The Line We Crossed

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jayne stared at the leaning tower of cardboard boxes that threatened to swallow her tiny living room whole. A groan escaped her lips as she pressed her phone harder against her ear.

“I’m sorry, Jaynie. It’s last minute, I know. The client moved up the presentation,” Armando’s voice crackled with apologetic static. “I can’t get out of it.”

“Mando, it’s moving day,” she said, her voice flat. “The one day I actually needed you.” It wasn’t a guilt trip, just a fact. He was the one with the muscles and the pickup truck. She was the one with a bad back and a compact car that could barely fit a week’s worth of groceries.

“I know, I know. But I have a solution,” he said, his tone brightening with an optimism she did not share. “I already called Cason. He’s gonna come help you. He’ll be there in an hour.”

Jayne’s stomach did a slow, uncomfortable flip. Cason. She’d known him for years, but only in the way you know the permanent fixtures in someone else’s life. He was Armando’s best friend, a constant presence at family barbecues and holiday dinners. He was tall, with broad shoulders and an easy, quiet smile that always seemed to hold back a private joke. And yes, if she was being honest with herself, he was ridiculously handsome in a rugged, unassuming way. But he was also a virtual stranger.

“You asked Cason to spend his entire Saturday hauling my junk across town?” she asked, mortified.

“He offered! Said he had nothing else going on. He’s a good guy, Jaynie. It’ll be fine.”

Fine. An hour later, her buzzer rang, and “fine” was the last word on her mind. When she opened the door, Cason was leaning against the frame, filling it completely. He wore a faded gray t-shirt that stretched across his chest and a pair of worn jeans that hugged his thighs. His dark hair was a little messy, and a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his jaw.

“Hey,” he said, that quiet smile making an appearance. His voice was deeper than she remembered, a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. “Armando sent me. Ready to do this?”

“Hi. Yeah. Thanks so much for coming, Cason. You really don’t have to—”

“It’s no problem,” he cut her off gently, stepping inside. His eyes scanned the mountain of boxes, and he just nodded, as if assessing a worthy opponent. “Looks like you’ve got it all packed. Just need the muscle.” He rolled his shoulders, and the fabric of his shirt strained. Jayne’s mouth went dry. She watched, momentarily mesmerized, as he bent down, sliding his hands under the heaviest-looking box near the door. The muscles in his back and arms bunched, defined and powerful, and he lifted it with an ease that made her feel weak. He shot her a quick grin over his shoulder. “Let’s start with the big stuff.”

The day dissolved into a rhythm of heavy lifting and strained breathing. Jayne tried to keep up, grabbing the lighter boxes, but Cason handled the truly back-breaking work without a single complaint. Sweat slicked his temples and dampened the collar of his t-shirt, which now clung to the hard planes of his chest and back. The air in the narrow hallway was thick with the scent of cardboard, dust, and the warm, masculine smell of his exertion.

He was halfway down the stairs with her bulky dresser when she noticed a box she’d forgotten to label properly. It just had a scrawled "FRAGILE - J's STUFF" on the side.

“I’ll get that one,” she said, moving toward it.

“I’ve got it.” Cason was already back, breathing a little heavily but smiling. He hoisted it with an easy grunt. The box wasn’t heavy, but it was packed dense. “What’s in here, rocks?”

“Close,” Jayne laughed, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “My vintage sci-fi collection. The original Blu-ray prints.”

He stopped dead on the landing, turning to look at her. His dark eyes, which she’d always thought were just quietly observant, were suddenly sharp and focused on her. “No shit? Like what?”

“Uh, the basics. Forbidden Planet, The Thing from Another World… the original Blade Runner director’s cut, obviously.”

A slow grin spread across Cason’s face, transforming it. It wasn’t the polite smile she was used to; this was genuine, wide, and utterly captivating. “You’re a Blade Runner fan? Theatrical cut is better.”

Jayne gasped in mock offense. “Take that back right now. The unicorn dream sequence is essential!”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound that echoed in the stairwell. “It’s ambiguous without it! That’s the point.”

The argument carried them down to his truck and all the way to her new apartment. The awkward silence that had filled the first trip was replaced by a rapid-fire debate over Ridley Scott’s intentions, the merits of practical effects versus CGI, and whether Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still was a hero or a menace. For the first time, Jayne wasn’t just looking at Cason as her brother’s handsome, off-limits friend. She was talking to him, really talking, and discovering a mind that was just as engaged and passionate as her own.

He knew his stuff, quoting lines from obscure films she thought only she and a few internet forum dwellers cared about. She found herself watching the way his mouth moved when he got excited about a point, the way his eyes lit up when she brought up a film he loved. The physical work became an afterthought, a simple backdrop to their conversation. By the time the last box was stacked in her new living room, they were both breathless, sweaty, and laughing. The tension between them hadn’t vanished, but it had changed. It was no longer the stiff apprehension of strangers; it was a thrumming, palpable energy, an awareness that felt both comfortable and dangerously new.

“Well,” Cason said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I think that’s everything.”

The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows through the bare windows of her new apartment. The energy that had crackled between them during their debate now settled into a warm, humming quiet. Jayne found she didn’t want him to leave.

“I can’t thank you enough, Cason. Seriously. I would have been here until midnight, probably crying in a pile of boxes.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Anytime. It was… actually fun.” His eyes met hers, and there was an honesty in them that made her breath catch. He wasn't just being polite.

“Yeah,” she breathed out, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “It was.”

He nodded toward the door. “I should probably get going. Let you start the actual fun part of unpacking.” He started to walk away, then stopped at the threshold as if a thought had just struck him. “Wait here a second.”

He disappeared down the hall, and Jayne listened to his heavy footsteps on the stairs. She leaned against a stack of boxes, her muscles aching in a satisfying way. A moment later, he was back, holding a worn paperback book in his hand. The cover was creased, the art depicting a stark, alien landscape under a binary sun.

“You said you’d never read The Left Hand of Darkness,” he said, holding it out to her. “It’s a spare copy I had in the car. You should have it.”

Jayne reached for it, her fingers anticipating the feel of the old paper. As she took the book, his hand shifted, and the tips of his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of her palm. It wasn't a fleeting, accidental touch. For a split second, his fingers seemed to press, a deliberate, warm weight against her skin before he pulled away.

A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. Heat flooded her chest, and she felt the pulse in her throat quicken. She looked from the book up to his face. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes watching her reaction. The air thickened, suddenly charged with the unspoken thing that had been building between them all afternoon. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her, a phantom warmth that felt like a brand.

“Thanks,” she managed to say, her voice huskier than before. Her fingers tightened around the book, the worn cover a tangible link to the man standing in her doorway.

“Enjoy it,” he said, his voice a low murmur. He gave her a small, final nod, a shadow of that easy smile on his lips, and then he was gone.

Jayne stood frozen in the silence of her empty apartment, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator. She stared down at the book in her hand, but she wasn’t seeing it. All she could feel was the ghost of his touch, the brief, searing contact of his skin against hers. It was a simple, meaningless gesture, but it had ignited something deep inside her, something she knew she wouldn't be able to ignore. The day was over, but something new had just begun.

For two days, the book sat on her nightstand, a silent accusation. Jayne had tried to unpack, to create some semblance of order in the chaos of her new life, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Cason. To the easy cadence of his laugh, the intensity in his eyes when he talked about something he loved, and the searing heat of his fingers against her palm. It was absurd. A five-second touch shouldn’t have this kind of hold on her.

By the third night, surrounded by half-empty boxes, she gave in. She picked up the book and devoured the first hundred pages. The story was incredible—complex, political, and deeply human. But as she read, she wasn't just thinking about the planet of Gethen; she was imagining Cason’s reaction to it. She could almost hear his low voice debating the nuances of the plot.

Her thumb hovered over his contact in her phone, a number she’d had for years but never used. It felt like crossing a line, one she hadn’t even known existed until Saturday. Taking a breath, she typed out a message, deleting and rephrasing it three times before finally hitting send.

Jayne: Hey, Cason. I’m about a third of the way through The Left Hand of Darkness. You were right, it’s amazing. I have a question about Estraven, though. Am I supposed to trust him?

She tossed her phone onto the couch cushion as if it were on fire, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was a stupid, needy text. He was probably busy. He’d probably think she was weird for texting him so late.

Less than a minute later, her phone buzzed.

Cason: That’s the whole point. Le Guin wants you to feel as lost as Genly Ai does. Just wait until you get to the ice crossing.

A smile bloomed on Jayne’s face, warm and uncontrollable. Relief washed over her, so potent it made her feel light-headed.

Jayne: Noted. I’ll reserve judgment. For now.

Cason: Good. It’s better that way. So, have you decided where to put that terrifying poster of The Thing yet? I’m thinking right over your bed. Keep you motivated to get up in the morning.

She laughed out loud, the sound echoing in her mostly empty apartment. The conversation flowed as easily as it had in person, a seamless continuation of their debate in the stairwell. That first night, they texted until well after midnight, their discussion weaving from Ursula K. Le Guin to John Carpenter, and then to their mutual disappointment in the latest blockbuster space opera.

It became their ritual. Around ten o’clock, one of them would send a message—a link to a movie trailer, a random thought, a question about the book. The conversations would stretch late into the night, long after the city had gone quiet. The initial shield of science fiction quickly fell away. He asked about her freelance graphic design work, and she found herself telling him about her dream of one day illustrating children’s books, a secret she’d barely even admitted to Armando. He told her about the frustrations of his construction management job, the feeling of being on a path he hadn’t consciously chosen. They talked about their families, their hometowns, the small anxieties that kept them awake at night.

