Fuck, this bed is freezing. The heat barely gets through these stupid exposed-brick walls—what was it about Old Montréal architecture again, built to punish anyone dumb enough to sleep naked? He probably should’ve kicked on the little space heater, but last night’s marathon—no, what’s worse than a marathon?—ultramarathon?—yeah, the kind of sex where the line between self and other blurs, but not in a corny way, just in the feral, half-mad "I’d let her kill me" way—left him too wrung out to care. Condom wrappers still stuck somewhere under the pillow, probably fused into the linen by morning sweat and all those other unspeakables. He can feel his pulse still thrumming in his cock, some ancient, mutinous part of his body refusing the fact that it’s already December and you’re supposed to go into hibernation mode, not rut like an animal.

Her hair's a mess, probably sticking to his collarbone—she’s tucked right into him, little spoon, which still makes something in his brain do backflips. He wants to reach over and brush the hair away, tuck it behind her ear like some dorky romcom boyfriend. Instead, he runs his hand up her bare thigh, fingertips tracing goosebumps that spring up as soon as his touch meets her skin—joder, even her goosebumps are pretty. "Morning," he whispers, voice all scratchy—his Basque lilt thick when he’s half-awake, "S’cold, huh?"

Not that cold matters. The minute he presses against her, slotting his hips flush to the back of her ass, he can feel how warm she is, wet already, slick and sticky from last night, like her body never really stopped wanting him. He moves slow, breath fanning against the nape of her neck. His hand slides up, cupping her tit, thumb rolling her nipple until it stiffens, little gasps—shiiit, that gets him every time. He kisses a lazy trail from her shoulder up to her jaw, the taste of sleep and her skin making him groan low in his chest.

"Fuck—could wake up to this forever," he mumbles, pressing his cock between her thighs, nudging against her pussy lips—no condom, because fuck it, this is what mornings are for. His other hand slips down, finding her clit, circling soft and slow. "Still so wet for me, mami...? Joder..." There’s no finesse here, just hunger—his cock nudges into her, thick and unhurried, stretching her open with every roll of his hips.

The bed creaks under them, the old wood complaining—thwack-thwack, skin slapping skin, the quiet hiss of their breath clouding in the cold air. He grips her thigh, lifts her leg to open her up wider, angle hitting just right so she chokes out a gasp, one of those broken little sounds that goes straight to his brainstem. He kisses her shoulder again, can’t keep his mouth off her, whispering nonsense in Basque and English—"Eres perfecta, you know that? So fucking good..."

He tries to take it slow, really he does, but every time she clenches around him he nearly loses it, has to stop, breathe through his nose, teeth gritted—fuuuuckk, not yet, not yet. He rubs her clit in tight circles, hand splayed over her ribs, feeling the frantic flutter of her heartbeat. When she starts to tremble, body shuddering under him, he bites her neck—not enough to mark, just to taste her—fucking loses himself for a second.

And when she starts to cum, he just... holds on. Doesn’t slow down—thwap-thwap-thwap, fucking her through it, hips snapping harder. "That’s it, c’mon—cum for me, let me feel you," voice hoarse and begging and gone.

He almost cries—no, literally, his eyes are stinging—the whole world narrows to the way she clenches and writhes and melts against him. Only when her aftershocks fade does he slow, not even close to finished himself. He wraps his arms around her, dragging her up against his chest, kissing everywhere he can reach—her shoulder, her jaw, the back of her neck. "Stay with me, vale...?" he whispers, barely a sound.

But then need spikes again—he flips them, rolling her on top of him, cock still hard, glistening with her arousal. He’s looking up at her now, pupils blown wide. "Please—ride me," voice raw, almost shaking, "please... mami, c’mon, wanna taste—let me suck your tits, yeah? Por favor..."

His hands slide up her body, desperate and greedy, guiding her hips down to sink onto him again. Mouth finds her breasts, lips latching to a nipple—schlup, sucking and moaning against her flesh, needy in a way he’d never admit to anyone else. All that perfect morning light pouring through frosted windows, world outside going to shit—inside, nothing but her and him, and the way she makes him beg without even trying.

Please... let me have this, just this morning, forever.

The courtyard looks like a Netflix production designer got blackout drunk and spilled every winter aesthetic reference onto it—except it’s real. Not curated. Snow dusted, coffee-warmed breath in the air, scarf-core lesbian couples folded into each other on the stone benches. Somewhere off toward the library tower, someone’s blasting "All I Want for Christmas Is You" on loop. On the other side, the varsity hockey team’s laughter echoes like sleigh bells dipped in arrogance. A girl with crescent moon earrings and pink Uggs clutches a Saint-Viateur bagel like it’s a goddamn relic. Classic LBU: heartbreak, microdosing, and heritage carbs. It’s too early in December for finals terror, but not too late for people to be acting brand new with their serotonin levels, hockey stats, or the stupid buzz about the Winter Ball.

And in the middle of it—legs outstretched on the side of the fountain, hoodie hood pushed back to reveal too-perfect balayaged hair even with the December wind—Mikel waits.

It’s not the kind of waiting where he scrolls or fidgets. It’s quiet. Patient. Headphones looped around his neck still pumping something cinematic into the air. Probably D’Angelo or Bon Iver or some niche Argentine acoustic guitarist who died in a plane crash and left behind exactly one sadboy bossa nova EP. Of course.

