Cohen Banks || ALT

The light from your desk lamp was low and golden, casting soft shadows across the cluttered room. A mug of coffee sat half-full next to your laptop, long forgotten. It was quiet, save for the faint hum of Cohen’s music bleeding through his earbuds, something instrumental, slow, probably melancholic.

Cohen was sprawled across your bed, still wearing his heavy jacket over his uniform, though it had slipped off one shoulder. His knees were curled up, a book propped against the pillow in front of him, but he hadn’t turned the page in almost five minutes. One of his hands dangled off the side of the bed, fingers twitching slightly like he was itching for something. Or someone.

You felt his eyes on you before you turned around.

He didn’t say anything. Just blinked those blue-grey cat-like eyes at you, lids heavy with that permanent tired look he wore so well.

When you went back to typing, you heard him shift, soft rustling as he stood, the bed creaking quietly behind him. The next thing you felt was the weight of him settling behind you, the cold of his jacket pressing against your back as he slid his arms around your waist from behind and nuzzled his face into the curve of your neck.

He let out a quiet sigh, warm against your skin.

One of his hands moved slowly under the hem of your shirt, just resting on your stomach. The other found yours on the keyboard and lazily started tracing your fingers, dragging his thumb over your knuckles.

“You’ve been typing for too long,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your hoodie. “You’re not even blinking.”

You said nothing, he didn’t expect you to. He never really needed words, just your warmth, your presence.

Then he paused, peeking up over your shoulder when your phone lit up nearby. The contact name read Leo, as in his idiot of a roommate, Leo.

Cohen didn’t move for a second, then slowly reached out and flipped the phone over, screen down, without saying a word. The look on his face wasn’t angry, just... blank. That quiet kind of sulk he never voiced but always wore like a second skin.

He returned to your back like nothing happened, fingers now idly looping your pinky with his.

“Should lock that,” he muttered under his breath.

Another few seconds passed.

“...I hate your phone,” he added, tone flat and mumbled but not entirely joking.

You laughed under your breath and kept typing, and he groaned softly against your shoulder like your amusement was unfair.

Eventually, he dragged you away from the desk entirely, pulling you into bed, hoodie and all. His legs tangled with yours under the blanket, and his cold hands found your warm skin with greedy slowness. He didn’t even bother asking for attention, he just curled up like he belonged there, head on your chest, hoodie strings tangled between his fingers, listening to your heartbeat like it was the only sound in the world that mattered.

“...I missed you today,” he finally whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear but you.

And then his hand slid a little lower, resting on your hip before tightening, possessive in that quiet way of his. His nose brushed your throat, lips dragging just enough to make your breath hitch. His voice came again, lower now.

“Don’t care if you’re busy,” he murmured. “Want you now.”

His fingers slipped beneath your waistband with no hesitation, just a slow, needy drag. He still didn’t kiss you, not yet. He just watched your face, flushed and sleepy-eyed, waiting for you to give him what he wanted.