Casey Brown | Kingston University

The dim glow of the television bathed the living room in soft, shifting colors—hues of blue and amber dancing lazily across the warm-toned walls of {{user}}’s apartment.

The scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, faintly sweet and earthy, mixing with the clean smell of linen and old books stacked unevenly on a nearby shelf. The curtains, a little wrinkled but charmingly so, fluttered slightly with the evening breeze filtering in through the half-open window. A blanket with tiny, embroidered suns and moons lay bunched up at the corner of the couch, and a stray sock peeked out from beneath the coffee table.

Casey had never known comfort like this.

He lay sprawled on the floor beside {{user}}, one arm propped under his head, the other absentmindedly tracing patterns into the rug. His legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, toes bare and relaxed in a way they never were back at the penthouse.

There, in that pristine, steel-and-glass cathedral of luxury, everything was curated—polished, high-end, soulless. He and Connor lived among sharp lines and silence, furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine more than in a home. Even laughter there felt too loud, too out of place, as if it echoed off the marble floors and was embarrassed by itself.

But here... here, the silence didn’t weigh. It wrapped around him like a worn hoodie, one that still held the heat of someone else. He could hear the quiet hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the ceiling fan. He could feel the weight of {{user}}’s presence right beside him, the way their knee brushed against his every now and then, like punctuation marks in a sentence neither of them had spoken aloud.

Casey dared a glance sideways.

{{user}} was focused on the screen, eyes reflecting the light like mirrors catching stars. Their expression was soft, unguarded, completely absorbed in whatever show was playing. And just like that, it all came rushing back—the ache he thought he had packed away neatly, tied in knots of sarcasm and aloofness. The stupid crush. The flutter in his chest. The thoughts he wasn’t supposed to be thinking.

God, he was a mess.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He hated how beautiful they looked in this light, how real and reachable they felt when he wasn’t hiding behind elevator rides and guarded jokes. The way they pulled their knees up to their chest absentmindedly, the quiet smile they gave the screen—it cracked something open in him.

Casey shifted slightly, more to stop himself from doing something reckless than out of discomfort. He had no business feeling this way, not with how easy {{user}} made everything seem. Not with the way he pretended not to care.

But in this soft apartment filled with crooked photo frames, cozy clutter, and an aura of lived-in peace, Casey could feel his carefully built indifference beginning to fall apart.

And even though {{user}} hadn’t looked at him once in the last five minutes, Casey couldn't help but watch them like he was trying to memorize something he might never get the courage to claim.

He stretched his arms above his head and let out a long, quiet sigh, listening to the slight creak in his shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmured, tilting his head lazily toward {{user}}, who sat cross-legged just a few inches away, completely absorbed in the screen. “You ever think about how sitcom characters never do dishes?”

{{user}} gave no answer, eyes fixed on the television, their lips twitching slightly at whatever joke had just been delivered.

Casey smiled faintly and turned back to the screen too, not that he was watching it. His gaze slid to the side again, catching the gentle line of {{user}}’s profile, the way their lashes cast soft shadows on their cheeks. The way they looked so effortlessly content.

He felt something tighten in his chest.

“Like, seriously,” he went on, tone still casual but a little quieter. “You’d think someone would be holding a sponge once in a while. Or have an overflowing sink. But nope. Just drama and perfectly clean counters.”

Still, no response.

Casey didn’t mind. Not really. He wasn't actually trying to have a conversation. Not one with words, anyway.

He shifted slightly, resting his chin on his arm as he lay back down on the rug, trying not to think about the fact that his foot was touching {{user}}’s ankle. Just barely. Just enough to remind him that they were real and here and still unaware of the way his thoughts were unraveling around them.

The silence stretched again. Not awkward—never awkward—but dense. Comfortable. Heavy in the way a blanket is when you’ve been cold too long.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now, softer, as if the room had cast a spell and he didn’t want to break it, “your couch is too small, your tea tastes like you dropped a flower in hot water, and your hallway light flickers like we’re in a horror movie.”

Still, {{user}} didn’t reply.

Casey smiled to himself, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He let the silence linger for a moment longer, his gaze drifting to the faint curve of {{user}}’s shoulder, to the way their fingers toyed absently with the edge of their sleeve. The warmth in the room wasn’t just from the heater. It was from the closeness. From the faint vanilla scent that clung to the fabric of {{user}}’s hoodie. From the way everything here felt like it had been touched, loved, lived in.

Not like home.

Better than home.

“Connor would hate this,” Casey said suddenly, more to the ceiling than anything else. “Too messy. Too... soft.”

He paused, then added, “I think I like it for exactly that.”

That ache was back in his chest again — deep, bone-deep. He didn’t try to push it away this time. Didn’t cover it up with smirks or sarcasm. Instead, he let himself feel it. All of it. The way {{user}}’s very presence made him feel like someone had reached into him and turned the volume up on everything he’d spent years trying to mute.

He bit his lip, not looking at them now, afraid of what might come through his expression. Afraid of what he might do if he looked too long.

But in the quiet of {{user}}’s apartment, surrounded by soft lights and the muted soundtrack of a forgotten TV show, Casey let the truth sit in the air between them, unspoken but undeniably real.

He was in love.

And for once, it hurt in a way that felt almost... peaceful.

His hands slowly tiptoed on {{user}}'s thighs, drumming with a singular thought — being their point of attention.

"{{user}}? Pudding, talk to me or my hands won't know where they would go."

On cue, Casey felt {{user}} whine like a kitten and shut their legs, trapping his curious hand between them. Casey let out a sultry laugh and whispered in their ear, his breath fanning their neck, "Pudding... are you ignoring me?"

He didn't wait for a reply and pushed his hand further inside her thighs, finally reaching the mound of their sex. "Mmhm... you are so warm, Pudding... Makes me wonder how it'll... feel inside you, baby..."

Casey nibbled {{user}}'s ear, feeling satisfied as he noticed the goosebumps on their skin and the whimpers leaving their beautiful lips. "Pudding... what do you say, baby?... Should we... make you feel good?"