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The cast party has spilled out into the alley behind the bar, the kind of half-private space everyone pretends not to notice exists.
There’s a loose cluster of people leaning against brick, sharing cigarettes, laughing too loud. Someone’s phone plays music tinny through a speaker. Breath fogs faintly in the night air.
Connor doesn’t smoke much, but he’s holding one anyway, unlit, mostly just for something to do with his hands.
François stands a little apart from the others, shoulder against the wall, jacket open, posture relaxed in that way that still reads as alert. He’s listening to someone talk, nodding occasionally, but his attention keeps drifting. Connor can tell. He always can.
Their eyes meet across the small space.
It feels like a thread tightening.
Connor excuses himself from Hudson mid-sentence and wanders over, casual on the outside, heart picking up speed the closer he gets.
“Hey,” Connor says, stopping just short of crowding him.
François’s mouth curves. “Hey.”
There’s a beat where neither of them says anything. The noise of the party fades a little, like someone turned the volume down half a notch.
“You having fun?” François asks.
Connor shrugs. “Yeah. I mean. It’s a party.”
François laughs quietly. “High praise.”
Connor shifts his weight, glances down, then back up. He’s aware of how close they’re standing now—close enough that their arms almost brush. He could close that distance with barely a movement.
He does.
Just a small step, enough that their shoulders touch. Not accidental. Not bold either. Testing.
François doesn’t move away.
Connor’s pulse kicks harder.
He lets his hand drop at his side, fingers loose, then—carefully—he reaches out and brushes his pinky against François’s hand.
François goes very still.
For half a second Connor thinks he’s misread it. That he’s crossed a line. He starts to pull back—
François’s fingers curl around his wrist.
Firm. Controlled. Stopping him without pushing him away.
Connor looks up, startled.
François is looking at him like this is costing him something.
“I want to,” François says quietly.
The words land heavy.
Connor’s chest tightens. “Okay,” he says, immediately, too fast. “We don’t—”
“I really fucking want to,” François adds, voice lower now. Honest in a way that makes Connor’s stomach flip.
François releases Connor’s wrist but doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans in just enough that only Connor can hear him.
“But I’m still with someone,” he continues. “Not… like this. Not well. But I am. And I need to end it properly.”
Connor swallows. The night feels colder all of a sudden.
“Oh,” he says. Then, after a beat, softer, “Okay.”
François searches his face, clearly braced for disappointment, irritation, something sharper.
Connor just nods.
“I’m glad you told me,” Connor says. “Thank you for not… pretending.”
François exhales, tension slipping out of his shoulders just a little. “I didn’t want to lie to you. Or do something I’d regret. Especially with you.”
Connor’s mouth quirks despite himself. “That’s weirdly flattering.”
“It’s meant to be,” François says.
They stand there, close but careful now. The almost-touch still humming between them, unresolved but very much alive.
François hesitates, then adds, quieter, “If you’re still interested. After I sort this out.”
Connor doesn’t even pretend to think about it.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
François smiles at that—small, relieved, sincere.
“Good,” he says. “Then… soon.”
He steps back then, just enough to give them both room to breathe. The party noise rushes back in around them.
Connor watches him go, heart still racing, a strange mix of frustration and respect settling in his chest.
—-
The next week feels different.
Nothing obvious. No grand announcement. No change in the way they stand next to each other in blocking or run lines.
But something is humming under the surface.
They’re grabbing breakfast from the craft table before an early call. Connor is half-awake, balancing a paper plate with scrambled eggs and toast, scrolling through something on his phone.
François walks up beside him, pours coffee, stands a little too close.
Connor feels it immediately.
He looks up.
François doesn’t waste time.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Connor shifts his phone into his pocket. “Hey.”
François takes a breath, then says it plainly.
“I broke up with Marc.”
Connor freezes.
The clatter of set noise continues around them—crew moving lights, someone laughing too loudly near the monitors—but for a second it feels like the sound drops out.
“Oh,” Connor says.
He blinks. “I’m sorry?”
François’s mouth twitches. “Don’t be.”
Connor searches his face, trying to read it.
“It was time,” François adds. No drama. No visible heartbreak. Just certainty. “My head is… somewhere else.”
The words hang there.
Connor’s pulse jumps.
“Okay,” he says carefully.
François meets his eyes, steady.
“Just thought you should know.”
Connor nods once.
“Thank you,” he says. And he means it.
They don’t say anything else.
