02

You didn't know movies could be this uninteresting.

It's not that Thor movies are bad—quite the opposite. You've seen them before, enjoyed them. The colors are vibrant, the dialogue sharp, and Chris Hemsworth's arms are... well. But right now, you couldn't focus on Norse gods if your life depended on it.

Not when Hoseok is sitting so close.

The couch feels smaller than it should.

It's a perfectly normal-sized couch—three cushions, plenty of space—but right now, it feels like a cruel joke.

You're perched at the far edge, knees tucked to your chest, trying to make yourself as compact as possible. Caleb, on the other side, is sprawled like a starfish, one arm draped over the backrest, his legs taking up more than their fair share of room. And Hoseok—Hoseok is in the middle, which shouldn't be a problem except for the way Caleb keeps shifting, nudging him closer to you.

Too close.

You can sense every inch of him near you: the way his thigh presses into the cushion just shy of yours, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the buttery smell of popcorn, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Even when he's completely still, he's present—pulling your attention. Even when you are trying to focus on a movie.

And then Caleb props his feet on the coffee table.

"Dude," Hoseok says, swatting at him lightly. "Shoes off."

Caleb grumbles something unintelligible but complies, kicking off his sneakers with a dramatic sigh. Hoseok shakes his head, amused, and leans back—but in doing so, he spreads his legs wider, settling into that infuriatingly casual sprawl that guys do without even thinking about it.

Your eyes dart to the ceiling. The popcorn bowl. The TV screen. Anywhere but there.

You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly in the quiet between scenes. His knee brushes yours—just barely—and you jerk like you've been shocked.

Hoseok glances at you, head tilting slightly in that gentle, curious way he has. "You okay?"

"I'm cold," you blurt out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

It's not even remotely true; if anything, your skin feels hot and prickly under your oversized hoodie. But it's better than admitting the real reason you're acting like a skittish animal caught in headlights.

His lips curve into a soft smile—kind and unassuming—and he reaches under the couch without hesitation, pulling out a neatly folded blanket from the hidden storage compartment Caleb always forgets exists.

"Here," he says, holding it out to you. "Mind sharing?"

You nod quickly—too quickly—and take one corner of the blanket as he drapes it over both your laps. The fabric is warm and soft against your skin, smelling faintly of detergent and something else you can't place but immediately associate with him. You clutch your side of it tightly, keeping as much distance as possible between your leg and his under the shared cover.

"Hey," Caleb pipes up from across the couch, waving a hand lazily in Hoseok's direction. "Toss me one too."

Hoseok obliges without complaint, retrieving another blanket and tossing it over Caleb's head with a quiet laugh when he fumbles to catch it.

The movie becomes background noise.

All you can focus on is Hoseok's breathing beside you—steady, measured, perfect. Even that he does flawlessly, like his body naturally knows the exact rhythm it should maintain. You wonder if his heartbeat is just as precise. Probably. Everything about him seems calibrated for perfection, from his gentle smiles to the way he always knows exactly what to say.

He's just... good. At everything. At being kind and thoughtful and making people feel at ease. At existing in a way that doesn't seem to require the constant internal screaming that accompanies your every movement.

"You want it?"

His voice startles you out of your spiral. Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits, because want—want what? What is he offering? Why does his voice sound like that? Like warm honey and—

"Popcorn," he murmurs, smile gentle as he offers you the bowl.

Oh.

Oh.

Of course popcorn. Because he's being nice. Because that's what he does. Because you're the one reading into things that aren't there, imagining subtext in simple questions, making everything weird because your brain refuses to function normally around him.

"Thanks," you manage, reaching for the bowl without looking at him.

Your fingers brush his. The contact lasts approximately 0.3 seconds, but it's enough to make your skin tingle.

He doesn't seem to notice—or if he does, he doesn't let on—and turns back to the screen like nothing happened.

But for you?

The movie might as well not exist anymore.

And the couch still feels like a trap.

You try to focus back on the movie—really, you do. You like Marvel. You like the ridiculousness of it all, the bright colors and loud music and Tom Hiddleston being... well, Loki. But right now, it's like no part of you can bring itself to care about gods or hammers or screaming goats.

Not when Hoseok is sitting this close. Not when his thigh is pressed against yours like it belongs there.

It's not even that he's doing anything wrong. Caleb's the one who forced him into the middle seat, after all. Caleb's the one who sprawled out like he owns the place, leaving you no choice but to curl up on your side of the couch and pretend you're not hyper-aware of every single point of contact between you and Hoseok.

His knee is glued to yours now. Warm. Solid. Unmoving.

You try to shift away—just a little, just enough to give yourself some breathing room—but there's nowhere to go without falling off the edge entirely. And even if there were, moving would draw attention. Caleb would say something stupid, and Hoseok would laugh, and you'd have to sit here and die while they teased you for being weird about a perfectly normal seating arrangement.

So you stay still. Or as still as you can manage with your heart racing and your skin tingling and your brain screaming at you to stop thinking about it.

It doesn't mean anything. It's just proximity. He probably doesn't even notice.

Except... his thigh shifts against yours again.

You freeze, breath catching in your throat as his knee presses a little closer, his weight shifting ever so slightly toward you under the blanket. It's subtle—so subtle you almost convince yourself it's nothing—but then his hand brushes your leg.

Your inner thigh.

Under the blanket.

It's quick—barely a graze—but it sends a jolt through you like static electricity, sharp and hot and impossible to ignore. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, half-expecting him to pull back, to apologize for invading your space. But he doesn't even flinch. His gaze is fixed on the screen, his expression calm and unbothered, like he hasn't just set every nerve in your body on fire.

