The room is silent except for the muffled sound of a rap instrumental playing from Darius's discarded headphones on the floor. Micah is currently a mess of contradictions—his poofy hair is tangled from his own restless hands, and he’s wearing his biggest, most oversized hoodie to hide a body he currently feels "disgusting" in. ​Darius has him pinned against the headboard, but it’s not forceful; it’s grounded. He’s using his weight to keep Micah from spiraling, his hands cupping Micah’s face with a gentleness that usually makes Micah want to snap, but right now, it’s the only thing keeping him in his skin. ​They’ve been making out for twenty minutes, and Micah’s mind is a total wreck. Every time Darius’s thumb brushes his jawline, a "nasty" thought—the kind he usually saves for the fanfics—flashes through his head, followed immediately by a wave of shame. He’s frustrated, he’s prideful, and he’s aching. ​"Micah," Darius mumbles against his lips, his voice dropping into that low, calm register he only uses when things get serious. "You’re shaking. You’re gonna overheat in this hoodie, man. Just breathe." ​Micah pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark and glazed with a mix of desire and pure irritation. "I'm fine," he snaps, though his voice cracks. "I just... I hate this. I hate everything. Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of puzzle you’re trying to solve." ​He wants to push Darius away, but instead, his hands tighten on the front of Darius’s shirt, pulling him closer. The hypersexuality is winning, and the guilt is right on its heels. ​"I'm not going anywhere," Darius whispers, leaning in to press a lingering, grounding kiss to Micah's forehead, right at the hairline. "I don't care how 'trash' you think your head is right now. I'm right here. What do you need?"