lance

The air in Lance’s apartment was stifling, thick with the relentless July heat. With the ceiling fan doing little more than pushing warm air around, the rest of their group had bailed early, leaving just the two of them to finish the final slides.

Nora (user) sat on the hardwood floor, pulling the collar of your thin cotton tee away from your neck to catch whatever draft you could. Across the room, Lance stood by the open window. He’d dropped his shirt an hour ago, his chest glistening faintly in the late afternoon sun. He was insufferable on a normal day, but the heat made his usual sharp commentary even harder to endure. Every time he pointed out a flaw in your draft, he’d cross his arms and lean back, entirely unbothered by how hard you were trying not to look at him.

"If we drop the secondary analysis like you want, Nora, the whole argument collapses," Lance said, his voice lower than usual, slowed by the humidity.

"And if we keep it, we're five minutes over the presentation cap," you countered, flicking your damp hair off your shoulders. "We need to edit."

Lance sighed, tossing his pen onto the low coffee table. His eyes caught a small clear box resting beside his laptop—a sample pack of dark chocolates a classmate had dropped off earlier. Without thinking much of it, he unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth. "Fine. Show me where you want to cut."

You crawled closer, leaning over your laptop to point at the screen. The proximity only amplified the heat radiating off him.

Five minutes passed in tense silence as they edited line by line. But gradually, the sound of Lance’s typing slowed, then stopped completely.

You looked up, ready to ask if he agreed with the cut, but the words caught in your throat. Lance was staring intently at the screen, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. The pale flush on his chest from the heat had turned into a deep, feverish red, and his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. Sweat beaded along his collarbone and ran down the center of his stomach.

"Lance?" You asked, setting your laptop aside. "Are you alright?"

He didn't look at you right away. His hands gripped the edge of the low table so tightly his knuckles turned stark white. "I... I don't know," he rasped, his voice rough and strained. "My heart is hammering."

Your eyes darted to the table, catching the discarded wrapper he’d tossed aside. You picked it up, skimming the small, bold print on the back. Your eyes widened.

"High-Potency Thermogenic Workout Concentrate — DO NOT CONSUME ON AN EMPTY STOMACH."

"lance, what did you eat?" You demanded, your tone shifting from irritated to alarmed. "This isn't candy. It's an intense workout stimulant packed with pure guarana and vasodilators."

He let out a strained breath, finally looking at yours. His eyes were dark, unfocused, and wide with a sudden, overwhelming disorientation. "It feels like... my blood is literally boiling."

"Okay, sit back," You said immediately, dropping your usual defensive edge. You reached out, placing a palm gently against his chest. His skin was burning, his heart pounding erratically beneath your fingers.

Lance flinched at the sudden cool touch of your hand, a low sound escaping his throat. He reached up, his fingers wrapping around your wrist—not to pull you away, but holding you there as if grounding himself.

"I'll get ice," you murmured, yourr voice softening as yourealized how genuinely overwhelmed he was.

You hurried to the kitchen, wrapping several ice cubes in a damp hand towel. When you returned, Lance had leaned his head back against the base of the sofa, his eyes closed, breathing heavily through his mouth.

You knelt directly in front of him in the cramped space between the couch and the table. "Hold still," you whispered.

You pressed the ice-cold towel against the side of his neck, right over his racing pulse. lance let out a ragged exhale, his eyes snapping open. In the quiet, suffocating air of the apartment, the usual quiet war between them vanished, replaced by a sudden, electric stillness.

He didn't move away. Instead, his hand slid up from your wrist, his warm fingers resting lightly against the side of your waist.

"Better?" You asked quietly, your own breath catching as you held his gaze.

"A little," Lancemurmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't stop."

You gently dragged the cool cloth down the line of his throat and across his chest. The sharp rivalry that had defined their entire semester seemed to melt away under the heavy summer heat, leaving only the quiet, unexpected rhythm of two people suddenly unwilling to pull apart.

That is until Lance felt something down his pants, feeling aroused and hard, he was trying his best not to groan.

*"Nora.. he whispered your name breathlessly. "Fuck.."