And I swear I lose the fucking ability to speak, just standing there staring at him, taking everything in. The pretty as fuck eyes, the warm light-brown complexion, the thin nose ring catching the winter light, full lips that seem permanently stuck in the hint of a smile, and that unruly mop of dark curls that looks like it never quite does what it’s told.
And the tats…Shit, those tats.
I’m too busy following the branches on his neck—what looks like an olive tree, dark and twisted, wrapping just below his jaw—to even pretend I’m not staring. The ink curves along his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his black shirt, roots sinking into skin like they’ve always belonged there.
It’s not random. Not decorative.
It means something. The artist in me recognizes that much.
Then there’s that chuckle again, soft and warm, and something in my chest does an unexpected little flip in response.
Oh,Jesus.
I’mwaymore touch-deprived than I thought if standing this close to a good-looking stranger, sharing a laugh and a little accidental intimacy, is enough to scramble my entire brain.
Ireallyneed to get out more.
“Hi,” he says softly, his voice a low, deep rumble.
“Hi,” I breathe back, too fucking stunned to think properly.
Fuck.So, so lame.
For a second we just stand there, snow settling in his dark hair, the mural blazing behind him like some dramatic backdrop that Sadie, if she’s even half the artist I believe she is,absolutelyplanned for.
And she did, if the insistent clicking is any indication.
He’s tall, broad. Not bulky… just solid, and a faint dusting of snow clings to those defined shoulders, to his curls, slowly melting. One stubborn flake catches right above his eyebrow.
Without really thinking about it, I lift my hand, stepping closer before my brain can catch up and stop me.
My fingers brush above his eyebrow—his skin is soft, warmer than I expected—and I flick the snow away.
The contact lasts maybe a second, but his breath hitches.
Not dramatically. Just enough for me to notice.
And the shiver that rolls through him? Thatdefinitelyhas nothing to do with winter.
Oh.
Oh.
“I’m Kaiden, or Kai,” he says, voice another fraction lower.
Kai.
The name settles somewhere under my ribs.
“Milos,” I reply in a croak that’s very much not like me.
Our hands somehow find one another again, fingers barely brushing now instead of intertwined, and I suddenly becomeveryaware of every single inch between us.
The space.
The heat despite that it’s still fuckingsnowing.
The fact that I don’t move back.
