mornings
Chance’s POV:
Chance woke up slowly, caught in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness where everything felt warm and weightless.
Which was... weird.
Because mornings weren’t supposed to feel like this.
Mornings were supposed to be a groggy mess of struggling to get out of bed, fumbling for coffee, and trying not to trip over his own damn feet. They weren’t supposed to feel comfortable. They weren’t supposed to feel safe.
So why—
Why was he so warm?
And then it hit him.
The weight around his waist. The solid, steady warmth at his front. The quiet, even breathing against his collarbone.
Guest.
His brain kicked into overdrive, heart stumbling in his chest as the realization fully sank in.
Guest was holding him.
Like—really holding him.
Not the hesitant, reluctant, I-hate-that-this-helps-me kind of way Guest usually tolerated touch. No, this was different. This was… natural. Like his body had just done it on instinct. Like he hadn’t even thought about it.
And holy shit.
Chance swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay still even though his entire body suddenly felt too aware, too wired, too everything.
Because Guest was still asleep.
And God help him, Chance didn’t want to wake him up.
Didn’t want to do anything that might ruin this.
Because he knew, the second Guest woke up, the moment he fully registered what he was doing—what they were doing—he’d pull away.
And Chance… wasn’t ready for that.
So, carefully, he just existed in it.
Let himself feel it.
The slow, steady rhythm of Guest’s breathing against his skin. The warmth of his arm, heavy and solid where it wrapped around Chance’s waist. The way his fingers had curled loosely into the fabric of Chance’s hoodie, like some subconscious, stubborn refusal to let go.
And his face.
Chance’s breath caught as he finally realized where Guest’s face was—tucked somewhere near his neck, breath warm and steady against his collarbone.
Too close.
Too much.
Not enough.
A stupid, giddy part of Chance wanted to laugh at the sheer insanity of it all.
Because if someone had told him months ago that Guest—the same Guest who flinched at casual touch, who acted like needing people was some kind of personal failure—would be wrapped around him like this?
He would’ve told them to shut the hell up.
But now?
Now, Guest was here. Holding onto him.
Like he didn’t hate it.
Like he needed it.
And Chance—
Chance needed to get a damn grip.
Because his heart was thrumming, caught somewhere between absolute panic and something he really, really didn’t want to name.
It was bad enough that he had a crush on the guy. That was already a disaster waiting to happen. But this?
This was worse.
Because it wasn’t just some fleeting, meaningless thing.
This was intimate.
It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t teasing.
This was Guest trusting him.
Letting himself be here.
And Chance knew—he knew—that if he let himself think about it too much, he was going to do something incredibly stupid.
So he focused on something else.
Anything else.
His gaze flickered down, taking in the soft rise and fall of Guest’s chest, the way his hoodie had slipped just slightly, exposing a sliver of skin.
Then, his eyes landed on something else.
The scars.
Barely visible in the dim morning light, but still there. A few faint lines across his cheek, blending into the shadows.
Chance had seen them before. Brief glimpses in passing, in moments where Guest wasn’t paying attention.
But now, with Guest this close, with nothing to distract him, he could actually see them.
And something inside him ached.
Because Guest never talked about them. Never explained. Never let people close enough to ask.
And Chance—
Chance wanted to ask.
Not because he needed to know.
But because he wanted Guest to tell him.
Because for all the ways Guest pushed and shoved and kept people at arm’s length, for all the ways he acted like he didn’t give a shit—
He did.
And Chance wanted to be the person he could give a shit about.
Wanted to be the person Guest didn’t have to pretend with.
Maybe that was selfish.
Maybe that was dangerous.
But God, he was so tired of pretending, too.
A quiet sigh escaped him before he could stop it.
That was a mistake.
Because, suddenly—
Guest stirred.
Chance went completely still.
His breath caught, every muscle locking up as Guest shifted, arm tightening slightly around Chance’s waist, fingers twitching against his hoodie.
And then, soft. Quiet. Half-asleep:
-“Mmm.”
Chance nearly died on the spot.
Because what the fuck.
Guest had just made a sound.
A soft sound.
A sound that was so unlike him, so unarmored, that Chance’s heart practically exploded.
And then—
Guest nuzzled closer.. Way closer
Chance tried to convince himself it was just a sleepy, unconscious movement.
But holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—
Chance’s brain was short-circuiting.
Because Guest was burying his face further into him.
And Chance—
Chance was going to die.
Right here. Right now. Of feelings.
Which, honestly?
Fucking embarrassing.
