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lycheeluvaa · 7 days ago

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imagine #11

character: David “Hesh” Walker words: 8116 cw: 18+, drinking, smoking, weed use, light sexual content (sorta smut but not really) description: AU in which you’re Logan’s best friend but you’re crushing hard on his older brother. a/n: a lovely anon requested something for Hesh and I will use any excuse to write for him :)))

Meeting Logan Walker was, without exaggeration, both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to you.

The best — because he was exactly what you hadn’t even known you were searching for. A best friend, sure, but more than that. A constant. A safe place. Moving across the country to San Diego for university had been a lonely kind of upheaval. The city was bright and loud and sprawling in all the ways your old life hadn’t been, and it had taken you years to feel even remotely rooted. And then, in your final year, a fluke of course scheduling dropped Logan into your lap. Some upper-year elective you’d registered for on a whim — just to fill the gap — and suddenly you were sitting beside a boy who made the whole world tilt a little differently.

You clicked immediately. No awkward phase, no second-guessing. Just laughter — real, belly-aching, eye-watering laughter — right from day one. He was razor-sharp, quick with a joke, always ready with some dry comment under his breath that turned even the most boring lectures into something worth showing up for. But it wasn’t just that. There was a warmth to him, a gentleness, that caught you off guard. A way of seeing you when you didn’t say much, of reaching out before you had to ask.

In a year full of exams you were convinced you’d flunk, of late-night breakdowns and messy almost-relationships that left you gutted and hollow, Logan stayed steady. Always with a Red Bull and a dumb grin, always picking up your calls at 2am without asking why. He didn’t flinch when you were at your worst. He cracked a joke, handed you tissues, reminded you — quietly, always quietly — that you could do this. You weren’t sure how you would’ve survived that year without him. He became a fixture in your life. Unshakable. Golden.

But it was also the worst thing. Because Logan had an older brother. And his older brother was really fucking hot.

David Walker — Hesh, as everyone called him — was the original blueprint. Where Logan was easygoing and irreverent, Hesh was sharp-edged charm and sun-kissed confidence. You’d caught onto it early, that Logan’s dry wit, his music taste, even the brand of cheap beer he insisted on drinking, all traced back to his brother. Logan would never say it aloud, but the resemblance in tone and manner was too strong to ignore. Hesh was the kind of man who could fill a room without trying. Not loud — no, never that. Just present. Unmistakably so.

And you were so hopelessly, absurdly, silently drawn to him it made your teeth ache.

Of course, you never said anything. God, no. That would’ve been a betrayal; whether real or just imagined, it didn’t matter. You weren’t oblivious. Logan was your best friend, and even if the two of you had never so much as flirted, never crossed the threshold into anything charged or intimate, the bond between you was still sacred. Precious. Just looking at his brother — thinking about his brother — felt like trespassing on something you weren’t meant to touch. You’d seen enough films to know how stories like that ended. Messy. Torn. With someone walking away. And you couldn’t afford to lose Logan. Not when he knew your secrets. Not when he was the only person who’d ever made this foreign city feel like home.

So, you buried it. Or at least, you tried to. Told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just boredom, some temporary glitch in your emotional programming. That you were lonely. Tired. Vulnerable. That Hesh being impossibly attractive didn’t mean anything.

But then the weekends would come, and with them, the gravity of that house — the Walkers’ place, nestled in a peaceful, tree-lined San Diego suburb where the air smelled like citrus and cut grass and the pool sparkled under a soft sun like something out of a dream. You’d pack a bag, climb into Logan’s beat-up car, and by the time you stepped through their front door, every boundary you’d ever drawn in your head would begin to blur. It happened every damn time. And you always let it.

Hesh had a way of slipping into your life without warning, like smoke under a doorframe. He didn’t ask permission; he didn’t have to. He was just there, folding into your dynamic with Logan like he’d always belonged, like the trio of you had been a unit forever. He’d offer to drive the two of you in his own truck, blasting half-forgotten 2000s hip-hop tracks or obscure punk songs you’d never heard before but would fall in love with anyway, just because they were his favourites. He’d pick up takeout, remembering everything you liked to eat, pass you a beer before you even asked, show up with a freshly rolled joint between his fingers and a look on his face that made your breath catch. He was generous in a way that didn’t feel performative. Casual. Natural. Like he liked doing things for you. Like watching you react to him was part of the pleasure.

And still, Logan never flinched. Never noticed the way your voice squeaked when Hesh was in the room. Never clocked the way your eyes lingered a second too long when his brother leaned against the counter, forearms dusted with flour from making late-night pizza from scratch just because, head tilted as he teased you. If he had, he never said a word.

But you noticed. You noticed everything.

