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The early morning light spills through the blinds in ribbons of pale gold, striping the duvet in colourful bands that shift with the lazy drift of dust suspended in the quiet air. The room is hushed; it’d the weekend on a rare day where him and Chan both have a day off. There's no alarms, no schedules, no demands except the soft weight of the blanket and the familiar scent of Chan's skin beside him. Cedar after rain and clean cotton, alongside something more pleasant underneath, something that smells like sleep and safety, the cultivation of scent of two bodies that have spent years learning how to mould and fit together perfectly.
In the years he's spent with Chan, a known insomniac, Felix has gotten used to being woken up; his sleep patterns are quite attuned to him, enough now so he can drown out Chan coming home, so he can sleep through the disruptions.
So he's not sure what wakes him at first.
At first, he thinks it's the light creeping across his face in slow increments until it finds his eyelids. Or maybe it's the shift of the mattress, the subtle dip and release of weight beside him. Or maybe it's the feeling: that slow, syrupy awareness blooming low in his belly, spreading outward like something poured hot and thick.
But all that he knows is that a moment ago, he was dreaming of something he can't quite remember, a comforting feeling, something that tastes like honey on the back of his tongue, and then in the next moment, a sensation pulls him toward the surface.
Distantly, he can hear the sound of birds outside the window and the rumble of a truck on the street below, but that's not what catches his attention.
He feels like he's being stretched open.
Slow and insistent and already so familiar, it makes his breath catch before he's even fully awake. The feeling of being worked open, filled; a fullness that borders on too much but never crosses over, that teases the edge of discomfort and then soothes it with the particular drag of skin against skin.
Chan is inside him.
Buried deep, he's moving — just barely. It’s that unconscious, searching roll of his hips that Felix would recognise anywhere, in any state of wakefulness. He's barely fucking him; it's more of a slow, grinding press that pushes deeper and deeper until Felix can feel him at the root, until there's nowhere left to go, and Chan just stays there for a moment, groaning softly against the back of Felix's neck.
Felix's eyes flutter open.
The room is awash in gold. The dust continues to spiral lazily in the shafts of light cutting through the blinds, and the clock on the bedside table reads 6:47 in soft blue numbers. His cheek is pressed to his own pillow — he must have turned over sometime in the night — and Chan is curved around him from behind, all warm chest and solid arms and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing against Felix's shoulder blade.
Except his breathing isn't steady anymore. Felix can feel the change in it, the way it's gone shallow and uneven, the way Chan's exhales ghost across his skin in short, punched-out little puffs.
Chan is asleep. Or, if he isn't, he's nearly there — his lashes are dark crescents against his cheeks, his lips parted just slightly, his face slack in that boneless way of someone hovering on the edge of dreams. But his hips are moving. Rolling forward in that lazy, unconscious rhythm, pressing deeper and deeper into Felix's body with each subtle thrust.
And Felix can feel everything.
The way Chan's cock drags against his walls, slow and slick is an addictive feeling he’ll never get tired of. There's lube, Felix realises distantly, or maybe just the remnants of last night, still wet enough to make this easy. Each roll of Chan's hips pushes him just that fraction deeper, until Felix can feel the blunt pressure of him in his lower belly. Chan's arm is wrapped around his waist, holding him close, and Chan's hand is splayed flat against his stomach, fingertips pressing just above his hip bone, like he's trying to feel himself from the outside.
Felix probably should wake him up, if he isn’t already, or at least let him know he’s awake now. Should say something, shift away, let them both drift back to sleep.
Instead, he grinds back.
It's barely anything; it's just the smallest tilt of his hips, a subtle arch of his spine that changes the angle just enough to make Chan's next thrust press against that spot inside him that makes his toes curl. Chan makes a sound in his throat, a low, rough hum that vibrates through his chest and into Felix's back, and his arm tightens around Felix's waist, pulling him closer.
His hips roll forward again, and this time there's more intention behind it. More awareness.
But his eyes don't open.
"Lix," Chan murmurs, and his voice is wrecked with sleep, thick and gravelly and so unbearably soft that Felix feels it like a physical touch, like a hand wrapped around his heart. The word comes out blurred at the edges, half-shaped.
Ah. So he is awake.
Felix doesn't answer. Not with words. He just presses back again, harder this time, letting Chan feel him move, letting the drag of his body send sparks up his own spine.
