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Morning still comes slowly, but Will notices everything now.
The light reaches the bed first, pale and cold, slicing through the blinds and laying itself across Mike’s bare chest. Will blinks awake and immediately regrets it, because oh. Mike’s skin looks warmer in the morning, faintly gold where the sun hits it, shadowed everywhere else. He’s sprawled half on his stomach, half on his back, one arm flung over Will’s waist like a careless claim.
The apartment smells like sleep—cotton sheets, the faint trace of soap from the night before, Mike’s familiar warmth. Will can feel Mike’s breath against his shoulder, slow and deep, the soft rise and fall of his chest brushing Will’s forearm.
He’s shirtless again.
Will swallows.
It’s ridiculous, honestly. They’ve been together for years. They share a lease. A bed. A life. Will has seen Mike half-drowned, half-frozen, bleeding, exhausted, and crying. He’s seen him at his worst.
And still—still—the sight of him bare in the morning knocks something loose in Will’s chest.
Mike’s collarbones catch the light, sharp but gentle, freckles scattered like someone flicked paint across him once and never bothered to clean it up. There’s a faint line where the sheets pressed into his skin, a little red, already fading. Will’s fingers itch to trace it.
He doesn’t, because he’s not brave enough before coffee.
Will shifts carefully, trying not to wake him, but the mattress creaks and Mike reacts immediately, arm tightening, fingers flexing against Will’s hip.
“Too early,” Mike mutters, voice thick with sleep, barely intelligible.
Will smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. “It’s morning.”
“Disagree.”
Will’s gaze flicks back to Mike’s chest, to the way it moves, to the softness there that no one else gets to see. He clears his throat.
“You’re… um. You’re not wearing a shirt.”
Mike cracks one eye open. Even half-asleep, he smirks. “I live here.”
“I know that,” Will says quickly. Too quickly. His ears feel warm. “I just— it’s cold.”
Mike hums, clearly unconcerned, and shifts closer. Will can feel him now—bare skin against skin, solid and real and there. Mike’s leg hooks over Will’s, anchoring him.
“You’re staring,” Mike says, amused.
Will groans softly and covers his face with one hand. “I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Mike lifts his head just enough to look at him, hair a mess, eyelashes dark against his cheeks. He grins wider when he sees Will’s flushed face.
“Jesus,” Will mutters. “You’d think I’d be over this by now.”
Mike presses a slow, warm kiss to Will’s cheek, lingering. “Never hope you are.”
The kiss leaves heat behind, and Will exhales shakily before finally slipping out of bed. The floor is freezing, biting at his feet, and the contrast makes him hiss.
In the kitchen, the morning has its own texture. The grind of coffee beans is loud in the quiet apartment, sharp and earthy. Steam curls up from the kettle, fogging the window slightly. Will leans against the counter, wrapped in Mike’s old T-shirt, trying to calm his heartbeat like he didn’t just wake up next to the love of his life looking unfairly beautiful.
Mike wanders in a few minutes later, barefoot, still shirtless, the cold clearly not bothering him. He steals coffee straight from Will’s mug again, lips warm where they brush the rim.
“You’re gonna freeze,” Will says, eyes flicking down despite himself.
Mike shrugs. “Worth it.”
Will snorts, shaking his head, but when Mike leans in and kisses his boyfriend—slow, familiar, grounding—Will melts anyway.
The day unfolds with texture and noise and purpose. Chalk dust on Mike’s hands. The squeak of desks. The smell of paint and clay in Will’s classroom. By the time they meet for lunch, Mike’s sleeves are rolled up, ink smudged on his fingers, and Will wants to kiss him stupid in front of God and the juniors.
They don’t. They just sit close, knees brushing, sharing food.
By the time they get home, Will feels wrung out in the best and worst way.
All day, it’s been too much—Mike leaning against his desk during lunch, sleeves rolled up, voice animated; Mike laughing in the hallway with another teacher, head tipped back; Mike bending to help a student, cardigan stretched tight across his shoulders. Every time, Will had felt it like a tug somewhere deep in his chest, something old and stupid and tender.
Now the apartment door clicks shut behind them, sealing out the world.
Will barely gets his coat off before Mike turns to him, eyebrow raised. “You okay?”
Will opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. He exhales, shoulders sagging, and lets his bag slide to the floor.
“I—” He shakes his head, half-laughing, half-mortified. “I have been useless all day.”
Mike’s expression softens immediately. “What do you mean?”
Will gestures vaguely. “You. Existing. Distractingly.”
Mike blinks. Then smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Oh.”
Will’s face burns. “Don’t look so smug.”
Mike steps closer, close enough that Will can feel the warmth coming off him, smell the faint trace of chalk dust and cold air and Mike. He reaches out, fingers brushing Will’s wrist—not even grabbing yet.
“You could’ve said something,” Mike murmurs.
Will swallows. “I’m saying it now.”
That’s all it takes.
Mike cups Will’s face with both hands and kisses him—slow at first, like he’s checking, like he’s asking. Will makes a soft sound before he can stop himself and leans in hard, fingers fisting in the front of Mike’s sweater.
The kiss deepens almost immediately. Not frantic, but heavy. All the restraint of the day pressed into it. Mike’s mouth is warm and familiar, the scrape of his stubble rough against Will’s skin. Will tilts his head, chasing it, heart pounding.
Mike backs him gently into the door, one hand braced beside Will’s head, the other sliding to his waist. Will can feel everything—the solid press of Mike’s body, the way his breath stutters when Will bites his lower lip just a little.
“God,” Mike breathes against his mouth, smiling. “You have been holding out.”
Will laughs shakily, forehead resting against Mike’s. “You have no idea.”
Mike kisses him again, slower this time, unhurried. Like they’ve got all night. Will melts into it, hands roaming up Mike’s back, feeling muscle and warmth and the faint tension that only ever really leaves Mike when they’re alone.
Eventually they break apart, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, the apartment quiet around them.
Mike brushes his thumb under Will’s eye, gentle. “You okay now?”
Will nods, smiling softly. “Yeah.”
Mike kisses him once more, quick and affectionate, before stepping back. “Come on. Dinner before we forget how to function.”
They cook, still close, still touching—hands brushing, hips bumping, stolen kisses between stirring and chopping. By the time they eat, the day has finally settled into something manageable.
Later, when they curl up in bed, Mike shirtless again, Will presses his face into his chest and sighs.
“All day,” Will murmurs, already drifting, “I was thinking about that.”
Mike chuckles, arm tightening around him. “Good.”
Will falls asleep warm and grounded, the memory of Mike’s mouth still lingering like a promise.