Like the way Hesh never simply handed you the joints you smoked. No, he made a whole goddamn ritual out of it. He’d hold it up — two fingers, loose and casual — lips twitching with the hint of a smile, and wait. Wait for you to meet his eyes, for you to shift a little closer, for your lips to part. He’d guide it to your mouth slowly, thumb brushing your chin, and linger there just long enough to make your pulse flutter. And when you exhaled — smoke curling from your lips in slow, trembling ribbons — he’d let out this low, knowing laugh, then shift back like he hadn’t just stolen your breath.

It drove you insane.

He should’ve felt like an older brother. That was the script you were meant to follow. Hesh was Logan’s sibling. Off-limits. Family by extension. But nothing about him fit that mould. Not the way he looked at you, slow and curious, like he was working out a puzzle with his eyes. Not the way his arm brushed yours in the kitchen — bare skin on bare skin, that faint heat always pulsing outwardly. Not the way he’d call you angel in that velvet So-Cal drawl, not playful so much as suggestive, like he was savouring the taste of the word on his tongue.

And then there were the times — few and far between but burned into your memory — when he got close. The way he’d reach around you to grab a glass from the cupboard, his chest pressed to your back, breath fanning against the shell of your ear as if he had no idea what that did to you. The way he’d sit too close on the couch, knees brushing, fingers idly playing with the strings of your hoodie as you tried to focus on the movie. The way he’d watch you when he thought you weren’t looking — green eyes darkening, thoughtful, lingering on your lips.

You knew what you were feeling wasn’t innocent in the slightest.

You were infatuated. No, more than that. You were tangled up in him, in the scent of his skin — pine, salt, something faintly metallic from his work — and in the way he laughed when you said something sarcastic, low and rumbly, like he was genuinely delighted by you. You were hooked on every brush of contact, every shared smoke, every glance that lasted too long. You were losing sleep over him.

And there wasn’t a single thing you could do about it.

⟡

It was the first weekend after graduation, and instead of packing your life into boxes and driving north to whatever waited back home, you’d stayed. There’d been no big, dramatic decision about it. San Diego wasn’t finished with you yet. The city was just now starting to feel a little bit more like a place you might belong in, and besides, Logan had insisted. Practically dragged your suitcases out of your hands, said the guest room was yours for the summer. Said Elias was fine with it, already signed off on the idea before you’d even asked. You hadn’t even had time to argue. Not that you would’ve. Not when the thought of leaving made your throat tighten.

So, you stayed. And for now, you were in the Walkers’ garage, sunk low into a sun-bleached folding chair that creaked every time you shifted your weight. Your bare legs were sticky against the vinyl, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to your skin as the afternoon dragged its heels. The garage door was wide open, golden light spilling across the concrete floor and out onto the driveway. Beyond that, the neighbourhood was still, hot and green, palm trees swaying lazily like they had nothing better to do. The air smelled like cut grass, engine oil, and weed.

Hesh was crouched beside Logan’s piece-of-shit Civic, sleeves bunched around his biceps, black T-shirt clinging damply to his back. He was wrist-deep in the guts of the front wheel, muttering something to himself as he pried at the brake pads, forearms slick with sweat and streaked with grease. You couldn’t help watching him — tracking the shift of muscle under skin, the flex of his jaw as he leaned forward. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the stubble creeping along his cheekbones caught the light, making your stomach twist a little. There was something rougher about him today, more worn-in, like the heat had stripped away whatever polish he usually wore. He was hot. Stupidly so. And he didn’t even seem to notice.

Logan, in contrast, was sitting cross-legged on a spare tire, a smug little smirk on his face as he ground up flower with practiced hands. The rolling tray sat not in his lap, but yours, balanced across your thighs as he hunched over it, elbows digging into your knees. You were his workstation, apparently. The loose shake of weed clung to your skin, sweet and earthy, and every time he shifted the tray or tapped it, your whole body tensed, not entirely sure if it was from the ticklish motion or the knowledge that Hesh could see everything from where he was.

You weren’t dressed for anyone. Just a tank top and shorts, skin still warm from the shower you’d taken an hour ago. But with the sun pouring in and Logan so close and Hesh right there, it felt more exposing than it should’ve. You crossed your ankles, then uncrossed them, then bounced your foot without noticing, restless in the heat.

Logan gave your thigh a firm smack, his palm landing with a sharp clap. “Stop moving your legs,” he muttered, the tray wobbling as he tried to pinch the paper shut. “Can’t roll when you’re twitching like that.”

You blinked, startled. “Sorry,” you mumbled, freezing in place as his fingers worked swiftly. You hadn’t realised how fidgety you’d gotten. Hadn’t realised, either, how quiet the garage had become, the only sounds left being the low scrape of tools and the flick of Logan’s lighter.

You glanced over at Hesh again — just once, just to check — and caught the flicker of his eyes lifting towards you. His gaze swept up your legs, lingered, then slid back down to the car like nothing had happened.