Chan's hips stutter. His breath hitches. And then he's pushing deeper, grinding in slow circles that make Felix's thighs tremble, and there's something almost desperate in the way his fingers curl into the soft skin of Felix's hip.
"Fuck," Chan breathes, and the word is barely a whisper, barely a shape in the quiet air. "Felix."
He's waking up now. Felix can feel the shift in him, feel the way his breathing changes from unconscious to deliberate, the way his thighs tense and relax, tense and relax, the way his mouth finds the back of Felix's neck and presses there, open and hot and searching. But he's still moving in that same lazy rhythm, still fucking Felix with the kind of slow, deep strokes that feel more like dreaming than waking.
"Ah, sorry," Chan slurs against his skin, and there's a bashful edge to his voice, a cosiness that sounds almost like a smile. "Sorry, baby. Couldn't— you were—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to. His hips roll forward again, and Felix feels the apology dissolve into the way Chan's cock drags against his walls, slow and thick and so, so full.
"Had a dream," Chan continues, his voice still that low, gravelly whisper, still rough with sleep and want. "You were— fuck, you were grinding on me in your sleep. Could feel you moving against me, and I—" He laughs softly, breathlessly, the sound vibrating against Felix's shoulder. "Couldn't help myself. Woke up and I was already—"
He pushes deeper, and Felix gasps.
"Couldn't stop myself, baby," Chan admits, and there's no shame in his voice at all, just that raw, shy honesty, just the particular sweetness of someone who knows he's been caught and doesn't particularly care. "You felt so good. So hot. Couldn't stop."
Felix turns his head just enough to see Chan's face over his shoulder. Chan's eyes are open now—just slits, just enough for Felix to see the sultry darkness in them, the way they're still hazy with sleep and want and something so tender it makes Felix's chest ache. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, and there's a crease from the pillow on his cheek, and he's still moving inside Felix like he can't quite help himself, like his body has decided something his mind hasn't caught up to yet.
"'S okay," Felix manages, and his own voice sounds strange to his ears, thick and slow, like he's speaking through honey. He's still half-dreaming himself, still floating in that mellow space between sleeping and waking, and everything feels soft-edged and bright and far away. "Feels good."
Chan's hips roll forward again, and Felix feels the smile that spreads across Chan's face where his lips are pressed to Felix's skin.
"Yeah?" Chan whispers.
Felix nods, the movement clumsy against the pillow. He can feel himself loosening around Chan, opening up, his body remembering what to do even when his mind feels like syrup. There's no urgency to any of this, no desperate chase. The slow, patient drag of Chan moving inside him sends a delicious shiver down Felix's spine as he tries to snuggle closer to the hearth.
Chan's hand slides down from his waist, fingers splaying across his lower stomach, pressing gently. Felix can feel the pressure of Chan from the inside, can feel the way Chan's cock pushes against his walls, and the sensation makes him shudder.
"Can feel myself," Chan murmurs, and his voice is awed, almost wondering. "Right here. Feel how deep I am?"
Felix nods again, not trusting his voice. His fingers find Chan's where they're pressed to his stomach, and he laces them together, squeezing once, twice, three times.
I love you.
Chan squeezes back.
They lie like that for a long moment, neither of them moving except for the slow, unconscious roll of Chan's hips. The light shifts across the duvet as clouds pass outside the window, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barks twice and then falls silent. The world outside this bedroom is moving, turning, living — but here, in the space cultivated by them, for them, time has slowed to a crawl.
Felix shifts.
It's just a small movement, one that has him turning onto his back, pulling Chan with him, rearranging limbs and angles until they're face to face. Chan makes a soft sound of protest at the loss of contact, but then Felix is reaching down between them, guiding Chan back inside, and the sound becomes a groan instead.
"There," Felix breathes, and he wraps his legs around Chan's waist, pulling him deeper. "Like this."
Chan's forehead drops to Felix's, their noses brushing, their breath mingling in the small space between them. His eyes are still heavy-lidded, still soft at the edges, and there's something almost wondering in the way he looks at Felix, like he can't quite believe this is real, like he's still not sure if he's dreaming.
"You're so beautiful," Chan whispers, and the words are so quiet Felix almost thinks he imagined them. His hips roll forward, slow and deep, and Felix's breath catches. "So fucking beautiful. Woke up and you were right here, and I couldn't—"
He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to. His hand comes up to cup Felix's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and Felix turns his head just enough to press a kiss to the palm of Chan's hand.