Jayne lived for those conversations. The buzz of her phone was a jolt of pure pleasure, a secret thrill that belonged only to her. She’d lie in bed, the screen of her phone illuminating her face in the darkness, a giddy heat pooling low in her stomach as she read his words. He was funny, surprisingly vulnerable, and sharper than she’d ever given him credit for. She was discovering the man, not just her brother’s friend, and the more she learned, the deeper she fell. Each shared confidence, each late-night admission, felt like another thread pulling them closer, tangling them together in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifyingly new.

About a week into their nightly ritual, Cason sent a link to a local independent theater's website. It was for a weekend-long festival dedicated to restored 70s sci-fi prints.

Cason: Look at this lineup. They’re showing Silent Running. On 35mm.

Jayne’s breath hitched. She clicked the link, her eyes scanning the schedule. It was perfect. A collection of strange, thoughtful, and beautifully bleak films that she and Cason had spent hours dissecting.

Jayne: That’s incredible. I didn’t even know this was happening.

The three dots indicating he was typing appeared and disappeared twice before the next message came through.

Cason: I was thinking of going Saturday. You should come. If you’re not busy.

Her heart did a slow, heavy tumble in her chest. This was different. This wasn't a late-night text exchange conducted from the safety of their own beds. This was a plan. An invitation. An us in the real world, with no brother-shaped buffer between them. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. The line they’d been carefully walking was suddenly right at their feet, daring them to step over.

Jayne: I’m not busy. I’d love to.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she hit send. The response was almost instantaneous.

Cason: Great. It’s a date.

The word hung in the air between them, electric and ambiguous. Jayne stared at it, her stomach fluttering. He had to mean it in the casual sense, a simple marker of a planned event. But the way her pulse was hammering against her skin told her she didn't believe that, not really.

The next two days were a blur of nervous anticipation. Jayne tried on three different outfits before settling on dark jeans, a soft gray t-shirt, and her favorite worn-in leather jacket. It was casual, but she hoped it looked effortlessly cool. She spent far too long on her makeup, wanting to look natural but also wanting him to notice.

He met her outside the theater, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a dark henley that stretched across his chest and shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing his forearms. When he saw her, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face, and the nervous energy coiling in her gut eased into a warm, liquid heat.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble that was even better in person.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “Ready to see some sad robots in space?”

He chuckled, pushing off the wall. “Born ready.”

The air inside the theater was thick with the smell of old popcorn and anticipation. It was a small, dedicated crowd, the kind of people who would applaud the studio logo on a vintage print. It felt like their world. As they found their seats in the dimly lit auditorium, his arm brushed against hers, and the simple contact sent a jolt straight through her. It was the same electric shock she’d felt in her apartment, but this time it was stronger, amplified by the weeks of secret conversations and shared vulnerability. The casual, friendly outing he’d proposed already felt like a lie. There was nothing casual about the way her body hummed with awareness of his, the way she could feel the heat radiating from his skin even though they weren’t touching. The lights began to dim, and the low murmur of the crowd faded, but the buzzing silence between them was louder than ever.

The film began, the familiar scratch and pop of the 35mm print filling the theater. On screen, the vast, silent emptiness of space unfolded. Jayne tried to focus on the story, on the lonely botanist tending to his geodesic domes, but her awareness was split. A significant portion of her brain was dedicated solely to the man sitting beside her. She could feel the solid warmth of his thigh just an inch from hers. Every time he shifted, the fabric of his jeans whispered against hers, and a fresh wave of heat washed through her.

She was so attuned to him that she knew the exact moment his breathing deepened, when he leaned forward slightly, completely absorbed in the film. The story was reaching its most heartbreaking point. The main character, Freeman Lowell, was being forced to destroy the forests he’d sworn to protect. On screen, he reprogrammed one of his drone companions, Huey, to plant a demolition charge. The small robot went about its task with innocent diligence, unaware of its own impending destruction. It was a quiet, agonizing sequence.

Jayne felt a lump form in her throat. Her own hand clenched into a fist on her lap. Beside her, Cason let out a soft, frustrated breath. And then, without warning, his arm was moving. It came to rest along the back of her seat, his fingers gently curling over her shoulder. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a tremor straight down her spine. Her entire body went rigid. Her breath caught in her lungs, held captive by the sudden, shocking intimacy of the gesture.

She expected him to pull away once the tense moment on screen passed. Lowell screamed at the drone, the charge detonated, and the theater was filled with the sound of the explosion. But Cason’s arm remained. His fingers didn’t retreat; instead, they seemed to settle, his thumb stroking absently against the seam of her t-shirt. The simple, repetitive motion was devastating. Heat bloomed where he touched her, a dizzying warmth that spread through her chest and down into the pit of her stomach.

Jayne forced herself to breathe. In. Out. She tilted her head just slightly, leaning back into his touch. It was a minuscule movement, a surrender of only an inch, but it felt monumental. In response, his arm tightened, pulling her more securely against his side. Now, her shoulder was tucked against his chest, her head just below his. She could feel the steady, solid beat of his heart through his shirt, a rhythm that was slow and sure, a stark contrast to the frantic hammering in her own chest.

The movie played on, but Jayne saw none of it. Her entire universe had shrunk to the space they occupied, to the solid line of his body against hers, the weight of his arm, the scent of his laundry detergent mixed with something uniquely him. This was no longer an accident. It wasn't an instinctive gesture of comfort for a sad movie. It was a claim. A question. By not pulling away, by leaning into him, she had given her answer. They sat that way for the remainder of the film, cocooned in the darkness, a silent, binding agreement passing between them in the space where his skin met hers. The line had been crossed.

The week after the movie festival was a study in exquisite tension. The unspoken thing that had happened in the dark theater—his arm around her, her body relaxing into his—was a constant presence, a low hum beneath every text and phone call. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t have to. Something had been acknowledged in that silent, shared space, and now they were just waiting to see what would grow in its wake.

So when he’d offered to help her paint the living room she was finally getting around to, she’d agreed immediately. It felt like the next logical step, another move into the territory of us.

Now, her apartment smelled of fresh latex paint and the cheap pizza they’d ordered for lunch. Drop cloths covered every surface, and a classic rock station played softly from her phone on the counter. Cason, dressed in a faded college t-shirt and worn jeans, was methodically rolling a coat of pale, watery blue onto the main wall. Jayne, in cutoff shorts and an old tank top, was meticulously cutting in the trim around the window frame. The work was companionable, the silence comfortable, but the air still crackled with that same energy from the theater.

She was so focused on keeping her line straight that she didn’t see him stop rolling. She felt his presence behind her before he spoke.

“You missed a spot,” he said, his voice a low murmur near her ear.

She instinctively glanced over her work. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

A flicker of movement, and then a cold, wet dot landed on her cheek. She froze, her brush hovering in mid-air. Slowly, she turned to face him. He was standing there with a smirk, the end of his own paintbrush dotted with the same blue now gracing her face.

“Right there,” he said, his grin widening.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Jayne’s lips. “Oh, you are going to regret that.”

Before he could react, she lunged, dabbing a deliberate streak of white trim paint down his forearm. He yelped in mock outrage, laughing as he backed away. “Hey! That’s cheating. Two different colors.”

“All’s fair in love and paint,” she declared, advancing on him with her brush held like a dagger.

The room, which had been a space of careful, quiet work, transformed into a playground. He dodged behind the stepladder, and she feinted left before swiping a white line across the sleeve of his shirt. He retaliated, managing to get a smudge of blue on her forehead. Laughter erupted from both of them, loud and unrestrained, bouncing off the half-painted walls. It was a release, a dam of unspoken tension breaking and flooding the apartment with pure, unadulterated joy.

He finally cornered her against the far wall, trapping her with an arm on either side of her head. They were both breathing hard, chests heaving. Her back was pressed against the cool plaster, his body a wall of heat in front of her. His face was inches from hers, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at her. He was splattered with white paint, and she was decorated in blue.

“Truce?” he asked, his voice husky.

She looked at his paint-covered brush, then back at his eyes. “Truce,” she agreed, her own voice barely a whisper. The air shifted again. The laughter faded, replaced by the sound of their breathing. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the playfulness evaporated, leaving behind something raw and intense. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. He held her there for a long, charged moment, and Jayne’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm that echoed the chaos of the last five minutes.

Cason slowly lowered his arms, breaking the cage he’d made around her. The playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dark, searching intensity that made the breath catch in Jayne’s throat. The air, thick with the smell of paint and their exertion, felt heavy and charged.

“We should, uh… we should probably clean this up,” she managed to say, her voice sounding thin and reedy to her own ears.

He gave a slow, single nod, his gaze never leaving hers. He stepped back, giving her space to move, but the invisible tether between them remained, taut and humming.

She led the way to her small galley kitchen, hyper-aware of him following just behind her. The space was tight, designed for one person, and they moved around each other in a clumsy, careful dance. Their hips brushed as she reached for the paper towels under the sink. His arm grazed her back as he leaned past her to wet a rag under the faucet. Each accidental touch was like a spark on dry tinder, sending a fresh jolt of heat straight to her core.

Jayne scrubbed at the white paint on her arms, her movements jerky and inefficient. The sound of running water and the rough scrape of the paper towel against her skin were the only sounds. She could feel him beside her, a solid, warm presence at the edge of her vision. The silence was deafening, filled with everything they hadn't said since that night in the movie theater. The playful energy of the paint fight had burned away, leaving this raw, potent awareness in its place. A heavy, liquid heat pooled low in her belly, a familiar ache that had become synonymous with him.