The air inside the garage clung to your skin like oil, heavy and slow. The heat pressed in from every direction, humid and humming, the late-afternoon sun dimming into golden sheets that lit the dust motes like sparks. Somewhere down the block, a neighbour’s lawnmower whined half-heartedly, the sound fading in and out beneath the louder thrum of cicadas, the creak of metal, the occasional clatter of tools on concrete. Still, none of it quite cut through the coil of tension wound tight in your stomach. Not with Hesh so close, his arms working beneath the wheel well of Logan’s car, swearing low as sweat tracked down the curve of his throat and disappeared beneath his collar.

“Logan,” Hesh called, voice echoing slightly off the garage walls, “put some fucking music on before I start tweaking.”

Logan barely lifted his head. He was hunched over in the folding chair, joint paper stuck to his lip as he ran his tongue across the seam, slow and precise, like he was savouring it. “You do it,” he muttered, thumb smoothing the edge with practiced ease.

Hesh yanked his hand out from under the car, flipping it upright to show off the black smears of grease and grime that coated his fingers all the way to the knuckle. “Yeah? Wanna come suck the fucking oil off my fingers while you’re at it?”

You laughed — couldn’t help it — and tried to cover your grin as you pushed out of the chair, the metal groaning under your weight. “I’ll do it,” you said, brushing your palms on the back of your shorts as you crossed to the cluttered shelf where the Bluetooth speaker sat between an old socket wrench set and a half-empty bottle of Gatorade. Your phone connected with a familiar chime, the screen lighting up under your thumb as you scrolled through your music. You hesitated for a second, then tapped a track you knew he liked — a song that screamed late '90s sunshine.

The opening riff of “Semi-Charmed Life” exploded from the speaker like a jolt, brash and unapologetically upbeat. Logan groaned theatrically, flopping his head back.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Hesh called from behind the wheel well, the smile obvious in his voice. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Thought you’d appreciate it,” you said, easing back into your seat as the lyrics kicked in, cheeky, rough-edged, hot in a way that stuck to your spine. The weed smell thickened in the air as Logan finished rolling and sparked the joint, the flame licking at the paper until the tip glowed molten red. He took a few slow drags, eyes half-lidded, holding the smoke in his lungs like it was sex itself before letting it leak out through parted lips.

“Jesus,” Hesh muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. He crouched back on his heels and shook his head. “Puff, puff, pass, dumbass. You ever gonna learn?”

Logan made a face but handed it off to you. “You want it so bad, come and get it.”

You plucked it from his fingers before Hesh could. The joint was still warm from Logan’s mouth, the filter damp. You didn’t care. You brought it to your lips, inhaled deep, the sweetness of the strain blooming in your chest before you exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. It made everything blur at the edges — your limbs, your thoughts, the shape of the sunlight falling across Hesh’s shoulders. You hit it again. Then once more, greedily. Everything was slipping into soft focus, but him? Hesh was still in crystal clarity.

He was standing now, just a few feet away, sweat trickling down the side of his head, the smudge of engine oil staining the inside of one leg. He nodded toward the joint, then gave you a slow tilt of his head.

“C’mon,” he said. “Help a guy out.”

You blinked. “But your hands are gross.”

“Exactly,” he replied, and the grin he gave you wasn’t innocent. Not even close. “You know how this works.”

Of course you did.

You stood, your heart tapping a slow, thudding rhythm behind your ribs as you stepped toward him. The music played on, the lyrics skating under your skin with a wicked pulse:

Those little red panties, they pass the test…

The joint trembled just slightly between your fingers as you lifted it, brought it up to his mouth. His head dipped to meet you halfway, the scruff of his cheek grazing your wrist as he leaned in and closed his lips around the filter.

Slides up around the belly, face down on the mattress…

Hesh held your gaze as he inhaled, slow and deep, the cherry flaring hot. You felt it all — his breath, the faint heat of his tongue behind the paper, the whisper of his lips as they brushed your knuckles. He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, so close your skin prickled, so close your stomach twisted with longing.

Then, he exhaled the smoke straight into your face.

The effect was immediate. Your eyes stung, your chest hitched, your pulse jolted. You coughed once, hand rising instinctively to your mouth, and then you laughed, breathy and embarrassed, a little shaky. The haze clung to your hair, your lashes, your throat. You breathed it in like perfume.

Hesh grinned. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick, before crouching down again, just like that, like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire.

Logan’s voice tore through the mellow stretch of the afternoon like a fork dragged across a plate. Nasal, impatient, endearingly whiny in that way only he could get away with. “I’m starving,” he groaned, letting his head fall forward like the weight of his hunger was some great affliction. “Like, fuck me — I’m going to pass out. Or die.”

Hesh didn’t even glance his way. Still half-submerged in his work, he kept wrenching away at whatever rusted, stubborn piece of machinery had his attention. “Then go get pizza,” he shot back, voice echoing slightly off the concrete floor.

