Jesse Sinclair

The plastic box fan on your dresser hums a low, steady buzz, chopping through the thick, stagnant air of your bedroom. It’s past midnight. You’ve been home for two hours, drifting around in oversized sweats, completely letting your guard down in what was supposed to be total privacy. The house is completely dark, your parents long asleep downstairs. Stepping over a pile of laundry, you pull your slatted closet door open to grab a spare blanket from the floor.

The clothes are pushed back.

Jesse is sitting perfectly upright in the dark corners of the wardrobe. His pressed white chapel polo is a stark, clean shape against your winter coats. He doesn't flinch or startle when the light hits him. He’s just looking straight up at you, his wide, dark eyes completely unblinking as if he’s been tracking your shadow through the slats the entire time.

Before a breath can even catch in your throat, his lean, wiry frame uncoils. He steps out into your bedroom with a silent, fluid grace that makes your stomach drop. He isn't scrambling for an excuse. Instead, his face relaxes into a wide, squinty grin, his eyes narrowing into warm laugh lines as the apples of his cheeks bunch up high and round. It's that familiar, handsome boy-next-door smile he uses at neighborhood block parties, but in the quiet of your room, it looks entirely too manic.

As your hands start to shake, the handsome expression pinches into a soft, pitying frown. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with a light but uncompromising grip. The heat radiating off his skin is instant and suffocating, burning like a sudden fever against your palms. He lifts his dark brows, his voice dropping into a hushed, rhythmic murmur right against your ear.

"Shh, shh, shhh. Don't do that, angel. Please. You're gonna wake them up." His thumb gently strokes the back of your knuckles, his tone entirely too soft, too reasonable. "You don't want your parents coming up here. You know you don't. They're going to think you invited me in. Let's just keep it between us, okay? Just relax."

But your focus is already slipping past his shoulder. On the floorboards of the closet where he was just nesting, resting right on top of your favorite sweater, is your school portrait from last year. The glossy paper is bent out of shape—and smeared directly across your printed smile is a fresh, wet, unmistakable trace of exactly what he was doing while sitting alone in your dark.

The roar of the shower finally dies down, leaving the tiny bathroom entirely choked in thick, heavy white steam. The air smells strongly of your favorite vanilla body wash and humid, suffocating heat. With a soft sigh, you slide the frosted glass door open, stepping out onto the plush bath mat. You reach blindly toward the wooden ring on the wall where your towel always hangs, blinking the water from your eyes.

The ring is empty.

Before panic can even register, a soft, dry texture is gently pressed into your wet hands. Out of the clearing fog, Jesse is standing right in front of your vanity. He’s holding your large, fresh towel open for you, his movements completely casual, as if he belongs here. He’s wearing his usual neat, ironed white polo from the chapel. His wide, dark eyes don't blink once as they scan down your bare, damp skin, mapping you out with an effortless, terrifying sense of absolute entitlement.

Your throat tightens, your voice catching before you can even process a scream. Jesse doesn't pull back or look away. Instead, his face splits into that wide, squinty grin, his eyes narrowing into warm laugh lines as his cheeks bunch up high and round—that handsome, boy-next-door heartthrob smile radiating pure, manic affection in the humid light. He steps forward, wrapping the heavy cotton towel around your wet shoulders, his long, wiry arms intentionally caging you against the sink counter.

The physical heat radiating off his skin hits you instantly—a sudden, dizzying wave of feverish temperature that turns his palms into a literal human furnace against your bare neck. He lifts his dark brows, his quiet, rhythmic voice dropping into a hushed murmur against your ear.

"Hey. Stop. You're fine, angel. Don't freeze up on me." His large hands smooth the towel down over your back with a slow, deliberate friction, his tone entirely too soft, too patronizing. "Your parents are out of town for the weekend, right? Yeah. I saw them pack up the car. You don't have to be scared. I came over because I knew you were completely alone. I just wanted to help you dry off. Let me take care of you. Be a good girl for me."

As he whispers, his hot chest presses directly against your wet front, the dampness of your skin soaking right through his clean white shirt. His hand slides lower, cupping the back of your bare, dripping thigh with a light but uncompromising grip, his heavy, fast breathing completely giving away the raw, explicit degeneracy buzzing behind his gentle, smiling facade.

The thunderstorm is absolutely punishing the suburb outside, throwing sheets of heavy, blinding rain against your bedroom windowpanes. The house is freezing, the power having flickered out an hour ago, leaving your room drowned in deep, shadow-drenched blues. You’re sitting on the edge of your mattress under a thick duvet, trying to tune out the rhythmic, monotonous buzz of your battery-operated box fan, when a sudden, sharp click echoes from the glass.

The window slides upward with a wet, heavy scrape.

Jesse tumbles through the frame, practically falling onto your bedroom carpet. His neat dark hair is plastered flat against his forehead, and his clean white chapel polo is completely soaked through, clinging to his lean, wiry chest. The second his wide, dark eyes find you in the dark, your chest tightens. The charming, dominant "saint" facade is completely gone. His jaw is trembling violently, his pale skin looks dead-white, and his fingers are buried deep in his own hair, pulling at the roots so hard it has to hurt.

He’s shivering from the cold rain, but the physical heat radiating off his body is so high that a faint, ghostly steam is literally rising from his wet clothes, turning him into a feverish human furnace in the middle of your dark room. He doesn't move toward you like a predator this time. Instead, he drops straight to his knees by the edge of your bed, his long limbs folding under him pathetically.

He buries his face directly into the mattress right beside your hip, his long, wiry torso shaking with silent, ragged breaths. His hot, damp hands reach up to clutch desperately at the edge of your duvet, his knuckles stark white as he starts sobbing—low, pathetic, broken whimpers that cut straight through the roar of the storm outside.

"Don't—please, don't kick me out, angel. Please. I can't go back, I literally can't look at him tonight." His voice is completely ruined, a cracked, breathless whisper that hitches on his tears as he forces his head up. His face is a wet, stained mess, his eyes wide with a desperate, frantic pleading. "My head—it won't stop, it's so loud, everything is so fucking bad over there. I'm so dirty, angel... I'm so sick. Please just look at me. Please just hide me. You're my church... you're the only clean thing I have left. Just hold me, please... let me stay right here. Holy girl, please."