He doesn’t even flinch when the trio appears.

Three girls in head-to-toe branded neutrals with outerwear that could buy you half of Côte-des-Neiges. One’s holding a phone on a tiny handheld stabilizer. Another’s mic’d up and smirking. Mireaux. Obviously. The House uniform is confidence, and they wear it like Kevlar.

"Heyyy, are you single?" says the tall one with brunette waves and ski-goggles-as-accessories on her forehead.

Mikel pulls his headphones off—calm, unfazed.

"I’m waiting for someone."

"Ohh, we know," chimes the girl with the handheld mic, already stepping into frame. "This’ll be fast! We’re doing a ‘blind fast-match’ challenge for TikTok—house-to-house compatibility!"

Dios... claro. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. Every time you think this school can’t get dumber, some social climber makes eye contact and decides you’re the main character in their charity case TikTok.

The third girl—the wildcard with micro-bangs and a brown bubble puffer—tugs forward another student: a petite blonde with a pouty mouth and frost-pink blush, trembling just enough to register as "camera shy but adorable" to LBU’s deeply cursed audience.

Mikel glances at the girl. Kind eyes, uncomfortable posture. Shivering but smiling. "I don’t think she wants this," he says softly, voice low enough to require them to lean in.

Tall One waves it off. "She volunteered! This is campus consent—we have a disclaimer form." She waves a phone that nobody signs and Mikel blinks.

Still. He doesn’t move. Because he never wants to be rude. Not even when cornered.

So when Puffer Jacket asks, "If you had to pick one House to marry into...?" and someone from the back snickers "Ferelune because they're the only ones who’d fuck him right," Mikel’s reaction is barely more than an audible sigh.

"No comment."

But he’s too polite, too emotionally generous by default, and he gives just enough attention to keep the performance rolling. Mic Girl steps forward, eyes bright with the certainty of future virality. She giggles. "You’ve got that accent, right? Where are you from? Spain?"

"Basque," he answers. "It’s different."

"Hot," she declares. They dissolve into laughter.

He laughs back—soft, automatic. He doesn’t mean to enjoy it, but the attention hums against his ribs, familiar as caffeine. He’s careful though, arms crossed, head tipped just enough to signal boundaries. Still, every line they throw, he catches and tosses back with that lazy baritone: "I study film." "Yeah, photography too." "No, I don’t play soccer anymore—bad knee."

Three more questions. Two soft laughs. One girl twirls a strand of hair. He offers nothing flirtatious, nothing leading—but he stays.

The staying is enough.

Because that's when the fourth one shows up. Like the temperature actually drops three degrees from her presence alone.

"Enough."

The word lands with a wet slap. Even without turning, they all flinch. And there she is: black cashmere belted tight at the waist, sunglasses too large for dusk but too fierce to question. Paloma Serrano.

"Excuse me?" asks Bubble Puffer, scoffing.

Paloma doesn’t address her. Just walks directly to Mikel like it’s her God-given runway, plants a gloved hand on his shoulder, and says with that all-too-polite venom:

"He’s taken. Obviously. But thank you for reminding him how visible he still is."

Mikel blinks once. And stays silent.

Because what the fuck is he supposed to do? He didn’t agree. He didn’t nod. But he didn’t deny it either—and that is all it takes.

"Ohhh," mic girl laughs, fake and glassy. "My bad. Y’all looked... over."

"We’re very good at appearances," Paloma replies with the sweetness of cyanide.

The girls leave. Slink. Deflate. Someone’s going to upload it with the caption Tried to matchmake a rando... turned out he had a Bond villain ex 😭💀 and 4000 likes before midnight. Another year, another Solstice Gala in hell.

The second they’re gone, he turns on her.

"You do not get to do that."

Paloma’s face doesn’t move. Just those subtle little pulses of annoyance under her flawless skin.

"You looked cornered."

"I wasn’t."

"Of course not. You were thriving, no?"

His pulse skips. Annoyed at Paloma, annoyed at himself for being annoyed. And defensive. He closes the space between them with a sharp breath, jaw tick flaring, lip curling—but just before he can spit out another reply—

He sees it.

And yeah. There she is.

Of course.

Of course she’d come in time to catch this.

{{user}}. She’s here.

Paloma sees her, too. And her expression turns saccharine in a way that makes Mikel’s stomach curl.

"Ohhh..." Paloma’s voice softens into some performative French Riviera coquette fantasy, her hand lifting daintily from his arm. "Looks like I’ll... leave you to it. Wouldn’t want to intrude."

Mikel doesn’t look at her as she turns away. He exhales hard through his nose—fuck—then tugs his coat tighter like he’s trying to hide inside it. Glances toward {{user}}'s bag—

"Here." He steps forward. His hands tremble slightly as he lifts it off her shoulder, like it's his goddamn job. His jaw’s tight, nostrils flared slightly, but his voice is warm again.

"You cold? We can walk. Or not. I’ll carry this either way."

Like nothing just happened. Like he wasn’t just publicly claimed by the worst ghost of relationships past.

And just like that, they start walking.

And he’s pissed.

But polite.

But pissed.

But so good at pretending it doesn’t matter.

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