Logan made a wounded, theatrical sound deep in his throat — one part drama, two parts laziness. “We could just order in,” he offered, drawing the words out like they were sweeter when stretched.

“Or,” Hesh replied, the wrench slipping against metal with a sharp, hollow ping, “you could walk your ass to Rocco’s. It’s fifteen minutes, maybe less if you haul ass.”

The Bluetooth speaker hummed in the background, still low and insistent, a pulse of music threading through the heat like a second heartbeat. The track shifted and “Two Princes” by Spin Doctors kicked in, all jangly guitars and sun-drunk momentum. The air shimmered in the open garage; the moment pulsed golden.

Logan groaned again, dragging himself upright with the weight of a martyr. “Wanna come, [Name]?” he asked.

You didn’t even hide your smirk. “In this heat?” you asked, leaning back in your chair until it creaked beneath you, one bare leg thrown lazily over the other. Your eyes flicked toward the open garage door, where the sun baked the blacktop into something near-glowing. “Not a chance.”

Logan pressed a hand to his chest like you’d shot him. “You’re soft,” he accused, with mock horror. “You’ve gone soft on me.”

“Hey,” Hesh chimed in. “You heard the lady. Besides, I’m the one fixing your brakes, so get on with it.”

Logan paused for just a moment — long enough to glare at no one in particular — then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like traitors, patted his back pockets to check for his wallet, and headed toward out the driveway on foot.

The silence rolled in after he left. Just you, the speaker humming, the scent of weed still curling like incense, and Hesh working beside you in the shadows of the car.

After a moment, he slid out from underneath it, back flat to the ground, arms streaked black to the elbow. He looked up at the ceiling for a second, sweat beading along his brow before he gave a slow shake of his head and murmured, “Little shit,” as if the insult held more fondness than frustration. “Always trying to worm his way out of everything.”

You were already reaching for the tray Logan had left behind, stretching languidly, your tank top shifting against the curve of your back. “Must be tough being the big brother.”

“You have no idea,” Hesh said, sitting up and pushing his hair back with the inside of his wrist. The move pulled his shirt tight across his chest, damp in places where it clung to him, the fabric darkened with sweat and grease. He nodded toward the tray in your lap. “Roll another?”

You hesitated, fingers hovering above the grinder. “I’m not good at it,” you admitted, glancing down at the scattered green and torn paper tips. “I’ve watched Logan do it a hundred times, but still.”

“He learned from me,” Hesh said, mouth tugging up at one corner. “Which means you’ve technically been watching me this whole time.”

You gave him a look, half-teasing, half-defensive — but your hand moved anyway. Reaching for the grinder. Tapping it open. You began the process slowly, the sharp scent of flower rising from the crushed leaves as you rolled them back and forth between your fingertips, watching the pile grow in the shallow tray. The paper felt dry and delicate in your hands. You licked the edge carefully, just the way you’d seen him do it — slow and even, tongue dragging across the seam with a sensual precision that wasn’t lost on you, even now. You hoped Hesh noticed.

It wasn’t perfect. A little loose near the filter, a touch off-centre. But it held.

Hesh didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you. His eyes a little heavy-lidded. His mouth tilted with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You’ve been taking notes,” he said after a long beat, his voice low and amused. “That’s cute.”

You didn’t reply. But your gaze met his and held there, and it said enough.

He pushed to his feet, brushing the palms of his hands on the thighs of his shorts. The sound of him heading into the house echoed in the hollow quiet, screen door creaking open, then slapping shut behind him. You stayed where you were, still holding the joint, your pulse slow and heavy in your throat, your thighs tacky against the chair. The heat was unbearable now. You couldn’t tell if it was the sun or something else, something internal, something gnawing slow and deep in your belly.

Hesh returned not long after, stepping barefoot onto the concrete again. His arms were still a mess — smeared black up to the elbow — but his hands were cleaner now, damp still, scrubbed pink. Not pristine, but usable. Clean enough to touch. Clean enough to smoke with you.

He lowered himself onto the same spare tire Logan had vacated not long ago, legs sprawled, elbows propped on his knees. The sun caught the edge of his jaw, the new stubble dark, coarse, textured like sandpaper. He didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you, then down at the joint still cradled between your fingers.

“Here. Pass.”

Hesh reached out, his fingers brushing over yours, his touch faint but searing all the same. He plucked the joint from your hand with the ease of someone who never had to ask twice, never rushed anything that didn’t need to be rushed. There was no hurry in the way he moved, only the slow, intuitive rhythm of a man who lived comfortably in his skin. He brought the paper to his mouth, lips parting just slightly as he tucked it into place, the flame from his lighter flaring gold and hungry for half a second before it kissed the tip. The ember bloomed red, pulsing like a heartbeat between his fingers as he drew the smoke deep into his chest.