“You still have a spot,” he said. His voice was low, and so close it seemed to vibrate right through her.

She looked up from her arm, ready to ask where, but the words died on her lips. He wasn’t holding out a rag or a paper towel. He was just looking at her, his own face now clean except for a faint smudge near his temple. He lifted his hand, the one that wasn’t braced on the counter beside her hip, and reached for her face.

His fingers were warm and slightly rough with calluses as they made contact with her skin. Jayne’s breath hitched. Her entire body went still. He didn’t just wipe at the smudge of blue on her cheekbone. He cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking gently, deliberately, over the curve of her cheek. The motion was slow, hypnotic. His touch wasn’t about cleaning paint anymore; it was a caress, an exploration.

She stared up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she was sure he could feel it. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. He held her like that, his thumb stroking a path of fire along her skin, the close confines of the kitchen pressing them together until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. The space between them shrank, the air growing thick and electric with unspoken need. His head began to tilt, a slow, inevitable descent.

Jayne’s own lips parted on a silent, shaky breath. This was it. The precipice she’d been teetering on for weeks. She closed the final fraction of an inch herself, a tiny, decisive tilt of her head that met his halfway.

His mouth was softer than she could have imagined, and the first touch was impossibly gentle. It wasn't a kiss of conquest, but one of pure, hesitant inquiry. A question asked without words. For a heartbeat, they just stayed there, a soft, warm pressure of lips on lips. Then, a low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound she felt more than heard, and the pressure changed.

He deepened the kiss, his lips molding to hers with a searching intensity that stole the air from her lungs. She answered with a quiet sigh, her body relaxing into his as her hands came up to clutch at the front of his paint-stained t-shirt. That was all the encouragement he needed. His tongue traced the seam of her mouth, a wet, hot line that sent a shiver down her spine. She opened for him without a second thought, a silent invitation.

The moment his tongue met hers, the kiss ignited. It went from tender to ravenous in a single, heart-stopping instant. All the pent-up tension, the unspoken longing from the movie theater, the charged energy from their paint fight—it all poured into this one, desperate connection. He tasted of pizza and something else, something uniquely Cason that was both clean and musky, and she wanted to drown in it.

His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he angled her head for a deeper kiss. His other arm snaked around her waist, yanking her forward until her entire front was flush against his. The thin fabric of her shorts and his jeans did nothing to hide the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her stomach. The knowledge of his arousal, so immediate and undeniable, sent a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling between her legs. Her own hands unbunched from his shirt, sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, to finally grip the back of his neck, pulling him even closer.

They kissed until their lungs burned, a frantic, messy collision of lips and tongues and teeth. It was sloppy and perfect and everything she hadn't known she was starving for. When they finally broke apart, it was only because the need for air became too urgent to ignore. They rested their foreheads together, chests heaving, their ragged breaths mingling in the small space.

Cason’s eyes were closed, his dark lashes stark against his skin. Jayne stared at his mouth, swollen from her own. He opened his eyes, and the dark, dazed look in them mirrored what she felt. They were both stunned, breathless. The playful friends who had started painting a living room hours ago were gone. In their place stood two people who had just crossed a line from which there was no return. The silence in the kitchen was no longer tense or awkward; it was heavy with the weight of what they’d just done, and the terrifying, thrilling certainty of what would happen next.

“Jayne,” Cason murmured, his voice a rough rasp against her forehead. Her name was a statement, a question, and an apology all at once.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still linked behind his neck. The dazed, hungry look in his eyes made her stomach swoop. “What are we doing?” she whispered, the question aimed as much at herself as at him.

His gaze flickered down to her mouth again, still wet and swollen from his. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his honesty a raw, exposed nerve between them. “But I know I want to do it again.”

Before she could answer, he leaned in and captured her lips once more. This kiss was different. The desperate, frantic energy was gone, replaced by a slow, deliberate claiming. He took his time, learning the shape of her mouth, the way she sighed into him when his tongue swept against hers. He tasted her thoroughly, and she let him, her entire body melting into his. The hard line of his erection was still pressed against her, a constant, blatant reminder of how much he wanted her. She arched into it, a small, involuntary movement that earned her a low groan.

He broke the kiss slowly, resting his forehead against hers again. “Okay,” he breathed. “Maybe I do know what we’re doing.” He pulled back, his hands sliding down to grip her waist, keeping her close. The look on his face was serious now, the passion tempered by reality. “But what are we going to do about Armando?”

The name hit her like a splash of cold water. Armando. Her brother. His best friend. The third person in their impossibly complicated new equation. A prickle of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through the warm haze of desire.

“He wouldn’t understand this,” she said, her voice barely audible. “We don’t even understand this.”

“Exactly,” Cason agreed, his thumbs stroking circles over her hipbones. The simple touch was distracting, soothing. “I can’t… I can’t tell him I just kissed his sister like I wanted to devour her, not until I know what this is. What we are.”

The unspoken question hung between them. What were they? The answer felt too big, too new to even attempt to define.

“So we don’t tell him,” Jayne said, the decision solidifying as she spoke it aloud. “Not yet. We keep this… whatever it is… just for us. Until we figure it out.”

He searched her face, his dark eyes intense. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hide you. I don’t want to sneak around.”

“I don’t want to either,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to lose this before it even starts, either.”

A slow smile touched his lips, a mixture of relief and something else—a shared conspiracy. “Okay,” he said softly. “Our secret.”

The words sealed it. They were a team now, partners in a thrilling, terrifying crime of the heart. The days that followed were a blur of clandestine texts and stolen moments. Their conversations, once about sci-fi, were now filled with breathless yearning. I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. A text from him at noon. You have no idea. Her reply, sent from her desk at work, her heart thudding.

They met for coffee, a supposedly casual catch-up, but their knees were pressed together under the tiny table the entire time, generating a private, electric heat. He walked her home, and in the shadowed privacy of her apartment building’s stairwell, he pushed her against the wall and kissed her with a desperate hunger that left them both shaken. His hand slid under her shirt, his palm hot against the bare skin of her back, while her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. These were quick, frantic encounters, fueled by the risk of being discovered and the overwhelming need to simply touch each other. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

A week later, Cason texted her. I’m taking you somewhere tonight. Be ready at nine.

He picked her up in his old sedan, the same one he’d pulled the sci-fi novel from what felt like a lifetime ago. He didn’t say where they were going, just drove, his hand finding hers on the center console, his thumb stroking her knuckles. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was comfortable, charged with anticipation. He drove them out of the city, up a winding road that climbed into the hills overlooking the sprawling grid of lights below.

He parked at a deserted lookout, a small gravel patch shielded by trees. Below, the city glittered like a fallen constellation. Above, the real stars were sharp and bright in the clear, cold air. He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet was profound.

“I wanted a place where we didn’t have to look over our shoulders,” he said, his voice low in the dark car. “Just for a few hours.”

He got out and grabbed a thick blanket from the trunk, spreading it over the still-warm hood of the car. He helped her up, and they sat side-by-side, their legs dangling, looking out at the view. But soon, the view was forgotten. Cason turned to her, his expression serious in the faint starlight.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confessed, his voice rough with emotion. “Not just kissing you in stairwells. I think about you when I wake up. I think about what you’d say about the stupid movie I’m watching. I think about your laugh.” He took her face in his hands, his palms warm against her cool skin. “I’m falling for you, Jayne. Hard.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and beautiful. “I’m falling for you, too,” she whispered, the words feeling utterly true and terrifyingly real.

That was all he needed. He leaned in and kissed her, and this time, there was no desperation, no rush. It was a kiss of profound, soul-deep recognition. His mouth was slow and searching, his tongue sweeping inside to meet hers with a tenderness that made her ache. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself flush against him. She could feel the solid muscle of his chest, the heavy thud of his heart against hers.

He broke the kiss only to press his mouth to her jaw, her throat, the sensitive spot just below her ear. His hands slid from her face down to her waist, then lower, his fingers tracing the seam of her jeans. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with a question. She answered by arching her hips into his touch, a silent, unequivocal yes.

With a low groan, he helped her lie back on the blanket. The metal of the hood was hard beneath her, but she barely noticed. His focus was entirely on her. He unbuttoned her jeans, his knuckles brushing against her stomach, sending shivers across her skin. He tugged them down her legs, followed by her underwear, leaving her lower body exposed to the cool night air. She felt a flicker of self-consciousness, but the look on his face—pure, unadulterated adoration—chased it away.

He knelt on the ground in front of her, between her parted thighs. His gaze was locked on hers as his hand came up to stroke her, his fingers gliding through the wetness that had already gathered there. She was slick for him, her body betraying just how much she wanted this. He dipped a finger inside her, and she gasped, her back arching off the blanket.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. Then he lowered his head.

His mouth on her was a revelation. It was hot and wet and impossibly gentle. His tongue traced lazy circles around her clitoris before finally pressing down with a firm, steady pressure. A helpless cry escaped her lips. She fisted her hands in the blanket, her head thrown back as she stared blindly at the stars. He was methodical, relentless. He used his tongue, his lips, finding a rhythm that had her hips bucking against his mouth. The pleasure was coiling tight in her belly, a sharp, electric feeling that was almost painful. She was close, so close. He seemed to sense it, his tongue moving faster, harder, until the world dissolved into a silent, screaming explosion of light and sensation that ripped through her, leaving her utterly boneless and trembling.

