After that, the emotion was too intense to go back to sleep. The nap was over, swept away by everything that had just happened. Smaïn turned to me, a shy smile on his lips. "What if I showed you Lyon?" His mother nodded, as if she had guessed his intention. "Yes, you're right. Take him to see Lyon." She watched us with a tenderness that warmed my heart. "And besides, your brother isn't here yet, so it works out perfectly… You two can go off without a care in the world." Without a care? I knew deep down she was thinking: "as lovers." The afternoon stretched out like a waking dream. Lyon, under the summer sky, offered us its narrow streets, its shaded squares, its secrets. We didn't dare hold hands in public, of course—the looks, the whispers, the risks were too great back then. But it didn't matter. In a smoky café, our fingers brushed against each other under the table, discreetly, like a shared secret. A stolen kiss in a doorway, a furtive embrace behind a newsstand. And then, the Parc de la Tête d'Or, its winding paths, its thickets where we lost ourselves, where our lips met, sheltered by the foliage, as if the world had ceased to exist. We could have gone home, but Smaïn had another idea. He led me to a small Algerian restaurant where the air vibrated with laughter and lively conversation. The walls were covered in colorful fabrics, the tables laden with steaming dishes: couscous, tagines, kebabs. Smaïn's friends passed by, stopping to exchange news, jokes, friendly pats on the back. The scent of spices mingled with that of mint tea. We eat, drink, laugh, as if we were at home, as if we had nothing to hide. And then, evening falls. We go home, our hearts light, our bodies tired from this day of stolen freedom. At his parents' house, in the room we share, we fall asleep like an old married couple, enveloped in tenderness. Me, snuggled against him, my head resting on his shoulder, breathing in his scent, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing. It's not even the fear of being caught, nor the feeling of being in a place where it wouldn't be possible. No, simply a gentle weariness, bathed in complete well-being, as if the whole world had vanished, leaving only the two of us, enveloped in this simple and perfect peace. I wake up first, pulled from my sleep by the dull, gray light filtering through the thin curtains of the housing project. The neon lights of the estate, even at dawn, cast a pale glow on the peeling walls. The air is heavy, stifling, and no sheets cover us — the heat of the night forced us to get rid of them.I slowly sit up, my elbow on the pillow, and gaze at Smaïn asleep beside me, naked. His body is there, offered, relaxed: his broad shoulders, his torso gently rising, his flat stomach, his narrow hips. He's simply sleeping, peaceful. I lean down, brushing his skin, his shoulder, then slowly moving down, savoring every inch of this body I love. I place a light kiss on his resting penis, like a discreet tenderness, a promise for later. He barely moves, then opens his eyes. A tired smile plays on his lips. "Did you kiss me there?" I reply teasingly, "Yes, there… and lots more kisses." And I go back, covering his penis with kisses. He wakes up immediately, stirring beneath my lips. I lift my head, amused, and say to him, "My love! What a reflex!" He replies, smiling, "Whose fault is it?" I said, "Shhh!" I grasped his penis in my hand, weighing it with calculated slowness, as if to gauge its weight, its heat. My palm slid along its shaft, a firm but unhurried movement, as if I wanted to imbue it with my presence. I squeezed it lightly, just enough to feel it harden between my fingers, then almost released it, only to take it again immediately, like a game. My mouth landed on the top of his thigh, placed a wet kiss there, then moved up, lightly brushing his skin with the tips of my lips, never touching him where he longed for me. I breathed on it, a stream of warm air that made him shiver. He tensed, seeking my touch, but I pulled back, amused by his impatience. I finally enveloped it with my lips, just the tip, and held him there, motionless, savoring his thrill. Then I let go, only to start again, over and over, until he's fully awake, hard, tense, and his breaths grow shorter. My fingers slide lower, brushing against his balls, rolling them gently, feeling their soft texture and warmth. He reaches out, grasps my already hard penis, and whispers to me, amused, "But he's awake too." I reply, a smile playing on my lips, "He's waiting for you..." Then he does the same, but with more boldness. He takes hold of my penis and, instead of simply squeezing it, he guides it toward his mouth with provocative slowness. His tongue wraps around me, not in circles, but in an undulating motion, like a wave rising and falling, while his fingers explore my balls with just enough pressure to make me gasp.We adjust ourselves in silence, trying t ...

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