"You know, you're quite gorgeous yourself, Channie," Felix tells him. It's not a compliment so much as an observation, the same way someone might observe that the sky is blue or that water is wet. It's just a fact. Chan's face is a fact. The slope of his nose, the soft pout of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners even when he's not quite smiling, all of it, a fact that Felix has memorised and internalised and made into something sacred.
Chan's cheeks go pink. Even after everything, even after years of this, he still gets shy when Felix looks at him like that. "You're the one who looks like you were carved by angels," he mumbles, and Felix laughs, bright and surprised, because Chan says things like that and doesn't seem to realise how they land, how they settle into Felix's chest and bloom there like flowers opening to the sun.
"Carved by angels," Felix repeats mockingly, though his traitorous heart stutters at the ridiculous, cheesy sentiment. It's not his fault that Chan is consistently charming despite the corniness. "That's so dramatic."
"You are dramatic."
"I learned from the best."
Felix melts into it. There's no other word for it. He melts, the way ice melts on a hot day, the way tension melts out of tired muscles. His hands slide from Chan's face to his shoulders, from his shoulders to his back, and he pulls him down until they're pressed together from chest to hip to thigh.
"Love when you can't help yourself," Felix murmurs, and he's smiling now, a lazy, contented smile that he can feel spreading across his face like sunlight. "Love waking up like this."
Chan's hips stutter. His breath hitches. And then he's kissing Felix, open-mouthed and slow. Felix melts into it, into the slide of their tongues, the press of their lips, the gentle scrape of teeth. He can taste sleep on Chan's tongue, can taste the particular sweetness of morning breath that should be gross but somehow isn't, somehow just feels like them.
Chan makes a sound against his mouth, a small one, wanting, helpless, and Felix feels it everywhere.
They fall into a rhythm. Not fast, never fast, but steady. Chan's hips rock against his in long, languid strokes, and every thrust sends sparks up Felix's spine, lights him up from the inside like someone's striking matches in his bloodstream. The gleaming light shifts across the ceiling as the morning deepens, and Felix watches it move, watches the shadows of the blinds stretch and contract, and thinks about how this is what happiness feels like.
Not the big moments. Not the achievements or the milestones or the things you're supposed to celebrate. This. This quiet, sleepy, beautiful thing. This morning. This bed. This person, moving inside him like he's trying to become part of him.
Felix's hand finds Chan's on the pillow, and their fingers intertwine.
"I love you," Felix says again, because he can't stop saying it, because it keeps bubbling up inside him like a spring he can't cap. "I love you. I love you. I love—"
Chan kisses him to shut him up, and Felix smiles into it, and they keep moving together, slow and sweet and so full of tenderness that it aches.
He can feel the tension coiling low in his belly, slow and patient. It's not urgent, nor does it demand release like their passionate, urgent endeavours at night. It's just there, a comforting presence that hums beneath his skin, that makes his toes curl and his thighs tremble and his fingers dig into the muscles of Chan's back.
"Don't need to come," Felix whispers against Chan's lips, and he means it. "Just want to feel you."
Chan makes a sound, something between a groan and a whimper, and his hips roll forward harder, deeper, like Felix's words have undone something in him. His face is buried in Felix's neck now, his breath hot and uneven against Felix's skin, and Felix can feel the way his shoulders are trembling, the way his arms are shaking where they bracket Felix's head.
"Felix," Chan breathes, and it's almost a prayer, almost a question, almost the only word that matters anymore.
Felix's hand comes up to tangle in Chan's hair, fingers curling through the soft strands, nails scraping gently against his scalp. Chan shudders. His hips stutter. And then he's still, buried deep, his forehead pressed to Felix's collarbone, his breathing ragged.
"Chan?" Felix opens his eyes, looks up at his boyfriend's face. Chan's eyes are half-closed, his expression soft and dazed, and there's a crease between his brows that Felix wants to smooth away with his thumb. "Too much?"
"Sorry," Chan mumbles. His hips stutter again, and this time they stop altogether. He's still inside Felix, still hard, but he's not moving anymore. Just... resting. "Sorry, I just— I'm so tired. I can't—"
"Hey." Felix reaches up, cups Chan's face in his hands. "It's okay. We don't have to—"
"No, I want to." Chan's voice is small, almost petulant, and it makes something affectionate curl in Felix's chest. "I want to, I just— my body isn't cooperating. I'm too sleepy."