They don’t need to.
The entire day stretches tight after that.
They’re filming a rink scene first. Too many bodies. Too much proximity. Connor is hyper-aware of where François stands, where he moves, how close he gets during blocking.
At one point, their shoulders brush.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
Connor’s jaw tightens. He forces himself to focus on his lines.
François looks composed. Completely normal. Professional.
Except Connor catches him watching him when he thinks no one is looking.
Later, between takes, Hudson sidles up next to Connor with a protein bar.
“Why do you look like you’re vibrating?” Hudson mutters.
Connor keeps his eyes forward. “Shut up.”
Hudson glances past him toward François across the set.
“Oh,” he says slowly. “Oh.”
Connor elbows him.
“Nothing’s happened,” Connor insists.
Hudson grins. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”
By midday, it’s unbearable.
They’re shooting a hallway scene. Connor’s back is against a fake brick wall. François stands a foot away, waiting for their cue.
So close.
Connor can smell him. Not cologne. Just him.
François leans in slightly to murmur something about a line reading.
His mouth is inches from Connor’s ear.
Connor swallows.
“This is torture,” he mutters under his breath.
François’s lips twitch.
“You’re the one who wanted me to handle it properly,” he says softly.
“I did,” Connor replies immediately. “I stand by that.”
A beat.
“But that doesn’t mean I like waiting.”
François’s eyes darken just a fraction.
“Neither do I,” he admits.
Then their cue is called.
They step apart like nothing is happening.
All day it’s like that.
Glances that last a second too long.
Almost-touches.
Shoulders brushing.
François’s hand hovering at Connor’s back before remembering where they are.
Connor making some stupid joke and François laughing too hard at it.
Everyone else probably thinks they’re just getting along better.
They are not getting along better.
They are both acutely aware that the door is now open.
And they can’t walk through it.
By the time they wrap for the day, Connor feels electric. Charged. Like every nerve is tuned too high.
They’re walking out together with the rest of the cast. The parking lot is loud, engines starting, people calling goodbyes.
François slows slightly so they fall a step behind the others.
“Dinner?” he asks.
Connor glances at him.
“Are we pretending that’s innocent?” he replies.
François’s smile is slow.
“No.”
Connor’s heartbeat stutters.
“Okay,” he says.
—
Hudson finally snaps during a blocking rehearsal.
They’re on set, reset between takes, everyone milling around while lighting gets adjusted. Connor is standing near François, close enough that it looks accidental if you don’t know better. François’s hand keeps drifting to Connor’s elbow, then dropping. Connor keeps leaning in when he laughs, then catching himself.
It’s subtle.
It’s also extremely obvious.
Hudson drops onto a bench behind them with a dramatic sigh.
“Oh my god,” he says loudly. “If I have to do one more scene with you two looking like you want to climb each other, I’m quitting.”
Connor turns, instantly defensive. “What? We’re normal.”
François nods solemnly. “Very normal.”
Hudson stares at them.
“You just said that in sync.”
Connor shrugs. “Coincidence.”
Hudson gestures vaguely between them. “You haven’t been more than three feet apart all day.”
François frowns. “It’s a crowded set.”
Hudson squints. “You literally followed him to crafty and stood there watching him butter toast.”
Connor’s ears go pink. “I was hungry.”
“You didn’t eat anything.”
“I—” Connor stops. “Okay, rude.”
Hudson stands, steps closer, lowers his voice. “You both look like you’re one inconvenience away from making out behind a lighting rig.”
François smiles politely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hudson laughs, sharp. “Oh, you’re gonna lie to my face now?”
Connor crosses his arms. “Nothing is up.”
Hudson points at him. “You have not blinked normally in twelve hours.”
Then he points at François. “And you keep smiling like you’ve won something.”
François’s smile deepens. “I just like my job.”
“Sure,” Hudson says. “And I like suffering.”
The AD calls for places. Hudson backs away, still watching them.
“I’m serious,” he adds. “Either get a room or learn how to act less horny. This is distracting.”
Connor throws his hands up. “We are professionals.”
Hudson snorts. “Yeah. Two seconds away from being unprofessional.”
He walks off, muttering, “Jesus Christ, just kiss already.”
Connor and François stand there in the aftermath.
Connor exhales slowly. “We’re not obvious.”
François looks at him, eyes warm, amused.
“We’re extremely obvious,” he says.
Connor bites his lip, trying not to smile.