He stayed with her, kissing her gently as the aftershocks subsided. After a long moment, he pulled her jeans back up and climbed onto the hood beside her, gathering her into his arms. He wrapped the blanket around them both, holding her tight against his chest. They lay there in silence, listening to each other’s breathing, their bodies pressed together under the vast, starry sky. There were no secrets here, no need for stolen moments. There was only this. Only them. And for the first time, it felt completely and irrevocably real.

Her cheek was pressed against the rough fabric of his jacket, but underneath she could feel the steady, slow beat of his heart. It was the most calming sound she had ever heard. He held her securely, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other resting possessively on her hip. The air was cold, but she was enveloped in his warmth, cocooned in the scent of his skin and the lingering aftermath of their intimacy. She felt seen, wanted, and for the first time in a long time, completely at peace. This bubble they had created, high above the city lights, felt like the only real place in the world.

A sharp, insistent vibration against her thigh shattered the perfect silence. Jayne flinched, the sound an unwelcome intrusion. She pulled her phone from her pocket, the screen’s bright light momentarily blinding her.

Armando.

Her heart seized. Cason shifted slightly, looking at the screen over her shoulder. His hand on her hip tensed.

“You should probably get that,” he murmured, his voice low and tight.

She swiped to answer, her throat suddenly dry. “Hey,” she said, trying to sound casual, normal. As if she wasn't lying on the hood of a car under the stars, wrapped in the arms of his best friend after he’d just brought her to a breathtaking orgasm.

“Jaynie! Hey, what are you up to?” Armando’s voice was cheerful, oblivious. “Just sitting at the hotel bar, bored out of my mind. Thought I’d see what my little sister was doing.”

“Oh, not much,” she lied, the words tasting like ash. “Just at home. Watching a movie.” She felt Cason’s thumb begin to stroke her hip, a slow, steady motion that was meant to be comforting but only amplified her guilt.

“Cool, cool. Hey, you haven’t heard from Cason, have you? I tried his phone a couple of times, but it went straight to voicemail. Figured he might have stopped by.”

Jayne’s stomach twisted into a knot. “No. No, I haven’t seen him.” The lie came out smoother this time, and she hated herself for it.

“Huh. Weird. Oh well, probably just on a date or something,” Armando chuckled. “Good for him. He deserves someone decent. You know, he’s the best guy I know. Solid. More like a brother to me than just a friend.”

Jayne closed her eyes. She could feel Cason go still beside her.

“I swear,” Armando continued, his voice full of genuine affection, “I hope no girl ever gets between us or messes that up. Friendships like that are rare.”

Each word was a physical blow, dismantling the beautiful, fragile thing they had just built. The warmth from Cason’s body suddenly felt suffocating, the weight of his arm incriminating. The peace she’d felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

“Yeah,” she managed to choke out. “Rare.”

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your movie. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yep. Tomorrow. Bye.”

She ended the call and let her hand fall, the phone feeling heavy as a stone. She didn’t move, didn’t look at Cason. The silence that descended was nothing like the comfortable quiet from before. It was thick with unspoken truths and the fresh, bitter sting of betrayal. The stars above seemed distant and cold. Cason slowly removed his arm from her shoulder. The bubble had popped.

The drive back from the hills was quiet, the kind of silence that scraped along her nerves. Every streetlight flashed across Cason’s face, carving him into pieces—jaw, mouth, eyes—each part familiar, each part suddenly dangerous. She pressed her lips together and stared out the window. The city felt different tonight, like it knew what they weren’t saying.

He pulled up in front of her building and killed the engine. Neither of them moved. He exhaled first, a slow, careful breath. “Jayne—”

“Let’s just go inside,” she said, voice tight. Her hand shook on the door handle. He reached across, brushed his knuckles along the back of her hand, a small mercy, and she flinched like she’d been burned.

His hand dropped. “Okay. Inside.”

They climbed the stairs in near silence. He followed close enough that she could feel his presence like heat along her spine. She fumbled her keys more than once, finally managing to get the door open. The apartment smelled like paint and lemon cleaner and him. It made her chest ache.

She turned on a lamp and stood in the soft gold light, arms wrapped around her waist. Cason closed the door quietly, locking it out of habit. He hovered near the entryway like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer. Her heart hammered. The echo of her brother’s voice—more like a brother to me—punched through her again.

Cason stepped forward cautiously. “Jayne, talk to me.”

Her eyes burned. “I can’t.” It came out flat. True.

He reached for her, then seemed to think better of it, his hand hanging there before dropping. “That call—it messed you up. I know.” He swallowed. “It messed me up, too.”

She laughed once, a raw, ugly sound. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, jaw tense. “I hate that he called right then. I hate that it made you feel like this.” He took another step and she did too, but in opposite directions. Instinct. Space.

“I feel like a liar,” she whispered, staring at her bare feet against the rug, the crescent of paint near her big toe from last week. “To him. To myself. I hate it.”

Cason’s voice softened. “You’re not lying about us. We’re real. You and me—we’re the truest thing in my life.” He moved slower now, like approaching a skittish animal. “Come here.”

“I can’t—” She shook her head, but he was already in front of her, careful, careful. He didn’t touch her face, didn’t tilt her chin. He set his palms on her upper arms, thumbs stroking small, steady lines that matched the rhythm of her breathing.

The contact made her eyes water. “Don’t,” she begged, voice cracking. “Please.”

He froze, then let his hands fall away. Distance cut between them again, and it hurt more than his touch. “I’m trying to help.”

“It’s not helping.” She dragged in a breath. “It makes me feel worse. Like I’m hiding you. Like I should shrink you down and put you in my pocket and keep you there so no one ever sees.”

His mouth twisted, wounded. “Do you want to hide me?”

“No.” The word shot out of her, fierce and absolute. She lifted her gaze finally and met his. “That’s the worst part. I want to tell him. I want to tell everyone. I want to say, This is mine. He’s mine. I want to say I’m yours. And then he says—” Her voice broke again, tears blurring his features. “He says you’re his family, and I’m lying to him, and I can’t breathe.”

He stepped in, not to hold her, but to be there, close enough that she could smell his skin and the soap he used at her sink, the one she’d picked. “You don’t have to choose between breathing and loving me.”

She swallowed hard. “But we asked me to. We decided to keep it secret. We did that. I did that.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “And I thought I could carry it, but I can’t. The way he talked about you—about trusting you—” She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t regret us. Not one second. I regret hiding us. I hate it.”

“Then let’s not hide,” he said, so soft she almost didn’t hear it.

Her breath hitched. She stared at him. He held her gaze without flinching. There was fear in his eyes, yes, and something steadier beneath it.

“You mean that?” she whispered.

“I mean,” he said, voice rough, “I will walk out of this building with your hand in mine right now if that’s what you want. I’ll answer his call. I’ll go to him. I’ll tell him everything. I’m in this with you.” He paused, a humorless smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m already in it.”

Her throat tightened around a hundred words that wouldn’t fit. He took that as his cue and finally, finally lifted his hands again, but slower, a silent question. She didn’t move. He slid his palms along her arms, over her shoulders, and down her sides, stopping at her waist. He didn’t pull. He just held, grounding. Warmth seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt, a line of heat where his fingers rested at the top of her jeans.

“I’m not going to ask you to pretend you’re okay,” he said. “I’m not going to ask you to be quiet. If you need to shake, shake. If you need to cry, cry.” He took a breath, and when he spoke again, the truth in it soothed and sharpened her all at once. “If you need me to go, I’ll go.”

She closed her eyes. The idea of him leaving made something inside her lurch. She stepped into him on instinct, her forehead finding his chest. His breath stuttered. He didn’t wrap her up. He let her choose. After a second that felt like a decision, she slid her arms around his torso and held on.

He exhaled against her hair, relieved, and his hands eased to the small of her back. Not possessive. Present. His heartbeat thumped steady under her ear. She breathed with it, matching him, and the tremble in her fingers slowly settled.

“I hate the secrecy,” she confessed into his shirt. “But I love you.” The words weren’t planned. They weren’t tidy. They just fell out, low and raw, and left her shaking again because she hadn’t meant to say them like that, not now, not like a wound.

His body went still. A shocked, quiet still, like the pause between lightning and thunder. She pulled back an inch, panic sparking in her stomach, but his hands tightened at her back, holding her in that space—held, but not trapped.

“Jayne,” he said, breathless. “Look at me.”

She lifted her face. His eyes were wide and bright. Hope. Something like awe. He lifted one hand and brushed his thumb along her damp cheek. The touch sent a shiver through her, not of guilt this time, but relief so sharp it hurt.

“I love you,” he said, as if he’d been holding it on his tongue for weeks. “I love you.” He bowed his head like the weight of it had finally found the ground. Then he kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth, careful, reverent. The whisper of his mouth on her skin steadied her.

She curled her fingers in the back of his shirt. “I don’t want to hide anymore,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“Then we won’t,” he promised, voice steady now, his breath warming her lips as he hovered there, waiting for her to close the distance or pull away. The choice hung between them, clear and simple in a way nothing else was. Her heart pounded. The guilt didn’t vanish, but it shifted, edged out by something stronger, something that felt like truth settling into place.

She inhaled, tasting his breath, and nodded once, decisive. His relief broke warm over her, and he leaned in just enough for his mouth to brush hers, the barest touch. It wasn’t a kiss yet. It was a promise. She pressed closer, her body answering before her mind caught up, and let the heat of him anchor the fragile, fierce decision gathering in her chest.

