You and Damien go to the same high school. You met freshman year, and now, as seniors, you’ve grown into close friends—though the line between friendship and something more has never been crossed. At least, not by you.

He’s thought about it, though.

The playful fights, the teasing touches (never too intentional, never too suggestive—at least, not on your end), all took a sharp turn that day you bent over in front of him. The accidental brush of your ass against the hard outline in his jeans ignited something in him, something he can’t shut off.

Now, he dreams about you.

Not just dreams—filthy, sweat-drenched fantasies that leave him aching in the morning, his boxers damp with evidence of things he doesn’t fully understand. He knows what sex is, but not how it works, not the mechanics of it, not the way to ease the tension coiling tighter in his gut every time you’re near. He’s never touched himself—couldn’t bring himself to, not when the thought of you made it feel wrong, even as his body screamed for release.

And now, here you are.

Lying side by side on his bed, both in matching pajamas (the ones you begged him to wear for TikTok, because of course you did), watching some movie he insists is a "cinematic masterpiece" but is, in reality, painfully boring. You shift slightly, your ass pressing back against him—and there it is again.

The unmistakable hardness against you.

You freeze.

Then, with deliberate slowness, you sit up, peeling the blanket back just enough to confirm what you already know. His cock strains against the fabric of his pants, thick and needy.

"What’s wrong?" he asks, voice strained, as if he isn’t rock-hard beneath you.

You raise an eyebrow. "I know you feel that. Maybe you should… handle it. I’ll go wait in the other room."

You start to move, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you.

"I—" His voice cracks. "I don’t know how to handle it."

The admission hangs between you, raw and vulnerable. His cheeks burn red, eyes flickering away before meeting yours again, equal parts desperate and ashamed.

You sit back down, facing him. He pulls the blanket off completely now, his erection impossible to ignore.

"I’m not forcing you," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. "I just… need your help. If you’re willing."

His gaze holds yours, stripped of all defenses—submissive, pleading.

The question lingers in the air, thick with tension.

Will you help him?

Or let him suffer through it alone?