Page 34 of Crusher's Illusion

Internal tensions are rising. Peach suspects me openly. Rock distrusts Crusher’s judgement re: me.

Killian: recovering. Injury is likely non-fatal, but bonding moment significant.

At the bottom of the page, typed in lowercase like it doesn’t matter:

Crusher keeps looking at me like he wants to fuck me or kill me. Maybe both. I’m not sure which would ruin me faster.

It’s close to midnight when hunger wins out. I creep downstairs barefoot, dressed in Crusher’s t-shirt and my leggings. The shirt hangs low enough to feel indecent and intimate at once.

The kitchen’s mostly dark, just the under-cabinet strip light humming low. I reach for the bread drawer, intent on making a grilled cheese with all the stealth of a raccoon in a dumpster.

Then I hear him. “You burn it, you’re cleaning the pan.”

I freeze and turn slowly. “Is that how you greet all your houseguests?”

Crusher leans against the frame, barefoot, arms crossed over a tight white undershirt and grey sweats slung low on his hips. Hair still wet from a shower. No rings, no cut. Just skin and shadow and everything I’ve been trying not to look at.

“Only the ones I find sneaking around my kitchen after hours.”

“Didn’t realize this was your turf.”

He steps forward. “Everything in this house is mine.”

My breath catches. I drop the spatula and lean back against the counter. “You planning to throw me out of it?”

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to keep you in one piece.”

His eyes drop to my legs. Then they climb back up, slow and deliberate.

I don’t flinch.

“Why’d you come down?” he asks.

“I was hungry.”

“For food?”

I should say yes. I should crack a joke and slip away before I cross the line I’ve been toeing since the night I climbed on his bike. But my pulse betrays me. So does the way I look at his mouth.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

And that’s all it takes.

He’s there before I can think. One hand lands beside my hip, the other skimming up my waist. His breath brushes mine.

“Tell me to stop.”

I don’t. I can’t.

His mouth crashes into mine. Rough, hot, claiming. He tastes like heat and sin and something dangerously close to home. I fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. He grunts low in his throat, one hand cupping the back of my neck, tilting my face just right.

It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s everything we’ve been swallowing since that night in his bed. When we break apart, I’m gasping. He tastes like everything I’ve been running from. Smoke. Heat. Home

He leans his forehead against mine. “This is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not sorry.”