“…Okay. Maybe a little.”
They hear Hudson groan from across the set.
—
They’re walking toward the parking lot, the sun dipping low enough to turn everything gold. Crew is dispersing around them, laughter drifting, engines starting.
Connor is buzzing.
François is pretending he’s not.
“Okay,” François says casually, as if this is a normal, calm conversation. “Let’s grab dinner tonight.”
Connor stops mid-step and looks at him.
“Takeout,” Connor says immediately.
François arches a brow. “We can sit somewhere.”
“Nope. Takeout.”
François studies him, amused. “Connor.”
“What.”
“If we do takeout…” François pauses. “I don’t think we’re going to end up eating anything.”
Connor doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. That’s the plan.”
François laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
Connor steps closer, lowering his voice. “You broke up with Marc.”
“Yes.”
“You told me this morning.”
“Yes.”
“And we’ve been forced to stand three feet apart pretending we’re not actively losing our minds all day.”
François’s jaw tightens slightly. “Correct.”
Connor tilts his head. “So no. We are not going to sit across from each other politely eating pasta while pretending we’re calm.”
François steps in closer, voice dropping. “I wanted to take you on a date.”
Connor’s expression softens just slightly.
“That’s great,” he says. “I like that. We can do that on Friday.”
He hooks a finger through one of François’s belt loops, subtle but deliberate.
“Tonight?” Connor adds. “We have other business to attend to.”
François inhales slowly.
Connor’s hand slides from the belt loop to François’s wrist, thumb brushing lightly.
“Unless you object?” Connor asks, very gently.
François looks at him for a long second.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Nope,” he says. “No objection.”
Connor grins, victorious.
“Sign me up.”
Connor releases him and heads toward his car, calling over his shoulder, “Text me your order. I’ll pretend to order it.”
François laughs, watching him go.
“Connor.”
Connor turns.
“Yeah?”
François’s gaze is steady now. Not teasing. Not joking.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Connor’s smile turns slow and dangerous.
“I won’t.”
—-
They barely make it past the door.
It shuts behind them with a soft click and Connor is already there, hands on François’s jacket, mouth finding his like it’s been waiting all day. The kiss is messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath everywhere. François laughs into it for half a second and then he’s not laughing at all—he’s backing Connor up until the back of Connor’s thighs hit the edge of the couch.
François sits, pulling Connor with him without breaking the kiss.
Connor goes willingly, knees sliding to either side of François’s hips, settling there like it’s instinct. Like this is exactly where he meant to land.
“Hi,” Connor breathes against his mouth, grinning.
François’s hands are already on his waist, firm. “Hi.”
They kiss again, slower this time, deeper. Connor rolls his hips just enough to feel the reaction, and François’s grip tightens immediately.
Connor pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, flushed. “What do you want?”
François doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want. I’m good with whatever.”
Connor studies his face for a beat—checking, not doubting—then nods once.
“Okay,” he says softly.
He takes François’s hands and guides them back, deliberately, palms landing square on his ass. He presses them there, grounding, unmistakable.
“We’re doing this then.”
François exhales a laugh that sounds a little wrecked already. “Fuck yeah we can do that.”
Connor smiles, slow and pleased, and leans back in, kissing him again—harder now, confident. François meets it immediately, hands exactly where Connor put them, squeezing like he’s been given permission and has no intention of wasting it.
Connor makes a quiet sound at that, barely there, and rocks into him just enough to make the point.
François doesn’t give him time to think.
He leans in again, slower now, mouth soft against Connor’s, like he’s savoring it instead of devouring it. Connor melts into it immediately, hands curling in the fabric at François’s shoulders.
“I’ve wanted this,” François murmurs between kisses, like it’s a confession he’s been holding onto all day. “All day. Longer than that.”
Connor tilts his head back without realizing it, giving him more room, breath already a little uneven.
François takes it.
He kisses along Connor’s jaw, unhurried, lips lingering at the hinge where jaw meets ear. Then lower. Down the side of his neck. He pauses there, presses his mouth against skin, just breathing him in for a second.
“I have been dying to touch you,” François says quietly, mouth still there. “Every time you walked past me today. Every time you leaned too close and then pulled away.”
Connor’s fingers dig into his shoulders. “You didn’t look like you were suffering.”
François smiles against his skin. “I’m very good at pretending.”