Then he leaned back, letting the weight of his body settle into the curve of the spare tire like gravity had finally claimed him. One arm slung across his knee, the other holding the joint loosely, he closed his eyes, lashes feathering down against flushed skin. And then it came — that sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. Something deeper. A low, rough moan dragged from the back of his throat, warm and unguarded, the kind of noise that uncoiled slowly through the air and found its way straight between your legs. His lips parted, and the smoke flowed from him in a sinuous stream, curling into the thick afternoon heat.

When he opened his eyes, they found you instantly.

He extended the joint, holding it out again — not to hand over, but for you to take from him, like you always did, his fingers steady, the paper still burning softly.

You leaned in without hesitation, your lips brushing the edge of his knuckles as you wrapped them around the joint. You inhaled, long and slow, your chest tightening, lungs stretching wide. When you exhaled, it was quieter than before, more careful, like the act of breathing next to him was something far too intimate in itself.

“You looking for a place this summer?” he asked finally, his voice rough with smoke and something quieter beneath it.

You blinked, trying to find your voice. “That’s the plan,” you murmured. “Something not too far from campus, I guess.”

He nodded, thumb flicking ash onto the concrete beside him. “Dad wouldn’t care if you stayed longer,” he said. “You know that, right?” He glanced up at you again. “Logan’d be happy.”

The words settled somewhere beneath your ribs. You tilted your head, eyes tracing the long column of his throat, the way it moved when he swallowed. “Why haven’t you moved out?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could think twice.

A faint smile curled the corner of his mouth. “I did,” he said, pausing to take another drag. “After high school. Went to college, had my own place out near El Cajon for a bit, but I hated it. Hated being away from my everyone.” He looked away for a second. “Family’s everything, you know?”

You nodded before you even realised you were doing it. You did know. You knew what it felt like to miss people so badly your chest ached. What it meant to crave that kind of closeness even in silence. “I get it,” you said, quiet but sure. “I hate being away from your family too.”

That made him smile. “Yeah,” he said. “You fit right in.”

The music shifted again, the speaker humming the opening notes of “Californication”. Hesh took another puff, the ember pulsing against his fingers as he stared at it for a moment, gaze gone distant. The sun picked out the gold in his stubble, the shadows under his eyes.

“Hey,” you said, barely above the music, “you alright?”

He blinked, pulled out of whatever thought had taken him. His eyes met yours again, that small half-smile returning. “Yeah,” he said, but it was softer now, almost dreamy. “Yeah, I just — I wanna try something.”

Before you could ask, he brought the joint to his lips once more and took a long, purposeful inhale, dragging the smoke deep into himself, filling his lungs until his chest swelled. Then his other hand lifted — slow and steady — as he reached for you.

His fingers slid behind your neck, warm and rough, the calloused pads of his hand pressing against the sensitive skin at your nape. He didn’t even pull. Just guided. Thumb grazing the curve of your spine as he tilted your mouth toward his, your pulse thudding in your ears as his breath mingled with yours.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet or shy. It was smoke and heat and hunger all wrapped into one quiet, staggering moment. His lips were soft but firm, parted just enough to let the smoke slip into you, and you opened for him, instinctive and aching. The exhale hit your lungs like silk. Like heat blooming from the inside out. You breathed him in — his weed, his sweat, his skin, his mouth — until there was nothing in the world but the weight of his palm and the press of his lips and the dark hum building low in your belly.

Hesh's hand tightened slightly at the base of your skull. Grounding. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t float too far away.

The kiss didn’t last long, but it felt like it had cracked something open. When he pulled back, his breath was shallow, lips barely brushing yours, eyes hooded.

“You alright?” he asked, voice ruined, like gravel left out in the sun too long.

You nodded, mouth still parted, lungs still full of him.

Hesh grinned.

That same crooked, careless grin he always wore when he was playing coy — when he knew he had the upper hand and didn’t feel the need to prove it. He didn’t say a word. Just dropped the half-finished joint to the concrete and crushed it under the arch of his bare foot, grinding out the embers until there was nothing left but ash. No afterword. No smirked joke. No breathy, teasing comment about what had just happened.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still tasting him. Still full of him. Your lips buzzed faintly from the way he’d pulled you in — how easily it had happened, how impossible it was to figure out what it had meant. Was it impulsive? Casual? Something he’d done a dozen times before with other girls on a haze-heavy afternoon? Or had it been as electric for him as it had been for you?

He didn’t give you a chance to ask.

He crouched again beside the Civic, grease-streaked arms disappearing under the chassis like nothing had changed. Like your pulse wasn’t hammering against your ribs.

Slowly, you stood.

Your limbs felt loose, almost disconnected — part weed, part adrenaline, part confusion that was setting in thick and heavy like the late-day heat. You crossed the garage, the concrete cool beneath your bare feet despite the sun. You were trying to play it normal, trying to stay steady, but your thoughts were moving too fast to hold in one place. You had no idea what came next. Whether there was a next.