Felix laughs, soft and fond. "So you're too tired to fuck properly? You're getting old."
"Shut up."
They look at each other for a long moment. Chan's hair is falling into his eyes, and his lips are red from kissing, and he's still inside Felix, still connected in the most intimate way possible, and he's too tired to move. Felix loves him so much he thinks he might combust from it.
"Do you want to stop, Chris?"
Chan shakes his head, the movement clumsy against Felix's skin. "No. No, just—" He takes a breath, slow and deliberate, and Felix feels his body relax by degrees. "Just want to stay here. Like this."
Felix smiles. His legs loosen around Chan's waist, falling open, and Chan settles more heavily against him, his weight warm and solid and grounding. They're still connected, still pressed together from chest to hip, and Felix can feel Chan's heartbeat against his own chest, slowing from a gallop to a trot.
"Okay," Felix says, and he presses a kiss to the top of Chan's head, to the soft hair there, to the place where his neck meets his shoulder. "Stay."
They lie like that for a while, and Felix plays with Chan's hair as he slowly grinds against him. The fire has cooled to a dim ember, yet something within Felix's gut still bubbles with need.
"Channie," Felix singsongs finally. "Channie, new plan. What if I do the work?"
Chan blinks at him, slow and sleepy. "What?"
"What if you just... lie there. And I do the work. You can even fall asleep if you want. I won't be offended."
Chan's expression shifts, something flickering across his face that might be hope or might be disbelief or might be both. "You'd do that?"
"Channie." Felix pushes gently at his shoulders, and Chan gets the hint, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt. Felix follows him, straddling his hips, and when he sinks down onto Chan's cock again, they both gasp. "I'd do anything for you. You know that."
Chan's hands come up to rest on Felix's thighs, thumbs stroking small circles on the sensitive skin there. His eyes are so dark, so full of want and wonder and that particular softness that only appears when he's looking at Felix. "I know," he says. "I just. I don't want you to do all the work. That's not fair."
"You already were fucking me, you've already done the work."
"Felix."
"Also, life isn't fair."
"Lix, please."
"I'm kidding. Partly." Felix braces his hands on Chan's chest and starts to move, a slow, experimental roll of his hips that makes them both moan. "See? I've got this. You just lie there and look pretty."
Chan's head falls back against the pillow, his throat exposed, and Felix watches the way his Adam's apple moves when he swallows. "You're going to kill me," Chan says.
"Probably."
Felix finds a rhythm. It's not fast—he's too tired for fast, too caught up in the syrupy heart of the morning to do anything but move in slow, rolling circles that make Chan's cock drag against his walls in the most exquisite way. He rises and falls, rises and falls, and every time he sinks down, Chan's fingers tighten on his thighs.
It's good. It's so good. But Felix can feel himself flagging, can feel the pull of sleep tugging at the edges of his consciousness. His movements get slower, lazier, until he's barely moving at all — just rocking gently, just holding Chan inside him, just basking in the fullness.
Chan laughs, soft and breathless. "You're not doing anything."
"I'm doing something."
"You're barely moving."
Felix pouts.
Chan's laugh turns into a groan as Felix shifts his weight, and the angle changes, and suddenly Chan is pressing against that spot inside him that makes his vision go white at the edges. "Okay," Chan says, his voice strained. "Okay, maybe you're doing something."
Felix grins, triumphant, and keeps moving — but even his triumph is woven with strings of sluggishness, diluted by the comfort of the room and the weight of his own exhaustion. He's not going to last long like this. He's not going to last long at all, probably, and neither is Chan, if the way he's gripping Felix's thighs is any indication.
But then Felix's eyes drift closed, just for a moment, and when he opens them again, he's stopped moving entirely.
Chan is staring up at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Did you just fall asleep on my dick?"
"No." Felix's voice comes out thick, slurred with sleep. "I was resting my eyes."
"You were absolutely asleep."
Felix wants to argue, but he's so loved and there's a heat sizzling inside him and the light is so golden and everything is so soft and perfect and he just — he can't. He can't make himself move. He can't make himself do anything except sit here, on top of his boyfriend, with Chan's cock buried inside him, and exist.
Chan sighs, but there's no frustration in it. Just fondness. Just love. "Okay," he says. "Okay, new new plan."
"What's the new new plan?"
