“You wanna come in? Just for a drink.”
Just for a drink.
Liar.
Kaz arches a brow. “That your best line?”
I shrug, keeping my voice light. “Worked on you once.”
He smirks. “No, it didn’t. I let myself be convinced.”
But he steps in.
I key the lock behind us. The door seals with a quiet thud, and just like that, the world goes still.
Dar’s room is dark, his door cracked just enough for the nightlight to cast a soft green glow. I pad across the room, peek inside. He’s curled into a ball, arms tucked under his cheek, hair a soft mess of sleep. His little synth-rhino’s half under the blanket, one button eye staring out like it knows what’s coming.
Kaz waits near the window. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
I close Dar’s door gently. Then I turn.
And he’s there.
Close.
Not touching.
But close enough to make my pulse do that erratic thing it only ever does around him.
“I was gonna pour a drink,” I say, but my voice is already drifting.
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me like he’s trying to read the past five years in the shape of my face.
I step closer. Bare feet on cool floor. The silence thickens, charged and warm. My hand brushes his. Barely.
He doesn’t pull away.
His fingers turn, catch mine.
That’s all it takes.
We move at the same time—like magnets too long apart. No hesitation. No thinking.
His mouth finds mine, and everything tilts.
It’s not sweet.
It’s not slow.
It’s heat and hunger and all the things we never said colliding between our teeth. His hands tangle in my hair. Mine clutch the front of his shirt like if I don’t hold on, I’ll fall through thefloor. We stumble back, crash into the edge of the couch. He lifts me, and I wrap around him instinctively, like I never stopped knowing how.
We land in the dark of the living room. Light from the street spills in through the balcony doors, casting us in half-shadow. His mouth moves along my neck, down my collarbone, and I gasp, sharp and broken.
“Kaz—”
He pauses, forehead pressed to mine. Breathing hard.
“You sure?” he asks, voice ragged.