The promise hovered there between their mouths, fragile and bright, when he pulled back a fraction and cleared his throat. “It’s late,” he said, voice husky. “I should let you sleep.”

The words felt wrong, like he was trying to fold this into something small, to be good for her. He smoothed a hand down her arm and stepped away. The absence of his heat made her sway. He reached for his keys on the little bowl by the door, his shoulders tight with restraint. The soft jingle snapped something in her.

“Don’t go,” she said, too quick. Her voice shook. He froze, half-turned, knuckles braced against the door as if he needed it to steady himself. She swallowed and kept going, because stopping now would be worse. “I can’t let you walk out like this and pretend I can breathe. I—” She pressed her palm to the door beside his shoulder. He faced her fully then, eyes searching.

“Jayne,” he murmured, careful. As if any sudden movement would break her.

“I’m falling in love with you,” she blurted, the truth ripping free. Heat rushed to her face; her fingers curled against the chipped paint. “I am. I am, and it terrifies me, and I feel like I’m wrong for saying it out loud right now, but it’s louder than my fear. It’s louder than him. And every time you try to be the good guy and leave, it feels like I’m helping you disappear so no one has to see what we are.” Her breath hitched, shoulders trembling. “Hiding you makes me feel like I’m betraying the only thing that has ever felt this right.”

His lips parted. The keys slipped from his fingers back into the bowl with a soft clatter. Then he was there, one step, two, close enough that she felt the warmth of his chest. He didn’t grab. He reached up and framed her face in his hands, thumbs firm at her jaw, reverent like it mattered more than breath. Something unlocked in his eyes—relief, fierce and flooded.

“Say it again,” he said, not a command, a plea.

She leaned into his touch, tears burning clean. “I’m falling in love with you.”

A sound left him, low and unguarded. He bent his forehead to hers, his nose brushing hers, and she felt the tremor go through him. “I’ve been falling since the day you dropped that box on my foot,” he admitted on a rough exhale. “I tried to name it a hundred other things. I can’t anymore.”

Her laugh scraped out wet and real. It broke and turned into a soft sob. He kissed the tear at the corner of her mouth like he could take it back into him. His mouth tasted like mint and something only him, and she opened to it without thinking, catching his lower lip with hers. The kiss turned slow and deep, no hesitation left. He angled her head and she went with it, letting him guide her, the drag and press of lips and tongue a confession all its own. He kissed her like he’d been holding his breath for weeks and finally found air.

She pressed him back against the door, the knob nudging her hip. He made a surprised sound that deepened the kiss. Her hands slid beneath his shirt, palms meeting warm skin and muscle. His abdomen tightened under her touch; his breath broke against her mouth. She traced the lines of him, the hard dip of his waist, the small trail of hair below his navel. Heat pooled low inside her, urgent and steady. He curled a hand into her hair, tilting her for a sweeter angle, his other hand settling possessively at her lower back, fingers splayed.

“Jayne,” he whispered into her mouth. The way he said her name turned her knees weak. He stole another kiss, slower, gentler, and then sighed against her lips like he’d reached something he didn’t know he’d been seeking.

She leaned back just enough to see him. His pupils were blown, his mouth pink and kiss-swollen. “I don’t want to hide,” she said, voice steadier now, anchored by the feel of him. Her hand was still under his shirt; she stroked idly along his ribs. He shivered. “Not from him. Not from anyone. I want to be allowed to love you in daylight.”

“Then we will.” His hand skimmed down her spine and rested on the curve of her hip, warm and sure. “We will.”

She breathed out and nodded, the decision settling inside her. She slid her hand higher, felt his heartbeat under her palm. It was racing like hers. His eyes flicked to her mouth and then lower, and the hunger there made her flush. He felt it too. He dipped his head and captured her bottom lip between his teeth, gentle, coaxing. Her body arched to him with a quiet, helpless sound. The friction of their bodies through denim and cotton was enough to make her gasp.

He stilled, as if remembering himself, and pulled back a fraction, foreheads still touching. “Tell me to slow down,” he said, breathless. “Or don’t. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” she said, no tremor now. “Here. But not as a secret. Not in the dark. I want tonight to mean what we just said.”

His answering smile was small and devastating. He kissed the corner of her mouth. “It does.”

She slid her hands to his shoulders, savoring the solid weight of him beneath her fingers. She pressed her body flush to his and felt the evidence of his arousal, the twitch of him through his jeans. He inhaled sharply and tipped his head back against the door, exposing his throat. She trailed kisses along the strong line of it, tasted salt and skin. His hand tightened on her hip, guiding her into a slow, teasing roll that made both of them moan.

“God,” he said, voice frayed. “You feel—” He broke off, breath catching as she repeated the movement. “Jayne.”

Her name like that was its own kind of yes. She cupped his jaw and lifted his mouth back to hers, taking her time, kissing him like she wanted to memorize the shape of this decision. His tongue slid against hers, unhurried, sure, and she felt dizzily present in a way she hadn’t since the phone call. Every nerve lit up. Every doubt quieted.

When she finally eased back, scraping her teeth lightly over his lip, they were both breathing hard. She smoothed her thumb over the damp curve she’d just kissed. “Don’t leave,” she murmured, deciding it twice, three times, each word a stake in the ground. “Stay. We’ll deal with everything tomorrow.”

He let out a shaky laugh, relief and desire tangled. He bent and pressed his mouth to her pulse point, a soft kiss that made her toes curl. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and the truth of it warmed her from the inside out. He reached behind him without looking and flicked the deadbolt, the click loud in the quiet apartment.

She took his hand then, lacing their fingers. They stood there for a long beat, hearts racing, breaths syncing again. He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles, eyes never leaving hers, and something like courage swelled in her chest, clean and bright. The secret had been named, their fear spoken aloud. The night, once heavy with what they weren’t saying, shifted, opening.

She tugged him gently toward the hallway. He followed without question, close enough that his hip brushed hers with each step. At the bedroom door, she paused and faced him, the space between them charged and honest. “This is us,” she said softly, needing him to hear it from her again.

“This is us,” he echoed, and leaned in, kissing her slow and deep until the rest of the world fell quiet.

Her back met the doorframe as he crowded closer, not with urgency but with a certainty that steadied her. He searched her face like he was reading words he’d been staring at for weeks and only now could finally understand. For a second his throat worked, and she felt the tremble in his fingers where they cradled her jaw.

“Jayne,” he said, as if her name were something he needed to hold in his mouth a beat longer. His eyes were bright and unguarded. She waited for doubt, for caution, for the instinct they’d both learned too well. It didn’t come. His expression shifted into something open and devastating, relief loosening the lines that had carved themselves into his brow. “I have been falling for you since that first day. You were barefoot on the kitchen tile because your sneakers were wet, and you laughed at yourself when you dropped the box. I couldn’t stop looking at you.” He huffed out a breath that sounded like a confession and a laugh all at once. “I’ve been pretending it was just fun, just easy, when really I was tallying every reason to be careful and ignoring the only one that mattered.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding her lungs too tight since the call. The world narrowed to him—the warmth of his hands, the scent of his skin, the honesty in his voice. “I thought I was losing my mind,” she admitted, low. “You were in my head all the time. I kept telling myself it was a crush, an escape. But then I’d hear your voice, and everything would go quiet. It’s been you. It’s been you.”

He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, reverent, then the other, like he was sealing the words to her skin. “I tried to make leaving every night the right thing. I kept thinking I was protecting you from me. And from him.” His mouth brushed her cheek, her temple. His thumb stroked along the hinge of her jaw, grounding her. “I hated myself for touching you and for not touching you. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

Her chest ached with the relief of hearing the thoughts that had knotted inside her, echoed back in his voice. “I don’t want to be careful about us,” she said. “Not like that. I want to tell the truth and live with it. I want to wake up and not flinch at my phone. I want to introduce you as mine and not feel like I’m stealing something.”

“You’re not stealing anything,” he said, firm. He kissed her then, slow, his lips sure. The kiss felt like an answer and a beginning. She opened to him, letting it deepen, tasting his relief, his hunger. The tilt of his head was tender, the slide of his tongue against hers unhurried and deliberate. When he pulled back, their noses brushed, both of them breathing harder. “You’re choosing. And so am I.”

Her hands tilted lower, finding the hem of his t-shirt. She slipped her fingers under it and flattened her palms to the warm skin of his abdomen. He shuddered, hips pressing almost imperceptibly into hers. His stomach tightened beneath her touch, and her pulse jumped, heat building low and steady. “I want to know everything,” she said, voice husky with feeling rather than sex alone. “What scares you, what you want, what you’re thinking right now.”

He huffed softly, leaning into her hands as if he needed the contact. “I’m thinking about how you taste like mint and how my heart only calms down when you talk. I’m thinking about telling Armando the truth and not letting him use my silence to make you small.” His hand slid from her face down the column of her neck, fingers splaying over the fast beat at her throat. He felt it and smiled, awed. “I’m thinking I can finally breathe.”

Her breath skipped. “I want you to be proud to want me.”

He lifted his head, eyes dark and certain. “I am. Jayne, I am.”

She rose on her toes, pressing her mouth to his again, letting those words pour into the kiss. He angled her back against the frame and fitted himself to her, the hard line of his arousal a hot, undeniable promise against her belly. She gasped softly and rocked into him. A low sound rumbled out of him, rough and helpless. His hands slid to her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve there, anchoring her as he guided a slow grind that sent sparks up her spine.