But also?
Completely understandable.
Because how the hell was he supposed to survive this?
How?
His mouth went dry, hands twitching at his sides, resisting the urge to do something—anything—because he knew if he moved, he’d ruin it.
But then, suddenly—
Guest groaned.
A real groan. A deep, reluctant, I-hate-being-alive kind of groan as he shifted again, arm flexing slightly around Chance’s waist before—
He stilled.
And Chance knew.
He knew.
Guest was waking up.
And he was realizing.
Realizing where he was.
Realizing what he was doing.
Realizing that, for the first time since this whole thing started, he was the one holding on.
Chance braced himself.
Waited for the inevitable jerking away, for the sharp grumble of embarrassment, for the way Guest would—
…Not let go?
Wait.
What?
Because Guest’s arm was still there.
His face was still buried somewhere near Chance’s shoulder.
And he wasn’t moving.
Chance blinked, barely breathing, waiting.
And then—
-“Shut up.”
Chance snorted before he could stop himself.
- “I didn’t say anything.”
Guest huffed, voice still rough from sleep.
- “Thinking too loud.”
Chance grinned.
Because holy shit.
Guest was still holding him.
And for once?
For once, he wasn’t running.
And Chance—
Chance could get used to this.
Because Guest was still here. Still holding him. Still pressed up against him, warm and solid and just—there.
And that? That was nothing short of a miracle.
Chance wasn’t stupid. He knew how Guest was. Knew how he operated. Knew that he treated physical contact like it was some necessary evil, something to be endured at best and avoided at all costs at worst.
But right now, there was no hesitation. No tension in his body. Just quiet, steady warmth and the lingering weight of sleep keeping him tucked close, his arm still wrapped loosely around Chance’s waist, fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
And maybe, maybe that was just the exhaustion talking.
Maybe Guest was still half-asleep, still lost in that quiet, in-between space where instinct took over before logic could kick in.
But Chance wasn’t about to waste it.
So he stayed still.
Let himself exist in the moment.
Even as his heart thumped a little too loud in his chest, even as his brain screamed at him to get a grip, even as every part of him wanted to memorize the way this felt, just in case it never happened again.
Then, slowly—so slowly he barely noticed—Guest shifted again.
His breath ghosted against Chance’s collarbone, warm and steady, as his fingers twitched against the fabric of his hoodie. His arm tightened for the briefest second before relaxing again, like his body was caught between the instinct to pull closer and the reality of what he was actually doing.
Chance bit his lip, fighting the urge to say something, to make some stupid joke just to cover up the way his chest felt too tight, too full, too much.
But then—
Guest let out a slow, groggy sigh, burying his face further against Chance’s shoulder.
Like he wasn’t just okay with this.
Like he wanted this.
Chance's brain short-circuited.
Because, no—no, that wasn’t possible.
This was Guest.
Guest, who barely tolerated touch. Guest, who acted like needing people was some kind of weakness. Guest, who—
Who was still holding onto him.
Like he needed it.
Like he didn’t want to let go.
And Chance?
Chance didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay still, to not ruin this, to not do anything remotely stupid—
Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.
Because the longer he stayed quiet, the longer he let himself just feel, the worse it got.
The warmth, the weight, the quiet, steady press of Guest’s body against his own.
Too much.
Not enough.
Chance clenched his jaw, fingers twitching at his sides.
His body was practically screaming at him to move, to do something, to react—but he didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because one wrong move, and Guest would be gone.
And Chance—
Chance wasn’t ready for that.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
So he stayed still.
Let himself feel it.
Let himself want it.
Just for a little longer.
But then—
Guest sighed again, this time shifting just slightly.
Chance braced himself, expecting him to pull away, expecting the moment to be over, expecting the inevitable grumble of embarrassment and the sharp, defensive walls slamming back into place.
But instead—
Guest just buried his face deeper into his shoulder.
And then, quiet. Muffled. Barely above a whisper.
- “…Warm.”
Chance’s brain flatlined.
Because what the fuck.
What the fuck.
Guest had just—
He had just—
Chance squeezed his eyes shut, biting back the ridiculous, stupid grin threatening to take over his face.
Because this was unreal.
This wasn’t happening.
Guest wasn’t—
There was no way—
But he was.
Still here. Still holding on. Still pressed up against him, all warmth and sleep-heavy limbs and hesitant, unspoken trust.
And Chance—
Chance could have died happy right then and there.
But, of course, life wasn’t that kind.
Because, suddenly—
Guest groaned.