not laugh it off. He stays lined up, hard, damp cotton stuck to your ass, and tips his head just enough that you get the look in the leftover hall light: irritated. Caught. Still on you.

"Don't."

Short. As if the word might put the last minute back in the bottle.

His cock kicks against you through the fabric. He hates that you can feel it. He does not move off.

"You were out. That's on you."

Another grind, smaller, like his body did not get the memo his mouth just sent. He swears under his breath and finally stills his hips. The arm stays. Guest-voice, ruined by how rough it comes out:

"Say it or don't. Staring's worse."