Her nipples tightened under her thin shirt, the fabric rasping lightly with each shift. He felt it—she knew he did because his breath hitched and he angled his mouth to kiss down her throat, open-mouthed and hot. “Tell me if this is too much,” he murmured against her skin, but his hands didn’t leave her hips, didn’t push—only held, only asked.

“It’s not enough,” she said, and the truth of it shocked her even as it steadied her. “I want you to know me like this. No hiding.”

He groaned, a soft, honest sound, and brought his mouth back to hers. The kiss turned deeper, more consuming. She slid one hand up, tracing the solid line of his chest, feeling the thud of his heart under her palm. The other hand moved lower, the waistband of his jeans rough against her knuckles. She cupped him through the denim, testing, learning the shape of him. He jerked, breath tearing from him, and closed his eyes like he didn’t trust them.

“Jayne,” he said again, breaking on it, not as a warning but as a prayer. He kissed her hard, teeth catching her lower lip before he soothed the sting with his tongue. “I love how bold you are.”

She smiled into his mouth, feeling fierce and soft at once. “You make me brave.”

He stilled for a heartbeat, his forehead tipping to hers. The quiet between them thickened, not with fear but with certainty. “We’ll tell him,” he said, simple. “We’ll tell everyone. If they make it hard, we’ll hold on anyway.”

She nodded, the movement small, their noses brushing. “Together.”

“Together,” he echoed. He stroked his hands up her sides, pausing beneath her breasts without presumption, waiting. She arched into his palms, giving him permission. His thumbs circled, slow, through cotton, drawing a tremor from her. Heat unfurled, steady and tender. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then another, tasting the smile that tugged there. Their breaths synced again, the urgency easing into a charged calm that felt like truth settling in.

He eased back only enough to see her face, his gaze mapping every flushed line and parted breath. “I’m here,” he said softly. “No more secrets. No more leaving you at a threshold and pretending it’s kindness.”

She curled her fingers in the back of his shirt and pulled him close again, holding him there, holding them there. The hallway light cast a warm halo around them, and the click of the deadbolt seemed to echo into the quiet like a promise she could finally believe. She kissed him once more, slow and certain, and let the rest of the night wait at the edge of their decision.

She slid her hands up his chest and around his neck, pulling him down into another kiss that left no room for hesitation. His mouth opened under hers, and the kiss deepened into something that burned and steadied at once. He angled her head with his palms, thumbs stroking her cheeks as his tongue traced along hers, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to taste every unspoken word. She pressed closer until her breasts were flush against him, until the hard length of him nudged at her lower belly and made her knees feel unreliable.

He made a low sound and crowded her gently into the doorframe, bracing a forearm beside her head as if to keep himself from pushing too hard. She felt the restraint in him, the way he held his body in check even as his hips rolled once, a careful grind that sent heat sparking low in her. She answered it with a lift of her hips, meeting him, and the breath hissed out of him against her mouth.

“Jayne.” It was a plea and a promise. He kissed her deeper, teeth catching on her bottom lip before he soothed it with his tongue. His fingers slid down her sides, slow and certain, and he cupped her breasts in his hands, thumbs brushing over her nipples through the thin cotton. Sensation shot through her, sharp and sweet. She arched, chasing more, breath turning uneven against his mouth. He groaned, like the sound was pulled from his chest, and pressed open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and down her throat, his breath hot where her pulse fluttered.

She fumbled for the hem of her shirt and tugged it up. He helped, breaking the kiss to pull it over her head and drop it somewhere on the floor. The cooler air raised goosebumps across her skin. He looked at her—really looked—eyes going dark, his gaze reverent as it tracked the lines of her bra, the flush on her chest, the way she was already arching toward him. “You’re beautiful,” he said, plain and rough.

“Touch me,” she breathed. He did. He slipped his hands under the cups and lifted, thumbs circling her nipples until they tightened against his skin. She bit back a sound and then let it out, unafraid, her head tipping against the doorframe. His mouth followed his hands, dragging down to press a kiss between her breasts. He reached behind to unclasp her bra with the sure flick of his fingers and eased it down her arms. When he closed his mouth around one peaked nipple, she gasped and clutched at his shoulders, the wet heat of his tongue sending a coil of need low in her belly.

He alternated between them, sucking softly, then licking when she trembled, learning how she reacted with focused tenderness. His free hand slid down her ribcage and over her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her leggings. He looked up, seeking her eyes. She nodded, heart skittering. He tucked his fingers inside and edged the fabric down her hips, knuckles grazing the front of her panties and making her bite her lip. She helped shimmy them down, stepping out when they pooled at her feet.

He pressed his palm between her thighs over the thin cotton, and she rocked into it, a breathy “yes” falling out of her. He stroked her gently through the fabric, finding the slick heat, the place that made her back bow when he circled just right. He watched her face like he could memorize every expression, his jaw tense with control.

“I want all of you,” he said, voice low. “Not hiding. Not pretending.”

“Take it,” she said, chest heaving. “I’m yours. I’m not afraid.”

He leaned in and kissed her hard at that, a kiss that felt like a vow. He hooked his fingers into her panties and eased them down, and she stepped free. He groaned when he looked at her, bare and open in the soft hallway light. He touched her again, skin to skin now, sliding his fingers through her folds, learning her with careful pressure. She trembled and urged him closer, her thighs falling wider. He found the slick clench of her entrance and dipped one finger inside, then another, shallow at first and then deeper as she gasped and rolled her hips to take him. He curled his fingers just so, and a sharp heat pulsed through her, pulling a broken sound from her throat. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing her through the stutter of her breath.

“Tell me,” he murmured against her lips. “Like this?”

“Yes. Don’t stop.” She anchored one hand in his hair and the other on his shoulder, grounding herself as he worked her with a rhythm that built in waves, his thumb circling her clit in slow, sure strokes. Her legs shook, heat winding tighter and tighter until it crested and snapped. She came with a soft cry, everything going white-hot and then sweetly loose. He held her through it, kissing her jaw, whispering her name like a mantra, fingers easing when she shivered.

When she found her breath again, she laughed, surprised and a little wild, and dragged him back up for a greedy kiss. She wanted him, all of him, and not as a secret. Her hands went to his belt, fumbling only until he covered her fingers with his and helped. The metallic click sounded loud in the quiet. She pushed his jeans down and felt him through his briefs, thick and hot against her palm. He shuddered, forehead pressed to hers, eyes squeezed shut like he was clinging to control.

“Condom?” he managed.

“In the nightstand,” she said, the words a tremble. “Come to bed.”

He nodded, breathing hard, but didn’t rush. He kissed her again, slow and reverent, and stepped back just enough for them to walk. He toed off his shoes and shoved his jeans down, and she caught a glimpse of him, hard and flushed against the thin fabric. Heat rolled through her. He took her hand and they moved together into the bedroom, not sneaking, not looking over their shoulders.

At the bedside, he paused and framed her face in his hands. “We’re together,” he said. “We’ll face it. Starting now.”

“Starting now,” she echoed, and pulled him down to her. Their mouths met, certain and hungry, and the kiss said everything they didn’t need to explain. It tasted like relief and like tomorrow. It felt like a line crossed and a door opened, their bodies fitting along that truth as they sank onto the mattress, done with secrets, choosing each other in the open, exactly as they were.

The next morning came too fast and not fast enough. Jayne woke tangled in her sheets, the echo of Cason’s kiss still warm on her lips from the night before. She showered quickly, then stood in front of her closet for ten solid minutes before deciding on a soft yellow sundress that made her feel less like a nervous wreck and more like someone who had a right to be happy.

At nine-thirty sharp, the buzzer rang. Cason was waiting in the lobby, hair still damp from the shower, wearing a dark green button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He looked up when she stepped off the elevator, and the slow smile that spread across his face made her stomach flip.

“Morning,” he said, voice low.

“Morning.” She let her hand brush his as they walked outside. The simple contact sent a jolt straight to her fingertips.

They chose a cafe three blocks away—loud, sun-soaked, filled with people who knew Armando. Jayne’s pulse hammered as they crossed the threshold together. No more hiding. The barista, a girl from college, greeted them with raised brows but said nothing. Jayne ordered an iced latte; Cason asked for black coffee. When their drinks arrived, they slid into a corner table beneath a window streaming early light.

Conversation started awkwardly—weather, parking—but then Cason covered her hand with his, palm warm, fingers lacing through hers. The gesture was deliberate, unmistakably public. Jayne’s breath caught. She glanced around; no one stared, but a few heads tilted. She squeezed his fingers, steady.

“We’re really doing this,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

His thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles, each pass grounding her more firmly in the moment. She studied the contrast of his skin against hers—tan and callused, gentle despite the strength she remembered from moving day. Heat pooled low in her belly, an ache that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with how close he was, how impossible it felt to wait another minute to touch him properly.

Jayne leaned in. “I kept thinking you’d change your mind overnight.”

Cason’s eyes darkened. “Not a chance.” He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across her pulse. The contact was brief, chaste, yet her heart stuttered. When he set their joined hands back on the table, he didn’t let go.

They talked about nothing and everything: favorite cereal as kids, the scar on his left knee from a skateboard crash, the way she used to sneak her mother’s romance novels. Each confession drew invisible threads tighter between them. When she laughed, his thumb pressed harder; when he spoke, she found herself leaning closer, knees brushing under the small table.