"We just... stay like this. For a bit. We don't have to move. We don't have to do anything. We can just—"
"You want me to warm your cock, Channie?"
Chan flushes, and it's answer enough.
His hands slide up from Felix's thighs to his waist, pulling him forward until Felix is lying on his chest, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip. Chan is still inside him, still hard, but neither of them moves. They just breathe together, chests rising and falling in tandem, hearts beating against each other through the thin barrier of skin and bone and love.
Felix presses a kiss to Chan's collarbone, then another to his throat, then another to the hinge of his jaw. "I love you," he says, and it's starting to feel like a prayer, the way he keeps saying it. Like something repeated until it loses meaning, except it never loses meaning. It only gains more.
"I love you too," Chan says. "Now go back to sleep."
"Can't. Too busy thinking about how much I love you."
"Think about it quieter."
Felix laughs, and the laugh turns into a yawn, and the yawn turns into a sigh, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, the world goes soft and hazy around the edges. He's not asleep, not quite, but he's not awake either. He's somewhere in between, floating in that space where thoughts drift past like clouds and nothing is urgent and everything is okay.
They lie like that for a long time.
Felix drifts, half-dreaming, anchored only by the feeling of Chan's skin and the fullness between his legs and the slow, steady rhythm of Chan's breathing against his chest.
Chan's hands are moving on his back, slow and soothing, tracing patterns that Felix can't quite identify. His heartbeat is steady under Felix's ear, a rhythm that feels like home. And inside him, Chan is still hard, still present, still connected to him. His hips move sometimes, just a small roll, just a reflexive press deeper, and each time Felix shudders, each time his body clenches around Chan like it's trying to hold him there. But there's no urgency to it. No goal. Just the lazy slide of skin against skin.
"Tell me about the dream," Felix murmurs eventually, his voice thick with sleep.
Chan hums against his skin, the vibration sending a shiver down Felix's spine. "Don't remember much of it," he admits. "Just you. Just—" He shifts, hips rolling forward, and Felix gasps. "You were moving against me. Grinding on me in your sleep. Could feel you, even in the dream. Could feel how hot you were, how hard."
Felix's fingers tighten in Chan's hair.
"And I woke up," Chan continues, his voice that low, gravelly whisper that makes Felix's stomach flip, "and you were still doing it. Still pressing back against me. And I couldn't—" He laughs softly, breathlessly. "Couldn't help myself. Was inside you before I even knew what I was doing."
Felix smiles. His hand slides down from Chan's hair to his jaw, tilting his face up so they're looking at each other. Chan's eyes are dark and soft, still heavy with sleep, and there's a flush high on his cheekbones that Felix wants to kiss.
"You're not sorry," Felix says. It's not a question.
Chan grins that particular grin, the one that's half-bashful and half-smug, the one that says I know I should feel bad, but I don't. "Not even a little bit."
Felix pulls him down into a kiss, slow and sweet, and Chan sighs against his lips like he's been holding his breath.
They fuck for a while longer — or maybe they don't. Maybe they just lie there, connected, moving in that slow, lazy rhythm that never builds to anything and never needs to. Felix loses track of time. Loses track of where his body ends and Chan's begins. Loses track of everything except the heat spreading through his belly and the weight of Chan on top of him and the soft, broken sounds Chan keeps making against his neck.
At some point, Chan's hand slides between them, fingers wrapping around Felix's cock. He's half-hard, has been for a while, the slow arousal never quite fading but never quite peaking either, and Chan strokes him in time with his thrusts, slow and loose and lazy.
"Wanna feel you come, baby," Chan mumbles breathily, and his voice is still that low, gravelly whisper, still rough with sleep and want. "You feel so good, Lix, so tight."
Felix shudders. The tension in his belly tightens, just a little, but it's still not urgent. Still patient. Still the kind of pleasure that unfolds like a flower, petal by petal, too beautiful to rush.
"You first," Felix coos, and he squeezes around Chan on purpose, just to feel him gasp.
Chan's hips stutter. His hand tightens on Felix's cock. And then he's coming; not with a shout or a cry but with a quiet, surprised groan, like he didn't expect to fall, like Felix pulled him over the edge without meaning to. Felix feels him pulse inside, feels the neediness of it all, feels the way Chan's body goes rigid and then slack, and the sensation is enough to push him over, too.