He kisses lower, across Connor’s collarbone, over the thin fabric of his shirt. Each kiss feels deliberate, like he’s mapping something out, like he’s making up for lost time. Connor shifts in his lap, restless, and François’s hands tighten reflexively on his hips.
“I kept thinking,” François continues, voice low, a little rough now, “if I could just get you alone. Just once. I’d do this.”
He punctuates the words with another kiss. Then another. Down Connor’s chest, over his sternum, slow enough to make Connor’s breath hitch.
Connor lets out a soft sound, barely a sound at all, and François hums in response, pleased.
“You have no idea,” François says, lifting his head just enough to look at him, eyes dark and focused. “How hard it’s been not to touch you.”
Connor swallows, heat rushing everywhere at once. “You could’ve said something.”
François’s mouth curves, just a little. “I’m saying it now.”
He leans back in, kissing him again—deeper, more intent—hands firm on Connor’s body, like he’s grounding himself there, like he’s making it clear this is real and happening and wanted.
Connor stays right where he is, straddling him, exactly where François wants him.
François studies him for a second longer than necessary, like he’s recalibrating. His hands stay on Connor’s hips, steady, thumbs pressing lightly like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I just needed to ask.”
Connor laughs again, softer this time, shaking his head. “Ask away.”
“I mean,” François adds, almost sheepish now, “you come across… young. Not in a bad way. Just—” He gestures vaguely. “Bright. Soft. I didn’t want to assume.”
Connor’s smile warms, but there’s something sharper underneath it now, something self-assured.
“I get that a lot,” he says. “People think I’m new. Or fragile.”
François’s brows knit slightly. “You’re not?”
Connor leans in, presses a kiss to François’s jaw, slow and deliberate. Then another, just beneath it. He speaks against his skin.
“I’ve been with guys,” Connor says easily. “Only guys, actually. And I promise you—”
He rocks his hips just enough to make François suck in a breath.
“—I’m not confused about what I like.”
François lets out a quiet laugh, equal parts relief and disbelief. “Okay. Yeah. Message received.”
Connor pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, a little smug. “You called me a baby.”
“I said baby energy,” François corrects weakly.
Connor grins. “That’s dangerous.”
“Oh?” François asks.
“Yeah,” Connor says, leaning in again, slower now, voice low. “Because now I kind of want to prove you wrong.”
François’s hands tighten at his hips. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I want to,” Connor replies immediately.
That does something to François. You can see it in the way his shoulders relax, like he’s giving up a last bit of restraint he didn’t even realize he was holding onto.
Connor kisses him again, deeper, unhurried. He takes his time this time, like he’s showing rather than telling—letting the kiss linger, letting François respond, letting the balance shift naturally.
When he finally pulls back, Connor’s voice is steady. Confident.
“I know how to be good at this,” he says. “With you.”
François exhales, forehead dropping briefly to Connor’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he mutters, smiling despite himself. “Okay.”
He looks back up at Connor, eyes dark, focused, openly interested now.
“I believe you.”
Connor slides off his lap slowly, deliberately, like he wants François to feel every inch of the distance.
François’s hands stay on him until the very last second, fingers dragging along Connor’s sides as he goes, like he’s reluctant to let him go even for that. Connor sinks down between François’s knees, settling there with an ease that makes François swear under his breath immediately.
“Oh—fuck yeah,” François breathes, head tipping back before he can stop himself.
Connor looks up at him from there, eyes bright, mouth soft, completely unhurried. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, hands resting on François’s thighs, thumbs brushing slow, grounding arcs into muscle.
“You good?” Connor asks, voice calm, almost teasing.
François laughs, breathless. “You know I am.”
Connor shifts closer, close enough now that François’s breath stutters. Connor’s hands slide higher, palms warm, anchoring him there. François’s knees spread instinctively, like his body already knows what’s coming and is making room for it.
Connor’s attention is focused, almost reverent. He presses a kiss where he can reach, lingering just long enough to make François’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Jesus,” François mutters. “You weren’t kidding.”
Connor hums softly in response, pleased, and leans in again—closer, slower, like he’s intentionally drawing it out. François’s hips shift forward without him thinking about it, a quiet, needy movement he doesn’t bother apologizing for.
Connor notices everything.
He tilts his head, breath warm, close enough now that François feels it everywhere. François lets out a shaky laugh, one hand coming up to thread into Connor’s hair, not pushing, just holding.
“I’ve wanted this,” François admits, voice rough. “All day.”
Connor looks up at him again, lips curved in a small, satisfied smile. “Good.”