A shaft of sunlight slid across Cason’s cheek, catching the faint freckles across his nose she’d never noticed. She wanted to trace them, taste the salt on his skin right here in front of everyone. Instead, she threaded their fingers tighter and watched his pupils dilate. The air around them felt charged, like the moment before a storm.

The check came too soon. Cason paid without looking at the total, then stood and offered his hand. Jayne took it, rising. Their bodies brushed as she stepped around the chair—her breast against his arm, his hip against hers. The contact lasted only a second, but it was enough to send heat rushing through her, pooling between her thighs.

Outside, the morning had warmed. Cason didn’t release her hand as they started down the sidewalk. Their steps fell into rhythm, palms pressed together, fingers locked. Jayne felt every beat of her pulse echoing in the place where skin met skin.

Jayne felt the shift before she saw the face.

Cason had just tugged her closer to point out a vintage record shop window display—some obscure prog-rock album he swore she’d love—when the voice sliced through the Saturday-morning buzz of the street.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

They both turned at once. Ryan Decker stood three feet away, iced coffee in one hand, keys in the other, eyes ping-ponging between their joined hands and their faces. Jayne’s stomach dropped. Ryan had roomed with Armando freshman year; they still played basketball every Thursday. She felt Cason’s fingers tighten reflexively around hers, a protective squeeze that did nothing to slow her pulse.

“Morning, Ryan,” Cason said, voice even, almost calm.

Ryan’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Morning.” He lingered on the word, letting it stretch. His gaze flicked down again—Jayne’s yellow dress, Cason’s thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, the two of them angled toward each other like magnets. “Didn’t expect to see you two together.”

Jayne forced her mouth into something resembling a smile. “We grabbed coffee.”

The excuse sounded ridiculous the moment it left her lips. Ryan’s answering smile was thin, knowing. He shifted his weight, keys clinking against the plastic cup. “Armando know?”

The question landed like a slap. Jayne felt heat flare across her cheeks. Cason’s thumb stilled against her pulse, then resumed its slow sweep, steady, anchoring.

“We’re handling it,” Cason said.

Ryan gave a low whistle, half-amused, half-shocked. “Right.” He took a step back, already fishing his phone from his pocket. “Well. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it.”

He walked away without another word, shoulders squared, thumb flying over the screen. Jayne watched until he disappeared around the corner, her lungs suddenly too small. The street noise—car engines, snippets of conversation, a distant siren—felt sharper, louder.

Cason exhaled through his nose. “So that happened.”

Jayne swallowed. The earlier warmth in her chest had twisted into something cold and restless. “He’ll text Armando. Probably already did.”

Cason turned to her fully, sliding his other hand up to cradle her wrist, thumb pressing the frantic beat under her skin. “We knew this was coming.”

“I know.” The words trembled. “But knowing and seeing it—”

“Are different.” He dipped his head to catch her eyes. “Hey. Look at me.”

She did. His irises looked almost black in the sunlight, steady, unflinching. “We’re not hiding anymore, remember? Whatever Ryan says, whatever Armando hears—we’ll deal.”

Jayne nodded, but the panic still fluttered in her ribs like a trapped bird. She imagined Armando’s phone lighting up in whatever hotel he was in, Ryan’s message a grenade. She pictured the group chat exploding. She pictured the silence afterward, the weight of everyone choosing sides.

Cason stepped closer, chest brushing her shoulder, voice pitched low. “Still want to walk?”

“Yes.” The answer surprised her with its certainty. She squeezed his hand harder, grounding herself in the callus on his palm, the faint scent of coffee and cedar that clung to his shirt. “Just… maybe not past the basketball courts.”

He huffed a laugh, short and soft, then tugged her forward. They crossed the street at the next light, hands still locked, Ryan’s shadow trailing behind them like smoke.

They walked without destination, crossing streets against lights, letting the city funnel them wherever it wanted. After six blocks the panic loosened its grip and became something fierce and almost reckless. Cason bought two street-vendor lemonades, ice sloshing against the plastic rims, and they drank them leaning against a brick wall still warm from the sun. She told him about the summer she was eleven and broke her wrist trying to skateboard down the steepest hill in her neighborhood; he laughed and rolled up his sleeve to show the thin white scar above his elbow from a tree-climbing fall when he was nine. The lemonade was tart, biting, and she kept licking sugar from her bottom lip, hyperaware of his eyes tracking the movement.

They ended up at the riverfront. Benches lined the path, but they chose the grass instead, kicking off their shoes. Cason stretched out on his back, knees bent, hands tucked behind his head. Jayne sat cross-legged beside him, the hem of her dress pooling over her thighs. A breeze off the water lifted the hair at her temples. She spoke first, voice low.

“My first real boyfriend dumped me the night before senior prom. Said I was ‘too intense.’” She rolled her eyes, but the memory still stung enough to make her cheeks burn. “I stayed home and watched Battlestar reruns with my dad.”

Cason turned his head, the blades of grass leaving faint green streaks on his cheek. “He was an idiot.” He paused. “Mine cheated with my lab partner. I found out when they both missed the final and I had to hand in their reports.” A dry laugh. “Haven’t trusted group projects since.”

Jayne reached out, tracing an idle circle on the back of his hand. The skin there was warm, freckles scattered like cinnamon. “I don’t do casual well,” she admitted. “I dive in. It scares people.”

“I’m not scared.” He said it simply, meeting her eyes. The honesty in his voice made her stomach flip.

They stayed until the sun dipped lower, painting the sky orange. Hunger finally drove them to a tiny Mexican place tucked under the railway bridge. Inside, the air smelled of cumin and sizzling onions. They shared a plate of tacos, fingers brushing as they reached for the same wedge of lime. Cason licked salsa from the corner of his thumb and her breath caught; the small, ordinary intimacy felt louder than any kiss.

On the walk back to her apartment, the city lights started to blink on. Jayne slipped her arm through his, their strides matching. She felt the solid length of his forearm under her palm, the flex of muscle when he adjusted his grip. Every step carried them closer to the moment they’d been skirting all day, but there was no urgency now—only a steady, humming inevitability.

Inside the elevator, they stood close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest. The mirrored walls reflected them back: her yellow dress, his green shirt, two sets of eyes locked and unwavering. Neither spoke. When the doors slid open on her floor, Cason followed her down the hallway without asking. She unlocked the door, pushed it wide, and stepped inside. He followed, closing it softly behind them.

The room was dim, lit only by the city glow pressing through the half-open blinds. Jayne set her purse on the counter, turned, and found Cason already there, the inches between them charged. He lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then let his palm rest against her neck, thumb stroking the hollow beneath her jaw. The touch was feather-light but it grounded her, tethered her to the moment. She leaned in, exhaling against his collarbone, and felt his heartbeat thud under the cotton.

Cason’s thumb moved in small arcs under her ear. Jayne shut her eyes, letting the hush of the room press close. No more quick glances over shoulders, no more timing kisses to the sound of Armando’s ringtone. Just the two of them, the soft click of the door lock, and the city murmuring outside like distant applause.

She lifted her hands to his chest, fingers spreading over cotton until she felt the steady thump beneath. “You’re really here,” she whispered.

“I’m here,” he answered, voice low, rough at the edges. His other hand settled at her waist, thumb tracing the ridge of her hipbone through the thin dress. The contact was simple, but it jolted her like a spark.

They moved together toward the couch, knees bumping, breathing already unsteady. Jayne tugged his shirt free of his belt, palms sliding up warm skin. His stomach muscles jumped under her touch; she followed the line of hair that arrowed downward, then stopped just above his waistband, waiting. Cason exhaled, forehead dropping to rest against hers.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.

She answered by guiding his hand to the zipper at her back. The rasp was loud in the quiet room. The dress slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet, leaving her in pale lace and nerves. Cason’s gaze traveled over her slowly, openly, like he’d been given permission to look for the first time. Heat climbed her throat, but she didn’t cover herself.

He stepped closer, fingertips brushing the swell of her breast above the bra. The lace scraped lightly, nipple tightening instantly. Jayne drew in a sharp breath. Cason bent, mouth replacing fingers, heat and wet through the fabric. Her fingers threaded into his hair, anchoring herself while her knees threatened to fold.

He straightened, hands sliding down her back, unhooking, freeing. The bra fell away; his palms cupped her breasts, thumbs circling until she arched into him with a small sound. He swallowed the sound with a kiss—slow, deep, unhurried. Their tongues slid together, learning a rhythm that matched the roll of hips now pressing closer.

Cason walked her backward until the couch hit her thighs. They sank onto it, Jayne straddling his lap, dress gone, lace panties the last barrier. She could feel him hard beneath denim, the friction making her breath hitch. She rolled her hips experimentally; he groaned into her neck, teeth grazing skin.

Hands slipped between them. Cason traced the edge of her underwear, finger slipping beneath to find slick heat. He circled gently, once, twice, then slid one finger inside. Jayne’s head fell back, eyes closing. The stretch was small, welcome; the intimacy of it made her throat tight. He added a second, curling, thumb brushing over her clit in slow strokes that had her rocking against him, chasing more.

“Cason,” she whispered, the name breaking on a gasp.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her collarbone. He eased her onto her back, settling between her thighs. Denim rasped as he shoved it down, boxers following. Jayne watched, propped on her elbows, chest rising and falling fast. He was flushed, thick, a bead of moisture at the tip. She reached out, wrapping her hand around him. He hissed, hips pushing into her grip once before stilling.