You moved to the side of Logan’s car and leaned back against it, letting the warmth of the sun-soaked metal press into your thighs as you watched him work. He hadn’t looked at you again. Not once. His fingers tightened around the wrench, arms flexing with the motion as he worked something loose, the weight of silence settling thick between you. You didn’t know if it was supposed to mean nothing. Or everything.

Eventually, he glanced up.

That grin was still there, tugging at the corners of his mouth like he was holding in a laugh. Like you were funny. Like the way you were hovering beside him, waiting for something, anything, was something he expected.

You swallowed. Tried to speak casually, like your heart wasn’t sitting in your throat. “What was that for?”

Hesh paused. Not long — just enough to let it sit.

Then he rolled his shoulders, wiped his hands on a rag, and shrugged. “What was what?”

It was infuriating. And yet not surprising. Not from him.

You scoffed under your breath, not even bothering to hide the smile that was already curling its way across your mouth. The weed made it impossible not to smile — your muscles soft and unwilling to fight the rush of heat in your chest. You looked away, pretending to watch the shimmering street outside, even though the only thing you could feel was him. The echo of his mouth. The firm hold of his hand at your nape. The taste of his breath, the way he’d exhaled into you like it was a promise or a challenge or something in between.

You said nothing else.

And neither did he.

⟡

The living room was dark except for the flickering glow of the television, which painted shadows in sharp relief across the terracotta floor tiles and arched stucco walls. The room, like the rest of the Walker house, was far too large, all burnt ochre and cream, rustic wood and wrought iron. A pair of tall, arched windows stood behind the couch, their heavy curtains drawn for the night, but you could still hear the faint murmur of crickets from outside, the occasional rustle of breeze against the lemon trees in the courtyard.

With Elias still gone on his fishing trip, the house had taken on a looser energy — a little less structured, a little more lived-in. There were empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter, pizza boxes stacked on the island, a pair of sandals abandoned near the door. No one had bothered to tidy, and it made everything feel easier, more intimate.

You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, your bare thighs grazing the edge of a folded throw blanket. Hesh sat beside you, his thigh a warm line of heat pressed up against yours. The couch was huge, deep-seated and soft, with oversized pillows and a view of the wall-mounted TV that dominated the far end of the room. But despite all that space, Hesh was sitting close. Too close.

Logan sat on the floor just ahead, cross-legged between the couch and the massive carved coffee table, fully immersed in the movie he’d insisted on, some grainy ‘90s slasher flick with bad lighting and an even worse script. He was already three beers deep and narrating the movie under his breath, trying to mask how on edge he actually was. It was bravado, plain and simple. But you could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way he kept glancing toward the windows like something might be waiting behind the curtains.

“Bet you five bucks she trips on the rug,” Logan muttered, eyes glued to the screen as a half-naked girl stumbled down a hallway, breathless and doomed.

Hesh shifted beside you, stretching casually, lazily. His elbow nudged over the back of the couch before his hand came to rest against your shoulder, fingertips grazing the top of your arm. His palm was warm, solid, the weight of it unspoken.

You rolled your eyes, but it was mostly for show. A smile twitched at your mouth, no matter how hard you tried to flatten it. You turned your face away from him, tucking it half into your shoulder so he wouldn’t catch the way your cheeks were warming.

Hesh, for his part, didn’t react. Didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the screen, mouth tugging slightly at one corner like he was savouring the secret of it. His hand remained exactly where it was, not squeezing, not moving, just there. Intimate. Heavy. And hidden in plain sight.

Logan snorted as the girl finally fell. “There it is. Called it.”

You gave a noncommittal hum and tried to focus on the movie, but you could feel Hesh’s fingers flex slightly against your skin, the soft pressure there, like a thumbprint being slowly pressed into warm wax. Your heart beat louder than it should. You crossed your legs at the ankles again, re-anchoring yourself. The weed you’d smoked earlier made everything feel just slightly off balance — not in a bad way, but enough that you were hyper-aware of every breath, every sound, every movement.

“She’s gonna go in the basement,” Logan said with a scoff, shaking his head. “Who goes into a creepy-ass basement alone? Like, at night? While bleeding?”

“You write the movie next time, smartass,” Hesh said, deadpan.

That made you laugh. Hesh turned his head slightly, just enough to catch your profile, the way your lip curled. He didn’t say anything, but the look lingered.

Then the music on screen cut out — that sharp, pre-jump scare silence that was too loud not to mean something. You leaned forward slightly, anticipating it, but when the scare hit, sudden and stupidly loud, you gasped, the sound catching in your throat as your body jolted back.

“Shit,” you hissed, one hand clutching your knee.

Logan turned immediately. “Oh my God, was that you?” His eyes lit up, smug and satisfied.

You groaned. “Shut up.”

Hesh barked a laugh beside you, hand tightening on your arm for a second, warm and firm and there. “Tough girl, huh?” he teased. “Thought you were the fearless one.”