And then he leans back in, unhurried and sure, and François lets his head fall back again, eyes closing, hands tightening as Connor finally does exactly what he came down there to do.
—
François doesn’t let him stay there long.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and amused, one hand threading into Connor’s hair to gently pull him back. “I also happen to know a thing or two.”
Connor looks up at him, flushed and pleased, eyes blown wide. “Oh yeah?”
François smiles—slow, dangerous—and guides him up and around instead, hands firm and sure. Connor lets himself be moved easily, pliant in a way that surprises even him, until he’s stretched out on his front on the couch, cheek turned to the side, breathing a little harder now.
François settles behind him, one knee between Connor’s legs, the weight of him grounding and warm. His hands slide over Connor’s back, unhurried, like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s enjoying this part just as much.
Connor exhales, long and shaky, fingers curling into the cushion beneath him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, more to himself than anything.
François leans down, kisses a slow line along Connor’s spine, then lower. He takes his time. He makes Connor wait. Every touch feels intentional, teasing in a way that makes Connor’s whole body buzz.
Connor presses his face into the couch, already undone, already reacting to every small movement. He can feel François there, close, focused, absolutely enjoying how responsive Connor is.
François’s mouth lingers, attention unwavering, and Connor lets out a sound he doesn’t bother trying to swallow.
“Oh my god,” Connor mutters. “Okay. Yeah. You do.”
François chuckles softly against him, pleased, and keeps going—slow, steady, confident—until Connor is nothing but breath and sensation and the very clear realization that François absolutely meant it when he said he knew what he was doing.
Connor doesn’t question it again.
François slows everything down.
Not stopping—just shifting gears.
His hands stay warm and steady on Connor’s body, moving with intention now instead of urgency. He kisses his way back up Connor’s spine, pauses, then leans in close enough that Connor can feel his breath at his ear.
“Hey,” François murmurs. “Talk to me.”
Connor turns his head slightly. “I’m here.”
François presses a soft kiss just below his ear. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Connor says immediately, then softer, “Really good.”
François’s hand moves again, unhurried, checking in through touch as much as words. Every time Connor shifts or reacts, François adjusts—slows when Connor tenses, continues when he relaxes again.
“Tell me if anything feels off,” François says quietly. “Or too fast.”
Connor nods against the cushion. “I will.”
François stays close, grounded, one arm braced beside Connor so he doesn’t feel crowded, the other guiding him gently, patiently. He keeps checking in—quiet questions, murmured reassurances—not anxious, just attentive.
“Still okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Like this?”
“Yes.”
Connor’s answers come easier as they go, his body responding before his words sometimes, and François reads that too. He never rushes it. He lets Connor settle, lets him feel ready in his own time.
At one point, Connor exhales a shaky laugh. “You’re… really thorough.”
François smiles against his shoulder. “I want you comfortable. I want this to feel good for you the whole way.”
Connor’s fingers curl into the couch again, not from nerves this time. “It does.”
François stays there with him, close and steady, making sure Connor feels held and heard and wanted—every step intentional, every pause chosen—until Connor finally murmurs, unprompted,
“I’m ready.”
François presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder, voice low and warm.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
—
François doesn’t move away right after.
He stays close, weight careful, one hand steady at Connor’s lower back, the other smoothing slow, grounding passes over his side. Connor is warm and loose beneath him, breathing uneven in that dazed, boneless way that makes François automatically slow everything down.
“Hey,” François murmurs, brushing his thumb along Connor’s ribs. “There you are.”
Connor hums, face turned into the cushion, then rolls just enough to look at him. His eyes are glassy but bright, smile lazy and wrecked in the best way.
“That,” Connor says, voice hoarse, “was… wow.”
François smiles, soft and pleased, and presses a kiss to Connor’s shoulder. “You good?”
“Very,” Connor says immediately. Then, after a beat, he adds, like it just occurred to him, “We are doing that again.”
François laughs quietly. “Tomorrow?”
Connor scoffs, offended, reaching for him. “No. Like—give me twenty minutes.”
François raises a brow. “Twenty.”
“Maybe less,” Connor admits, grinning. “But I’m being polite.”
François shifts carefully, pulling a blanket up around him, tucking it around Connor’s waist, hands lingering like he’s reluctant to stop touching him at all. He presses another kiss—Connor’s jaw this time, then his temple.
“Stay still for a second,” François says. “Let me take care of you.”
