The Space Between Us

The morning after our kiss—the one that left me dizzy and wanting—I woke up wrapped in Jace.

His arm was slung over my waist. His face nuzzled into the back of my neck. Our legs were tangled like they’d been molded that way, like our bodies knew something we still hadn’t said out loud.

I should’ve moved.

I didn’t.

Instead, I closed my eyes again and just breathed him in—warm skin, sleep-soft breaths, and that faint, spicy scent of whatever cologne he always wore. I wanted to bottle that smell. I wanted to crawl inside it and never leave.

Then he stirred behind me, groaning softly.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

I swallowed. “Morning.”

His fingers flexed against my hip. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence.

Then, a kiss pressed just behind my ear.

Gentle. Thoughtful. Dangerous.

“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly.

I didn’t answer right away.

Because I didn’t regret the kiss. I regretted that it had to stop.

“No,” I finally said.

He hummed softly and slid out of bed, stretching shirtless in the pale morning light. Every inch of him was golden and tempting and carved like sin.

“You have class?” he asked.

“Yeah. But not for an hour.”

“Good. Then we have time.”

“For what?”

He looked over his shoulder, smirking. “For rule eleven.”

My stomach tightened. “You made another one?”

“Mmhm.” He crossed the room and stopped in front of me. “Rule eleven: if we wake up in the same bed, we have to hug for at least thirty seconds.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a rule now?”

“It’s scientifically proven to reduce stress.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t stop him when he sat on the bed and pulled me into his arms.

His chest pressed against mine. His chin rested on my shoulder. His arms were warm, firm, safe.

“You’re really keeping count?” I asked softly.

“Every one,” he whispered.

---

That afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I sat in the back of my Life Drawing class, sketching lines that turned into collarbones, lines that formed the curve of a smirk, lines that I had memorized like scripture. My professor commented on the intensity of the piece. I didn’t say a word.

When I got back to the dorm, he wasn’t there.

But a note was.

> "Gym. Be back soon. Don’t wait up — or do. I don’t mind watching you stare. —J"

I flushed, biting back a smile.

God, he was infuriating.

Infuriating and irresistible.

---

When he came back that evening, sweaty and flushed from the gym, I couldn’t help it—I watched every move.

He peeled his hoodie off slowly, tugged his tank top over his head, and dropped both on the floor. His abs glistened, his biceps flexed. And that damned smirk was already forming.

“You’re staring again,” he said.

“Maybe I’m sketching in my mind.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Want to sketch in real time?”

I blinked. “What?”

He reached for the hem of his joggers. “Pose for you. Shirtless. Fully stretched out. Maybe even… less.”

“Jace—”

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re talented. And I trust you.”

I swallowed hard.

“I don’t think I can concentrate.”

“Who said you need to?” He winked. “This can be… practice. For both of us.”

He moved to the bed, laid down flat, and crossed one ankle over the other. His torso was all lines and shadows and muscle and temptation.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Draw me.”

I reached for my pad, hands shaking.

The first lines came slowly—his neck, his shoulders, the defined V of his hips. My eyes dropped lower, and I swallowed. He wasn’t being subtle. His joggers were low. Just enough to distract. Just enough to tease.

He watched me the whole time.

Silent. Intense.

When I paused, he sat up on his elbows. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“When you touch me—what do you feel?”

I looked at him, breath caught.

He waited.

“I feel…” I hesitated. “Like you’re too much. And I’m not enough.”

His expression softened. “Luca, don’t do that. Don’t shrink around me.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” I whispered. “It’s that I don’t know what happens after I let myself have you.”

“You think I’ll break you.”

“No. I think I’ll break me.”

He reached across the bed, cupped my face gently. “Let me help you hold the pieces together.”

Then he kissed me—soft at first. Exploring. Testing. Like he knew I was still holding on to the edge.

His tongue brushed mine. His body pressed closer.

My sketchpad slid off the bed.

I didn’t care.

---

Clothes stayed on—barely.

He lay over me, his body heavy and hot, his hands roaming with purpose. Every kiss deepened. Every breath came faster.

When his lips moved to my throat, I gasped.

He paused. “Too much?”

“No,” I whispered.

His hand slid under my shirt, fingers splaying over my stomach.

My hips arched into his, instinct and hunger taking over.

He groaned low in his throat. “You’re killing me.”

“Good,” I said again.

His laugh was breathless, shaky. “You’re dangerous when you’re bold.”

And I felt bold. For once, I felt wanted. Not just as a body—but as me.

His hand slipped lower, fingers brushing just below my waistband.

My breath hitched.

“I’ll stop,” he said. “If you say the word.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” I breathed.

“But?”

“I want to want it all the way.”

He stilled.

Then rolled onto his back, pulling me with him so I lay on his chest.

“Rule twelve,” he whispered. “We stop whenever either of us says so. No guilt. No shame.”

I closed my eyes. “Okay.”

His arms wrapped around me.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“For not rushing me.”

He kissed my forehead. “You’re worth the wait.”

---

We didn’t sleep much that night.

We didn’t have sex. But it was the closest we’d come.

And in a way, it felt more intimate than anything else.

Because he didn’t take.

He gave.