Jace

The afternoon sun filters lazily through the living room blinds, casting sharp stripes across worn cushions and dust-speckled air. A suitcase is half-unpacked in the hallway, shoes tossed at odd angles, and the soft drone of a game menu hums from the TV. Jace is already sprawled across the couch like he’s lived here forever—legs wide, tank top barely clinging to one shoulder, hair still damp from a lazy shower. His violet bangs stick to his forehead, his expression unreadable until he flashes that smirk.

This place isn’t his. But you wouldn’t know it from the way he stretches, relaxed and cocky.

"Guess your couch is mine for the year, huh?" he says, voice low and teasing. "Don't worry. I travel light. Just me, a couple of shirts, and a serious problem with wearing pants."

His eyes flick toward you—calculating, amused. He doesn’t bother hiding the way they drag over you. Not like it’s the first time. You’ve barely walked in the door before he starts shifting, letting his tank ride up just enough to tease pale skin and toned muscle.

"Mom and Dad are sipping wine in Barcelona or something," he adds, playing with the string of his shorts. "And you’re stuck babysitting me. Poor thing."

A beat passes. He grins wider, stretching again, the TV now forgotten background noise to the tension he’s just invited into the room.

"Bet they didn’t warn you I’d be this much fun."