Connor exhales, content, letting himself be guided without protest. “Okay.”
François brings him water, helps him sit just enough to drink, steadying him with a hand at his back. Connor drinks, then immediately leans back into him, head dropping against François’s chest like it belongs there.
“You’re ridiculous,” Connor mutters fondly.
François smiles, wrapping an arm around him. “You liked it.”
Connor snorts. “Understatement.”
They settle like that—Connor half-curled against him, François’s hand moving in slow, absent circles along his arm. The room is quiet now, the earlier intensity fading into something softer, heavier.
Connor tilts his head back to look at him again, eyes still unfocused but very sure. “Just so you know,” he says, “I meant it.”
François meets his gaze, amused and warm. “About the twenty minutes?”
“Yes,” Connor says solemnly. Then he grins. “I’m setting a timer.”
François laughs, pulling him closer, kissing his hair. “Rest first.”
Connor closes his eyes, smiling, already relaxing into him.
Connor stays right there on his lap. Eventually, Connor starts shifting just enough to be distracting, arms tight around François’s neck.
“Please,” he whines, shameless. “I need it.”
François laughs, a little breathless, hands firm at Connor’s hips to keep him from wriggling too much. “Baby, I swear, give me a second. I’m not twenty anymore.”
Connor huffs, dramatic. “I don’t want a second.”
François tilts his head, considering him, eyes dark and amused. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”
Connor shakes his head immediately. “No.”
François exhales, defeated in the fondest way. “Okay,” he says, voice dropping. “Then come here.”
Connor stills instantly, like he’s been waiting for that exact tone.
François’s hand slides between them, slow and deliberate, making it very clear what he’s offering instead. He presses his forehead to Connor’s for a moment, grounding him.
“I’ll use my fingers for now,” François murmurs. “Take care of you properly. Then—”
Connor lets out a soft, wrecked sound. “Then you’ll make it really good.”
François smiles. “Exactly.”
Connor melts against him, arms tightening, completely appeased now. “Fine,” he says breathlessly. “I accept this compromise.”
François chuckles, kisses his cheek, and gets to work unhurriedly, hands confident and attentive.
“Told you,” he murmurs, “I’d make it good.”
Connor doesn’t argue.
—
Morning is slower.
Connor wakes curled tight against François’s chest, back pressed into him, their bodies fitting together like they fell asleep that way on purpose. The room is quiet, light just starting to spill in through the blinds. François’s arm is heavy around Connor’s waist, hand warm and familiar where it rests.
They don’t talk at first.
There’s a shift—subtle, lazy. Connor exhales, stretching just a little, and feels the way François reacts immediately behind him. He smiles into the pillow, half-awake and already warm all over.
“Mmm,” Connor murmurs, mostly to himself.
François presses his mouth to Connor’s shoulder, voice low and rough from sleep. “Morning.”
Connor hums in response, pushing back just enough to make it obvious he’s aware of everything. François’s grip tightens slightly, instinctive, and he kisses Connor again, slower this time, unhurried.
They move together easily, quietly, like this isn’t something that needs instructions. François stays close behind him, touch steady and grounding, the whole thing unspoken and intimate in a way that makes Connor’s chest ache a little.
At some point—breathless, unguarded—Connor lets it slip.
“Oh my god,” he says softly, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. “This is the best sex of my life.”
The silence after is immediate.
Connor freezes.
“…I mean—” He laughs awkwardly, flustered now, face heating. “Not like— I just meant— this morning is good. Like. You know. Vibes.”
François stills behind him.
Then he lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh, almost disbelieving. His arm tightens around Connor’s waist, pulling him closer, chest to back.
“Fuck,” François murmurs. “Say that again.”
Connor groans, burying his face in the pillow. “No. I didn’t mean it like that.”
François kisses the back of his neck, lingering. “You absolutely did.”
Connor peeks back at him, mortified and smiling. “I didn’t think it through.”
François’s voice drops, warm and a little wrecked. “Please.”
Connor hesitates for half a second—then exhales, defeated.
“…It’s the best sex I’ve ever had,” he admits quietly.
François goes very still.
Then he presses his forehead to Connor’s shoulder, breath uneven, like the words landed harder than he expected.
“Yeah?” he asks softly.
Connor nods, still facing away, still embarrassed. “Yeah.”
François kisses him again, slow and reverent, holding him like he’s something precious.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not done yet.”
Connor smiles into the pillow, completely undone.