You cross the remaining distance

You cross the remaining distance and stop in front of him.

Close. Closer than casual. Close enough that the heat coming off his bare chest reaches your shirt. Close enough to smell skin and the faint clean trace of whatever he washed with earlier. The single lamp in the corner throws a warm edge of light across his collarbone and the top of his shoulder. Everything else in the room falls away.

For a long second neither of you moves.

{if game:confidence >= 75}

You don’t wait for him to close the last inch. You reach out and hook two fingers into the waistband of his briefs, not pulling, just resting the contact there against the warm skin of his hip. His stomach tightens under your knuckles. You feel the muscle jump. He doesn’t step back.

{elseif game:confidence >= 45}

You hold his gaze and let the silence do the work. You’re near enough that if either of you leaned forward another fraction you’d be touching. The air between your mouths feels charged. You can see the faint rise and fall of his chest, a little too quick.

{else}

Your pulse is louder than it should be. You stop maybe half a step further back than you intended. He notices. Something soft and knowing moves through his expression, not unkind, almost amused, like he’s already clocked that you’re a little more nervous than you’re letting on.

{endif}

The quiet stretches.

You can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchenette. Somewhere outside a car passes with a low wash of sound. Inside the apartment the only real noise is breathing — his and yours — and the small shift of fabric when he adjusts his weight.

His eyes move over your face, then lower, then back up. Slow. Unhurried. Like he’s already running calculations. The outline in his black briefs has grown heavier since you walked in. Thick. Weighted to the left. He makes no effort to hide it.

{if game:arousal >= 40}

Your own cock has started to fill, pressing against the front of your sweatpants. The awareness of it sits hot and obvious between you.

{else}

You’re starting to harden. Not fully, not yet, but enough that the air feels tighter than it did a minute ago.

{endif}

He breaks the silence first. Voice low, a little rough around the edges.

{if game:confidence >= 45}

“You’re staring,” he says. The corner of his mouth lifts. “Wondering the same thing I am?”

He glances down between your bodies, then back up, eyes darker.

“How we measure up.”

{elseif game:confidence >= 45}

“So.” A small pause. “We doing this proper, or we skipping ahead?”

His gaze drops briefly, deliberately, to the front of your sweatpants and then to his own.

“I kind of want to see what's hiding in your pants.”

{else}

He studies your face for a second longer than is comfortable.

“You’re a little nervous,” he says, not unkindly. “It’s okay. We can slow it down… or we can get the obvious question out of the way first.”

His eyes flick downward.

“You want to compare, right?”

{endif}

The question lands in the small space between you and stays there, heavy and deliberate.

{if reader:cock_desc = "on the smaller side"}

A familiar heat crawls up the back of your neck and settles low in your stomach. You’ve been on this side of the question before. There’s always a second where the room seems to tilt, where you feel the exact weight of what you’re packing and wonder how obvious it already is. Part of you wants to deflect, keep the clothes on a little longer. Another part — the part that came here in the first place — feels the opposite pull: the sharp, almost masochistic curiosity of just getting it over with. Of watching his face when he sees. The nerves and the arousal tangle together until you can’t tell which one is making your pulse hammer.

{elseif reader:cock_desc = "average but thick"}

The words sink in and sit warm behind your navel. Not panic. Not blind swagger. Just the clean, focused click of a challenge you know you can stand inside. Average and thick has never been a punchline for you; it’s a solid, heavy fact. You feel your cock give another slow pulse against the fabric, like it already knows it’s about to be looked at. There’s a quiet competitiveness waking up in your chest — not the need to destroy him, just the low, steady desire to see the moment of honest assessment land on both of you.

{elseif reader:cock_desc = "big and heavy"}

Something restless and pleased uncurls under your ribs. You’ve heard versions of this question before. It usually ends the same way. You can already picture the shift in his expression, the little pause, the way people recalibrate when they realize the outline wasn’t lying. The knowledge sits in you like a warm stone. You’re not in a rush to gloat. You just want the air cleared. You want him to look, properly, and adjust whatever private ranking he was already building in his head.

{elseif reader:cock_desc = "seriously hung"}

A slow, almost lazy current of certainty moves through you. Seriously hung isn’t something you have to announce. It’s just the truth of your body, and your body is already starting to show it. You feel the weight of your cock thickening against your thigh, heavy and obvious, and instead of nerves you feel a kind of calm hunger. Let him look. Let him take his time. You’re curious what his face will do when the last of the guessing ends.

{endif}

This is the first real hinge of the night. Everything before was just logistics and looking. What you do next decides whether the comparison becomes the center of the next few minutes or gets pushed aside for something more immediate.

He waits. Patient. Still. The waistband of his briefs sits low on his hips. The lamp light catches the small trail of hair disappearing under the elastic. He isn’t rushing you. He’s just watching to see what kind of night this is going to be.