“Fuck both of you,” you muttered, trying to suppress your smile, but it was too late.

Logan was still grinning. “Finally! It’s always me getting scared. That felt good. That was karma.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second, letting the warmth of your embarrassment burn off in your chest. But even through your fingers, you could feel Hesh’s gaze, the weight of it as palpable as the heat still radiating off his body. His arm hadn’t moved. His fingers still rested against your skin, casual to anyone else, but you knew better.

Logan didn’t notice a thing. Not the closeness. Not the undercurrent. He was too busy revelling in your flinch, replaying it aloud like he’d caught it on camera.

And that was fine.

You were still riding the aftershock of that scare, still breathing too fast, still acutely aware of how much fire lived between your ribs when Hesh leaned in, the weight of his chest pressing subtly into your side like a whispered promise. His arm stayed heavy across your shoulders, but there was nothing innocent about the way his body angled into yours, about the way his mouth found your ear like it belonged there.

“You’re such a pussy,” he murmured, voice dipped in lazy amusement, soft and low, not loud enough for Logan to hear, not meant for anyone but you.

The words might’ve been harsh coming from someone else, but from Hesh, they landed differently. He wasn’t mocking. He wasn’t cruel. He said it like a challenge, like a tease, like a spark tossed into dry grass. And the way he'd said it made your thighs press together. You felt the heat crawl up your face before you could stop it.

You opened your mouth — maybe to fire something back, maybe just to tell him to shut up — but the words didn’t make it out. They evaporated the moment he shifted closer and pressed his mouth to the side of your neck.

The contact was soft. So soft it didn’t feel real at first, just the warm brush of lips against your skin, barely there. You held still, every inch of your body pulled taut, strung with anticipation. His mouth drifted lower, found the hollow just beneath your jaw, and lingered. The kiss was slow, open-mouthed, impossibly tender. Your eyelids fluttered. You felt your pulse spike under his lips, your body reacting to the gentle weight of him like it had been waiting for this.

The room dissolved. The sounds of the horror movie faded into background noise — screams, wet footsteps, frantic dialogue — but they didn’t reach you. All you could hear was the soft sound of Hesh's breathing, the faint drag of stubble against your throat as he moved lower, his lips mapping the curve of your neck, taking his time. When he sucked, you gasped again. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by a kiss that felt more like a seal. A mark. He was leaving something behind on purpose.

Logan didn’t notice.

“Dumb bitch is gonna open the closet,” he muttered from the floor in front of you, shaking his head. “Every fucking time.”

You forced a breath. Forced a sound that might’ve passed for agreement. But your voice was thin, warped by the need crawling up your spine. You couldn’t look down. Couldn’t look at Hesh’s face either, which you knew would be smug. You could feel his smirk in the way he kissed you. Could feel the weight of his satisfaction pressed up against your hip.

Then he pulled back, just for a moment, and reached for the throw blanket draped over the side of the couch. He tugged it over both your laps in one smooth movement, the fabric pooling softly around your legs like it belonged there. Like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

But everything had shifted.

His arm slid from your shoulders down to your waist, lower still, fingers grazing your side, your ribs, until his hand found the underside of your breast. It was slow, but greedy. His palm cupped you through the thin cotton of your tank top, the shape of his hand fitting perfectly like he had always meant to hold them. His thumb brushed across your nipple once, the friction sending a jolt straight to your core. Then again. And again. He moved with intention, circling over the fabric until the flesh underneath tightened, hardened, ached to be uncovered.

You couldn’t breathe properly.

Your body was already reacting, nipples peaking beneath the soft barrier of your shirt, your thighs tense, clenched. He leaned in again, kissed the side of your neck just as your breath hitched. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, rough enough to awaken every nerve it touched. It made you shiver. You tried to suppress it, but it rolled down your spine like a wave, exposing you. The hand on your breast squeezed lightly, then returned to its slow, purposeful rhythm — the drag of his thumb, the press of his palm.

And then his other hand moved.

Under the blanket, his fingers found the bare skin of your thigh. He didn’t hesitate; just slid higher until his knuckles brushed the inside, just above your knee. You could feel him assessing the space, the shape of your legs beneath the blanket, as though he were mapping the way in. When his hand eased further up, you inhaled sharply through your nose.

There was no room to escape. And you didn’t want to.

Hesh's fingertips grazed the inside of your thigh, then paused, resting there like a question. Not yet touching you where you needed him most, but close enough that your whole body pulsed with the threat of it. Your underwear was already damp. You could feel the heat pooling low in your belly, spreading outward with every beat of your heart. Your breathing was shallow. Your chest rose and fell beneath his hand. You were slipping under, fast, and he knew it.

Then, Logan shifted.

