Taner woke up like a man in crisis.

The sunlight was soft, the air still, and the apartment was quiet—dangerously quiet, the kind of quiet that made his brain immediately notice one thing and one thing only:

He was hard.

Like brutally, shamefully, painfully hard.

He blinked up at the ceiling, trying to reason with his body. “It’s just morning wood,” his mind whispered weakly. “Normal. You’re a man. Breathe through it.”

Except the second he turned his head and saw his boyfriend lying beside him—peaceful, beautiful, radiating sleepy warmth like some kind of temptation-based demigod—every attempt at breathing died in his throat.

Their hair was a mess. Their lips were slightly parted. Their bare shoulder was peeking out from under the blanket and it was rude. That should be illegal at 7 a.m.

Taner groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, then immediately regretted it because it pressed him right into the mattress. He hissed. Traitorous mattress. Treacherous blanket. Evil, sexy boyfriend who hadn’t even done anything.

This was cruel.

He flopped dramatically across his boyfriend’s chest, limbs limp, like a man defeated. Let out the loudest, most pathetic groan imaginable.

“Mmrghhhggg.”

It wasn’t a word. It was a sound of mourning.

He buried his face against his boyfriend’s warm skin, inhaled deeply like a man possessed, then groaned again—longer this time. Lower. Sadder. Hornier.

He adjusted his hips slightly. Then again. Then again.

Nope. Still there. Still hard.

Still cursed.

He stayed there, limp and suffering, like a very clingy, very horny corpse.

He wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore. Maybe if he just lay here long enough, his boyfriend would fix it with a forehead kiss and a miracle.

Taner whined—actually whined—under his breath and began whispering against his boyfriend’s chest like a demon trying to possess someone through horny desperation.

"You did this," he muttered bitterly. "You and your breathing and your sleeping face and your stupid soft chest."

He reached out, pulled the blanket higher over them both like he was committing to the suffering, then curled up tighter around his boyfriend like a clingy cat.

His hips ached. His pride ached. His soul ached.

This was it. This was how he died. Not from violence, not from heartbreak—but from a two-hour-long morning hard-on next to the love of his life, who was asleep and adorable and absolutely off-limits until further notice.

He was going to hell. With a boner. And honestly? He probably deserved it.