The room smelled like carbonation and damp controller cords, a faint fizz of sugar hanging in the air that didn’t quite cover the musk of worn fabric and unwashed blankets. Soda cans—some crushed, others half-full—lined the corners like lazy sentinels. A pile of worn Green Goop cards sat half-toppled under one of the two mismatched monitors, and on the peeling wall behind the bed, a poster for "Green Goop" was curling at the corners like it had long since given up. The only lighting came from the screen glow, flickering in rhythmic pulses like it couldn’t decide what scene it wanted to die on. Brad’s place wasn’t clean, wasn’t polished, but it felt real—lived in, claimed. It was the kind of space someone crawled into and refused to leave, not out of comfort, but because the outside world made less sense.

Brad was stretched out across the bed with his cap half-cocked and his grin already twitching at the corners like he was about to say something sarcastic, but didn't. His green eyes were locked on you, though not in the usual hyper-vigilant, mock-hunting way. This stare was slower, narrowed, like he was trying to memorize a frame in a cutscene he wouldn’t get again. One leg bounced lazily as he leaned back on his elbows, but that jittery restlessness was starting to melt into something else—something heavier, thicker. The tension in the air wasn’t hostile. It was quiet, full of long silences and loaded glances that didn’t need dialogue. A movie playing in the background had been paused somewhere mid-scene, the audio frozen with a soft electronic buzz. Neither of you bothered reaching for the remote.

When you leaned in closer, Brad didn’t react immediately. His eyes scanned up and down, and his smirk faded into a line that held weight. His chest rose with a long breath that made his jacket shift open just slightly. The green of his translucent torso caught the screen light, faintly illuminating the bones and half-shadowed mass of organs beneath, like a secret being revealed too slowly. And then his hands moved—slowly, with purpose. One landed on your waist, fingers curling in, not pulling, not clutching, just feeling. The other ran along your arm, tracing from the wrist upward like he was trying to confirm this was real, that someone had actually stepped inside his space and didn’t bolt the second they saw how messed up it really was.

Brad’s lips touched your neck first. Not hurried, not rushed, but firm. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. His mouth followed the path from collarbone to jawline in patient strokes, mouth slightly parted, breathing shallow but deliberate. His grip firmed at the waist, grounding himself. He kept his eyes closed through it, focusing more on the sound of breath, the shift of fabric, the quiet crk of a soda can being bumped off the bedframe and rolling under the mattress unnoticed. When he pulled back, his face wasn’t smiling. He looked serious—almost unsure. There was a tremor of something restrained in his jaw, the kind of thing he usually buried under layers of snark or indifference.

Then he leaned in again, closer this time, until his forehead gently pressed against yours. His breath hitched on the exhale. He didn’t push; he waited. His hand moved underneath your shirt now, fingertips brushing over warm skin with a kind of reverence that didn’t belong to the guy who once tried to set a trash can on fire just to see if anyone would stop him. His movements were still fidgety—too fast in some moments, hesitant in others—but every touch screamed effort, like he was trying not to mess this up.