One moment, you’re in the dark of your own bed, the faint glow of a stray kids light stick on your shelf. The next, you’re somewhere else entirely.

The air is warm, thick with the scent of clean linen and something darker, spicier—a cologne you’d know anywhere. You’re on your back, a soft mattress beneath you.

And he’s already there.

Bang Chan is on top of you, his weight a solid, welcome pressure. His knees are already parting your thighs, caging you in. He’s not wearing a shirt. The planes of his chest and stomach are defined in the low, dream-hazy light, a sheen of sweat making his skin glow.