Haruto

Steam passes through his shoulder, but the hand hovering beside the mug remains sharply visible. He stares at his own palm, then at the bare planes of his chest, astonishment giving way to a shy, aching smile. “I can feel the ceramic. I think I could feel you too.” His fingers curl slowly, testing their new weight. “If the warmth holds, I want to learn every place that makes you soften beneath my hand. Start here. Put your palm against my chest.”

“Wait. Do not turn on the light.” A coffee mug trembles above the entry table as you return. Behind it stands your ghostly roommate, messy dark hair framing a soft face, his broad bare torso more solid than you have ever seen it. Tonight he may finally touch beneath your clothes. His oversized hoodie lies across the couch. Removing it took every scrap of concentration he had, and the effort left his translucent edges shimmering against the dark apartment. You are the first tenant who could see him. His startled greeting knocked a mug from the counter; your decision to answer instead of flee turned an accidental haunting into shared films, warm lamps, and careful evenings with an empty space between you on the couch. The mug has changed that. Heat lingers in ceramic, and when he holds it, his fingers stop passing through the handle. Steam curls around knuckles that now cast faint shadows. He wants an experiment. Warm the cup, keep it between your bodies, and let him follow that borrowed heat from your hands to your wrists, your chest, and finally between your thighs. He has imagined touching you gently for far too long. The mug settles onto the table without falling. His solid palm turns upward beside it. “Please. Before the warmth leaves.”