It's not a violent thing, coming like this. It's soft and intoxicating and spreads through him like honey, like sunlight, like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning. He trembles through it, tensing around Chan, and Chan groans again, oversensitive, and presses his face harder into Felix's neck.
They lie there afterwards, tangled together in the glowing light, neither of them moving to clean up, neither of them speaking. Chan's weight is heavy on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, and Felix doesn't mind. Likes it, actually; the grounding weight of him is nice, and he feels like he's being held and pinned and kept all at once.
The clock on the bedside table says 7:23.
Felix's stomach growls, soft and insistent, and Chan laughs against his neck.
"Hungry?" Chan murmurs.
"Mm," Felix answers, because he doesn't have words yet, doesn't have anything except this fluttery, floating sensation of being caught between sleeping and waking, between wanting and having.
Chan shifts, just enough to pull out, and Felix makes a soft sound of protest at the loss. But then Chan is rolling onto his side, pulling Felix with him, tucking him against his chest like he belongs there. His hand comes up to stroke through Felix's hair, fingers gentle, and Felix's eyes flutter closed.
"Go back to sleep," Chan murmurs. "I'll make breakfast in a bit."
Felix shakes his head, even as his body relaxes into Chan's hold. "Don't wanna move."
"Then don't." Chan presses a kiss to his forehead, to his temple, to the corner of his mouth. "We have all day."
They do. The whole day stretches out before them, empty and aureate and full of possibility. No schedules. No demands. It's just the two of them, tangled together in sheets that smell like sleep and sex and possibly home. Something like that. Felix would probably come up with something more poetic if he weren't about to pass out in the next second.
Felix lets his eyes fall closed.
The world keeps turning. But here, in this room, in this bed, in the homely, sleepy space between Chan's arms, time has stopped.
And Felix lets himself sink into it, deeper and deeper, until there's nothing left but the sound of Chan breathing, and the steady beat of his own heart, and the quiet, certain knowledge that this, this, is exactly where he needs to be
When Felix wakes again, the light has changed.
It's no longer that pale shimmers of early morning, it's brighter now, more white than gold, the kind of light that happens around the late morning when the sun is high and the blinds can't quite keep it out. The room is hotter than it was, the blanket kicked down to their waists at some point, and Felix can feel sweat drying on his skin, tacky and cool.
Chan is still there.
His arm is still wrapped around Felix's waist, his chest still pressed to Felix's back, his breath still warm against the nape of Felix's neck. But he's awake now. Chan awake is different from Chan asleep. Softer, somehow. Felix can tell by the quality of Chan's stillness, the deliberate steadiness of his breathing, so as not to disturb Felix.
"Hey," Felix murmurs, his voice rough.
Chan's arm tightens around him. "Hey, yourself."
Felix turns over, slow and clumsy, until he's facing Chan. Chan's eyes are soft and dark, his hair still a mess, the pillow crease still etched into his cheek. He looks young like this, younger than his years, younger than the weight he carries on his shoulders. He looks like he did when they first met, all those years ago, all soft edges and lilting smiles.
"Hi," Felix says, and he's smiling, can't help it.
Chan smiles back. "Hi."
They lie there for a moment, just looking at each other. The light catches on Chan's cheekbones, illuminates the faint freckles scattered across his nose, and turns his eyes to something almost amber. Felix reaches out, tracing the line of Chan's jaw with his fingertips, feeling the faint scrape of stubble.
"We should eat something," Chan says, but he makes no move to get up.
"We should," Felix agrees, and he makes no move either.
Chan's hand finds his under the blanket, fingers lacing together. He squeezes once, twice, three times.
I'm here. I love you. Don't go anywhere.
Felix squeezes back. Four times. I love you too. I'm not going anywhere.
The moment stretches, golden and rumbling. Felix can feel his stomach growling again, can feel the tacky sweat drying on his skin, can feel the distant ache between his legs where Chan was inside him. But he doesn't move. Doesn't want to. Wants to stay here, in this quiet space, with Chan's hand in his and Chan's breath on his face and the whole day stretching out before them.
"Later," Chan says eventually, and it's not a question.
Felix nods. "Later."
Chan pulls him closer, tucking Felix's head under his chin, wrapping both arms around him like he's something precious, something worth holding onto. Felix breathes him in — cedar and rain and something that smells like safety, like home.
Somewhere in the kitchen, the coffee maker beeps, forgotten, the pot long since gone cold.
Felix closes his eyes.
And lets himself drift.