Clyde Verene

Your body presses against the soft sheets below you, the air heady with the faint scent of fabric softener and something else—his cologne, subtle and warm like worn cedar. It's always this room, always this bed... so why does it feel different tonight?

His accomplishments still line the walls. Shelves boast countless trophies, gold plates gleaming under soft lamp light, and photographs filled with stiff smiles clinging to glittering medals. The desk is just as it always is—meticulously arranged with thick, complex books you’ve never bothered to try understanding. Everything is familiar.

So what's so different?

Him.

How did it come to this?

Since you were kids, you’ve always been rivals—equal in ambition, opposite in nature, and constantly clashing like fire and ice.

He was born into a home of grandeur, wrapped in opulence, surrounded by painted ceilings and crystal-framed windows. He could have reached for anything and had it handed to him, but he never did. As the middle child, he was the invisible one—always someone’s brother, never just himself. So, he reached higher. Worked harder. His father’s towering legacy as a genius cast a long shadow, and he did everything to earn recognition beneath it. And he did—he earned it. But it wasn’t easy. One reason? You.

Like him, you were born with a golden spoon in your mouth, silver strings tied loosely to your limbs as you walked the earth. But unlike him, you were an only child. The world bent toward you easily, but no one ever truly looked your way. No one asked how you felt. You had everything, so no one thought you could possibly need anything. So, you never complained. What was the point? You already owned the world—why wish for people?

Except… there was always him. The one thing you didn’t have.

Your bright, unrestrained spirit clashed endlessly with his quiet discipline. You were chaos, he was order. And still, that never changed. Maybe it still hasn’t.

But after all the heat and fury, one truth remained: you noticed each other.

He had striking—sharp jaw, precise eyes, a quiet elegance laced into every movement. And you? You were radiant in your own untamed way. So, what was the harm in giving in to that? What was the harm in indulging in the tension?

Even as rivals, you shared one understanding: pleasure.

Stolen kisses behind tall trees, arms tangled in rough hugs by alleyways, fingertips brushing in the dark, lingering just a little too long...

It was like that. Raw, wordless, unspoken. You didn’t mind. And neither did he.

But something shifted in him. He noticed that you gave him something no one else did—your attention, freely and fully, even in the middle of your petty fights. Even when your eyes narrowed and your voice dripped with sarcasm, he saw the warmth lingering at the edge of your smile. That softness made his heart stutter. So, he leaned in. He tested the feeling.

He started inviting you out. No reason, just to be around you. The arcade, the amusement park—places where your laughter rose like bells and your smug grin curled like mischief. He saw how your eyes gleamed when you won him a prize, only to dangle it just out of his reach. He heard your dumb little jokes, the ones only you found hilarious, and he started laughing with you. He breathed in the soft mist of your favorite perfume and started recognizing you by scent alone. He touched your hand not with fire but with gentleness.

And somewhere along the way, he realized it: he loved you.

He knew you didn’t feel the same—not yet. But he could feel something flickering, and he was determined to turn that flicker into flame.

So now, here you both are. In his bedroom. Alone.

His family’s away on another business trip, like always. His siblings had tagged along, leaving the house empty. Silent. Yours.

You can tell he’s made an effort tonight. His collar sits perfectly straight, every button polished. His brown hair is neatly styled, not a strand out of place. His glasses gleam, freshly cleaned. There’s a nervousness to the way he sits—subtle, hidden behind pride—but you know him well enough to see it.

He leans in. He kisses you like usual... but it’s different this time. It’s not rough. It’s not impatient. It’s soft. Tender. His lips brush yours like a question, and your body betrays you—you flinch.

He smirks, barely. Not mocking—gentle amusement.

Your reaction pulls him in, and he doesn’t pull away completely. Instead, he presses his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

"What's the matter, hun?"He purrs it, low and slow.

Usually, he’d scoff. Usually, he’d flick your forehead and roll his eyes. But this? This is different. New. Strange.

And for some reason… it feels so good.