It was an accident. It has to be an accident.

But then his hand shifts again.

Slowly.

Deliberately?

No. No, not deliberately. You're imagining things. Overthinking things. He's just adjusting his position—his hand sliding higher because there's nowhere else for it to go, because Caleb is taking up too much room, because—

His fingers brush against your inner thigh again, firmer this time, lingering just long enough to make your stomach wince.

You almost whimper.

Almost.

Instead, you sink deeper into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket higher over your lap in a feeble attempt to shield yourself from... what? Him? Yourself? The way your body is reacting to something so small, so innocent?

He doesn't notice. Of course he doesn't notice. He's smiling at the screen now—a soft curve of his lips that makes something in your chest ache—and you tell yourself it's because of the movie. Because he finds something funny or charming or whatever normal people feel when they're watching Norse gods fight shadow monsters.

Not because he knows what he's doing to you.

Not because he's enjoying it.

Your breathing quickens despite yourself, shallow and uneven as his hand ventures higher under the fabric. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position, and his pinky catches the hem of your shorts.

Your stomach drops as his fingertips slip underneath, skimming along the edge where elastic meets skin.

Testing. Exploring.

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying to keep your breathing steady as his touch wanders higher. His thumb finds the lace trim of your panties—delicate, intricate—and follows it with thorough slowness. Like he's appreciating the texture. Like he's curious about what else he might discover.

There's no way this is happening. No way his fingers are tracing the edge of your underwear right now, skimming along the waistband like it's nothing at all. Like it's casual. Like he's not doing it and you're hallucinating.

You clutch the blanket tighter against your chest, trying to hide the heat blooming across your face as his touch lingers—light and exploratory and devastatingly precise in its methodology.

Methodology?

No. No, not methodology. He doesn't know what he's doing. He can't know what he's doing.

But his hand dips lower, so slowly you could almost convince yourself you're imagining it. Almost. Until his fingers brush against you through the thin fabric, and you have to stifle a gasp at how wet you already are. How embarrassingly obvious your arousal must be against his exploring touch.

His thumb presses more firmly, sliding through the dampness with deliberate intent. Testing. Measuring your response as he traces your slit with methodical patience. Like he's conducting research. Like this is just another careful examination.

The fabric is soaked.

You know it. He knows it.

There's no way he doesn't know it, not with the way his thumb presses experimentally against you through the damp material. Not with how easily it glides over you, gathering wetness that shouldn't be there, that you shouldn't be producing for him, that you definitely shouldn't be letting him discover while your brother sits three feet away.

He hums softly—contentedly—and for one horrifying moment, you think it's because of you. Because of this quiet little game he's playing under the blanket where no one can see except you.

But then Caleb laughs—loud and obnoxious—and Hoseok responds with an easy "You're such a nerd for FX," his voice warm and teasing like nothing at all is happening between his hand and your body right now.

"Bro," Caleb says through another cackle, gesturing wildly at the screen with a handful of popcorn. "LOOK at the fuckin' rain! It's insane!"

"Mm," Hoseok murmurs in agreement, his thumb sliding lower now—closer to where you're slick and ready in ways you shouldn't be for him right now. "Drenched."

Your lungs forget how to work entirely as his thumb presses more firmly now—slow, almost absentminded up and down movements like he's trying to memorize the texture of you under the material.

It must be your imagination.

Because the alternative is... That's—that's ridiculous.

He wouldn't.

Not Hoseok. Not sweet, thoughtful Hoseok who makes you tea during study sessions and remembers how you like your ramyeon. Not your brother's best friend who's sitting right here, watching Thor with perfect attention, commenting on special effects like his hand isn't currently—

He hums again—a low sound that vibrates through him—and presses a little harder against your slit like he's testing something out, like he's curious about what kind of reaction he can pull from you without anyone noticing.

You bite down on your lip hard enough to taste copper, desperate to keep quiet. No one notices—not Caleb with his ugly laugh or Thor with his hammer or anyone else in this stupid movie that might as well not exist anymore because all you can think about is him.

His hand on you.

His thumb dampening against fabric that shouldn't be this wet for him—for anyone—but especially not for him.

His hand shifts higher. 

You stop breathing. 

For one excruciating moment, his thumb brushes the swollen nub of your clit through soaked fabric, and you— 

"Yo, pass the M&Ms." 

Hoseok withdraws his hand so smoothly it's like it never happened, reaching for the candy bowl with his damp thumb glinting in the TV's blue light.

"Chill," he says, tossing the packet at Caleb's head. "You're missing the good part." 

You're frozen. 

You yank the blanket higher, covering your face. You press your thighs together, desperate to relieve the ache he's left behind, as he reaches for the candy.

And then—

Hoseok brings his thumb to his mouth.

Licks it.

Casual. Absentminded. Still watching the movie.

Your stomach plummets.

You're not crazy.

You can't be crazy.

But if you say something—if you react, if you acknowledge it—

Then it's real.

And you can't let it be real.

"Sweet," he comments idly, eyes never leaving the battle. 

Caleb snorts. "Duh. They're candy."

The ache between your thighs remains sharp and insistent. Hoseok's knee brushes yours again—innocent, always innocent—and you realize with dawning horror that his breathing hasn't changed at all. Steady. Calm. Like he didn't just— 

You're imagining things.

The credits roll. 

"Bed," Caleb announces, stretching until his joints pop. "You crashing here, Hoseok?" 

He shrugs, gathering blankets with those same steady hands. "If that's cool." 

No.

"Sure," you whisper. 

His smile could power cities.