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‘Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?’
Hux can already feel the irritation creeping into his voice. It's nine AM, and even on a Sunday he'd normally have eaten breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, and been out for a run.
The stranger has his back to him still. Dark hair a loud exclamation point across his exquisite white pillowcases. One muscular, mole-speckled shoulder out of the covers, still perfectly content in his bed.
‘Seem to remember you dragged me in here. Took my clothes off too.’
Oh. That great rumble of a voice, sonorous and endlessly sexy, that may go partway to explaining the situation. Why a slightly inebriated Hux may have seen fit to ask him back here and let him do unspeakable things to him. That voice murmuring filth to him over the pounding baseline in one bar or another, those wide palms now settled on his crisply ironed sheets had been on his waist, untucking his shirt to grasp at his hip…
‘Well, I'd have expected you to be up by now. It's after nine.’ Most if them have the good grace to leave by now.
‘But it's Saturday.’ The stranger whines in protest, rolling into his back.
Fuck. He's gorgeous. Not even in a tanned, blonde, well-groomed way (which seems to be Hux’s preference). His ears and nose are far too large, his skin is paper-pale, just this side of sallow. The huge, dark eyes that gaze up at him from the pillow should represent the kind of puppyish begging Hux can't stand, but there's a boldness, a melting intensity to them. His expression and body language stays languid, but makes no apology for the (large) amount of space he occupies. It shouldn't work. But it keeps Hux staring.
‘Well.’ Hux snaps himself out of his daydream ‘Some of us are on a schedule. Even on a Saturday-’ he pauses. Kevin? Kyle?
‘Kylo’ he supplies, looking amused. ‘But I'm sorry.’
‘Don't you have a job to go to?’
‘Tonight, yeah. But I'm free and easy this morning.’ He mumbles, stretching.
Hux tries to avert his eyes from the taut bands of muscle across his arms and shoulder, the way he rolls his hips up to arch his spine. pushes away a fleeting thought from last night of just how strong Kylo was, how he'd scooped Hux up like nothing at all. Hux remembers wrapping his legs around that trim, solid waist, his back against tHe kitchen wall.
‘And what would you do that required you to work at night?’ He says, trying to stay polite.
‘Chef. Downtown. And you? No, no, lemme guess. You're a….’ He rubs his chin in thought, dragging his eyes over Hux in a way that stirs something in his stomach.
‘Doctor? Some kind of surgeon, havn't really got time for a boyfriend but want to get laid? Judge? Sunday school teacher?’
Hux glares at him at the last one. ‘Architect.’
‘So I was at least right about the ‘havn't got time’ part?’
‘I don't really think that's your business?’
‘So I am right.’
Hux turns his back to leave, he really doesn't have time for this, however obscene the thoughts that have just crept back into the front of his mind.
‘I'm sorry I messed things up.’ Kylo at least sounds sincere this time. ‘Let me make you breakfast? I'll be out of your hair and you never have to see me again.’
‘Shame.’
Hux curses himself for saying that all the way to the kitchen.
***
Kylo is, as it turns out, an excellent cook. A rummage through Hux’s cupboards and fridge yields ingredients for pancakes, scattered with fat blueberries and a thick, snowy dollop of creme fraiche.
Hux makes coffee, stealing the occasional glance at Kylo, dressed only in black jeans, languidly flipping pancakes. Watches him eat, a little messily, great greedy bites with syrup down his chin, and smiling at a compliment from Hux. Chased with a mouthful of lethally strong coffee, black, no sugar.
Too soon it's time to wash up. Regret settles heavy in Hux’s chest, because it really would be best if he left. But there's something about his company that relaxes Hux. Loosens everything that was previously wound so tight, and let's him laugh. Sometimes at Kylo, sometimes even at himself.
He had Kylo down as the clumsy type, but it's him that, embarrassingly, trips, shattering a porcelain coffee cup across the kitchen tiles. Cursing, he tries to gather the bits before Kylo can get to them, because this is his house, his kitchen, and he should really be more restrained than this. Because, for all he believes, bone china cups are impractical if he’s going to throw them to the floor at the slightest provocation.
But kylo is as maddeningly slow and calm as he has been all morning, gathering the wide, curved shards and dropping them into a bowl with a soft clink, finally shuffling over on his knees to where Hux is knelt. They dive for the last piece at the same time, although Kylo grabs it, Hux’s hand closing over his.
Kylo drops it into the bowl deliberately, although his eyes are still on Hux’s, and the clink of the pieces sounds a very long way away. They're not just brown, as Hux had earlier thought. The irises are shot through with amber, and he doesn't blink or flinch.
It seems to take hours, days, a lifetime, for Kylo’s hand to rise, brushing the backs of his fingers tenderly across Hux’s cheek. When he does, Hux finds himself reaching for Kylo’s wrist. Don't go.
And that's how Kylo kisses him, rocks forward on his knees to meet Hux’s lips, warm and demanding, arm holding him steady. And Hux melts, whole body curling forward, pliant against Kylo’s, a soft cry of relief escaping from somewhere in his chest. He will look back on that noise, cringing. But in the moment, Kylo is a heady mix of lust, and comfort and home. Sudden, unexpected, but somehow bone-deep and comfortably certain at the same time.
Their joined hands still on Hux’s cheek, Kylo’s bare chest pressed to Hux’s shirt front.
That's when they realise that neither is willing to let go, not yet.