It was subtle, just a lazy stretch, a roll of his shoulders, the familiar sound of his spine cracking as he leaned forward to grab another beer from the low coffee table. But the moment shattered all the same. Hesh’s hand vanished from between your thighs as if it had never been there. One second, you were burning under the heat of his palm, breath stuck in your throat, heart thundering at the risk of it all — and the next, the entire weight of him lifted. His mouth slipped from your neck, his arm from your waist, his thigh no longer brushing against yours. Like smoke through a screen door, he was gone, retreating into casual distance as though nothing had happened.

But your body didn’t get the message.

You sat frozen beneath the thin throw blanket, skin still aching, chest tight with unsatisfied hunger. Every nerve felt raw, exposed. Your nipples still strained against the soft cotton of your tank top, tingling from the attention they'd been denied. Between your legs, you were slick and clenched, your thighs pressed together in a vain attempt to quell the throbbing pulse he’d left behind. You stared blankly at the TV, some gory third act unfolding on the screen, and you didn’t see a second of it. You were lost in the absence, trapped in the echo of his touch, the phantom feel of his fingers teasing the inside of your leg, the memory of his lips along your neck. Your body was spiralling, your mind no better, wired and restless and stretched tight enough to snap.

The movie ended in a blur of screaming violins and final girl theatrics. The credits rolled.

Logan groaned, dragging himself off the floor with a yawn that cracked his jaw. “God, I need a shower,” he muttered, arms stretching above his head, shirt lifting just enough to flash a stripe of stomach. He turned back, blinking blearily at you. “You gonna shower before bed?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, praying your voice wouldn’t betray how breathless you still were. “I already did,” you said, too fast, too high.

“Fine by me.” And with that, he was gone, heavy footsteps creaking up the stairs, the bathroom door shutting behind him with a faint click that felt like a gun going off.

Silence fell like a curtain.

You turned your head, slowly, like your body didn’t trust itself to move too quickly. Hesh sat at the opposite end of the couch, pretending to be interested in the end credits, but his shoulders were a touch too relaxed. Too smug. That same teasing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

You smacked his arm. Hard.

“What the fuck was that?” you hissed, the whisper hoarse and furious. Not just with him. With yourself. With your own wrecked restraint. “Seriously, Hesh — what the fuck?”

He lifted his hands in mock defence, eyebrows raised, rubbing where you'd hit him. “Ow. Jesus, [Name]. I thought you were into it.”

“I was,” you snapped, voice sharp with frustration. “But Logan could’ve seen. You were feeling me up right beside him! Are you insane?”

Hesh's grin stretched wider, all self-satisfied and infuriating. “You think Logan doesn’t know?” he said, voice pitched low and smug, like he was letting you in on a secret you should’ve figured out months ago. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to ride me since the first weekend you stayed over.”

You stared at him, mouth parted, momentarily speechless.

“You’re such a little shit.”

“You’re not denying it.”

You shoved him again, but there was laughter now from both of you, real, electric, cutting through the tension like the first strike of a storm. Hesh caught your wrist before you could pull away, his fingers sliding down until they tangled with yours, and then he tugged. Just hard enough to pull you closer, and then again, until you lost your balance and ended up sprawled back on the couch, legs sliding to either side of his hips, his body hovering over yours like it had always belonged there.

“How long have you known?” you asked, voice rough with want, with disbelief, with everything you hadn’t said before.

“Since I first met you,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I’m not slow, angel. I know what you want.”

The words landed low in your stomach, heat blooming outward in a wave that had you curling your fingers in the front of his shirt, needing to feel something real. “Then why wait so long?”

His cockiness faded just a touch, replaced with something quieter, more careful. “Logan got to you first,” he said, mouth brushing the curve of your cheek. “Wasn’t about to swoop in if I thought he liked you.”

You stilled. “And does he?”

Hesh shook his head, no hesitation. “Nope,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “All mine for the taking, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught again, and the part of you that had been aching since the moment you met wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar and crash your mouth against his. To finish what he started. To drag him upstairs and leave bite marks across his chest and scream into his shoulder while you came apart on him.

But you weren’t going to make it that easy.

You sat up slowly, pushing him off with a light shove. He let you go, slumping back on the cushions with a groan.

“Well now,” you said, “who says I still want you?”

Hesh threw his head back in exaggerated anguish. “Don’t do that.”

You stood, stretching your arms above your head like you weren’t still throbbing from his touch, and headed for the stairs.

“You gonna make me work for it?” he called out, voice rough and playful behind you.

You looked over your shoulder, grin sharp and wicked. “Fuck yeah. I’ve gone through the motions. Now it’s your turn.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking tease.”

You laughed, light and breathless. “Goodnight, Hesh.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, his gaze catching yours. “Just wait until morning, sweetheart.”

The soft creak of the steps under your feet was your only answer as you disappeared into the dark, already counting down the hours until then.

#YUMMY DELICIOUS 10/10 THANK YOU FOR THE MEAL #every time someone writes hesh i get +5 years to my life #lychee reads #hesh x reader

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