Protection appeared from his wallet, the tear of foil crisp. Jayne took it from him, rolling it on with trembling fingers, eyes locked on his. When he leaned over her again, the head of him nudged her entrance. He paused.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. He entered her in one slow push, eyes open, watching her face. The stretch burned sweetly; she dug her nails into his back, heels sliding up his calves. He stilled, letting her adjust, then began to move—long, deep strokes that drew quiet moans from both of them. Each thrust was deliberate, unmasked, nothing between them now.

The room filled with breath and small sounds, the soft slap of skin, the creak of couch springs. Jayne felt every inch of him, every pulse. She cupped his face, guiding him down for a kiss that tasted like tears and lemonade. When her release built, it came in a slow, rolling wave, no frantic chase, just surrender. She came around him with a soft cry, muscles tightening. Cason followed moments later, burying his face in her neck, a low groan vibrating against her skin.

They stayed joined, breathing evening out, hearts slowing. Cason shifted to his side, gathering her against his chest. Jayne pressed her lips to the hollow beneath his collarbone, tasting salt and the faint trace of soap. No words, just the quiet certainty that this was the beginning, not the end.

Jayne was humming while she folded the last of the laundry—Cason’s t-shirt mixed in with hers now, the soft cotton warm from the dryer. She set the stack on the coffee table and reached for her phone, thinking she’d send him a picture of the new throw pillows they’d picked out yesterday. The screen lit up with a single unread text from Armando.

Heard some interesting things. We’ll talk when I get back.

The words felt like a slap. Her lungs seized. The humming died in her throat.

She stared at the message until the letters blurred, then forced herself to read it again, slower, as if a different cadence might change the meaning. It didn’t. The blunt period after “back” was worse than any exclamation point. It was calm, final, and cold. A judge’s gavel.

Jayne’s stomach pitched. She sank onto the couch, the phone suddenly too heavy. Cason’s shirt slipped from the pile and pooled on the floor like evidence.

She heard his key in the lock before she could decide whether to answer. Cason pushed the door open with his shoulder, a paper bag of groceries in his arms. “Hey, I grabbed those strawberries you like—” He stopped when he saw her face. “Jayne?”

She turned the screen toward him. He read the message, his jaw tightening. The bag sagged in his grip; one strawberry rolled out and hit the rug.

“Shit,” he said under his breath, then louder, “Shit.” He set the bag on the counter and came to kneel in front of her, his hands closing over her knees. “When did it come?”

“Two minutes ago.” Her voice was thin. “He lands tomorrow night.”

Cason’s thumbs rubbed slow circles against the denim, steadying her even as she felt the panic claw higher. “Okay. We knew this was coming.”

“I thought we’d have more time.” She swallowed. “I thought we’d tell him ourselves. Together.”

“We will. Tomorrow, face to face.” He rose, pulling her up with him, and wrapped his arms around her back. She pressed her face to his chest, inhaling the familiar mix of cedar soap and sun-warmed skin. It didn’t calm her the way it had yesterday. Now it felt like borrowed time.

“I keep hearing him say ‘interesting things’ in my head,” she muttered against his shirt. “Like he already knows every detail.”

Cason’s hand slid up to cradle the nape of her neck. “Whatever he heard, we’ll deal with it. We didn’t sneak around to hurt him. We just—” He exhaled. “We just couldn’t stop this.” He kissed her hair, then her temple, then the corner of her eye where a single tear had escaped. “I’m not sorry, Jayne. Not for one second.”

She tilted her face up, meeting his mouth in a desperate, clinging kiss. It tasted like fear and strawberries and the last dregs of their innocence. His tongue brushed hers, seeking, reassuring, and she gripped the back of his neck as if she could hold them both together by sheer will.

When they broke apart, her lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide. “Stay tonight,” she whispered. “Please. I don’t want to be alone with this.”

He nodded, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They stood in the quiet apartment, arms locked, the text still glowing on the screen behind them like a warning light. Outside, the first drops of rain tapped against the window, slow and deliberate, counting down the hours until Armando’s plane touched down.

Cason took the hammer from the kitchen drawer and weighed it in his palm like a judge’s gavel he refused to use. “Command decision: we finish your gallery wall tonight. No more blank white staring at us.”

Jayne managed a weak smile. “I thought you wanted to watch the new Rings of Power.”

“I’d rather watch you curse at a level.” He handed her the first frame—a faded movie poster for Silent Running she’d found at a flea market. “Corner or center?”

“Center,” she said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice.

They worked in tandem. He measured; she held the level. When he stretched to mark the nail spot, his shirt rode up, exposing a strip of skin above his belt. Jayne’s fingers itched to touch it, to anchor herself to something solid. Instead, she pressed the cold metal bar tighter against the wall.

“Left a hair,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. “Perfect.”

The hammer struck—one, two, three—and the poster slid into place. It was the first thing they’d hung that hadn’t been crooked. Jayne stepped back, and he followed, his chest brushing her shoulder. His arm looped around her waist without asking, and she let herself sink against him.

They moved to the couch next, shifting it six inches toward the window so the late light would hit the cushions at the right angle. Cason braced his hands on the back; Jayne pushed from the front. Their movements were small, deliberate, like dancers learning a new routine. When the fabric finally slid into place, he didn’t step away. He stayed behind her, palms flat on either side of her hips, caging her against the armrest.

“Tell me where the side table goes,” he said, low.

She twisted, meeting his eyes. “I don’t care about the table.”

His mouth quirked. “Good. Because I lied—I’m not letting you think about tomorrow until we’re too tired to.”

He kissed her then, slow and thorough, bending her back over the couch until the edge bit into her spine. She tasted coffee and the faint metallic echo of the hammer on her tongue. His hands slid under the hem of her sweater, palms spreading across the small of her back. Heat pooled low; her knees buckled. He caught her weight, lifting her easily so she sat on the backrest, legs around his hips.

Jayne’s fingers threaded through his hair, tugging just enough to feel the shiver run down his spine. He answered by pressing closer, the hard line of him unmistakable through denim. The kiss turned urgent, teeth grazing, tongues sliding, but it wasn’t desperation—it was defiance. We are here. We chose this. The couch thudded against the wall again, but neither of them stopped to check if they’d scuffed the paint.

When they finally broke apart, breath ragged, the apartment felt different. The shadows on the wall were warmer; the air carried the faint scent of sawdust and sex and strawberries. Cason rested his forehead against hers.

“One more picture,” he said, voice rough. He pulled out his phone, opened the camera, and held it up so the lens caught them both—her flushed cheeks, his swollen lips, the half-hung poster behind them like a banner. “Proof,” he whispered, and snapped the shot.

The next evening they walked into Marco’s loft hand in hand. Jayne felt the small of her back tingle where Cason’s thumb traced steady circles, as if he were reminding her he was right there. The apartment smelled of garlic knots and citrus vodka; the playlist was all nineties throwbacks that made people shout the wrong lyrics.

Lena spotted them first. She squealed, darted across the room, and hugged Jayne so tightly her beer sloshed onto the hardwood. “About time,” Lena whispered, loud enough for Cason to hear. He lifted their joined hands and kissed Jayne’s knuckles, a small, deliberate gesture that drew a collective ahhh from the women at the snack table.

Warmth. Then the first dart.

“Armando know yet?” Marco asked, handing Cason a red cup. The question was casual, but his eyes weren’t.

“We’re talking tomorrow,” Cason said. His fingers tightened around Jayne’s.

“Good luck,” Marco muttered, and the word luck sounded more like a warning.

They migrated to the kitchen island where someone had lined up tiny tacos. Jayne’s stomach was a fist, but she forced herself to eat. Cason stayed close, his hip against hers, his hand sliding to rest on the back of her neck whenever conversation stalled. Each touch said, I’m here, we’re fine. She leaned into it, letting the heat of his palm anchor her.

Ava appeared with a fresh drink for Jayne. “You two are disgustingly cute,” she teased, but her gaze flicked toward the hallway, as if Armando might materialize from the shadows.

“We’re trying to ease everyone in,” Jayne said.

Ava’s smile softened. “Just don’t let the peanut gallery scare you. Half these people wish they had what you two are radiating.” She squeezed Jayne’s arm and moved off.

The living room erupted into a debate about the best Star Trek captain. Cason tugged Jayne toward the balcony where paper lanterns glowed against the city lights. He pulled the sliding door shut behind them, muting the music to a low thump.

Cold air kissed her cheeks; his hands slipped under her jacket, spreading warmth across her ribs. “Doing okay?”

“Better now.” She pressed closer, inhaling the faint cedar of his cologne.

Inside, a new cluster formed by the record player. Jayne watched through the glass as heads turned their way, mouths moving in whispers that felt like sandpaper on her skin.

Cason’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then tucked it away. “Group chat,” he said. “Apparently we’re trending.”

Jayne huffed a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Great.”

He hooked a finger under her chin, tipping her face up. “Look at me, not them.”

She did. His eyes were steady, dark, unapologetic. He kissed her, slow and certain, until the chill disappeared and her pulse steadied. When they stepped back inside, the hush was immediate, then someone restarted the music and the moment passed.

Cason threaded their fingers again and led her to the couch. They sat thigh to thigh; he draped an arm across the back cushions, fingertips tracing the fine hair at her nape. Every so often someone drifted over—genuine congratulations from Lena, careful curiosity from Dave, a thumbs-up from quiet Sam—but Cason’s hand never left her.

When the conversation turned to weekend plans, Jayne felt the tide shift. People were watching to see if they’d flinch. She lifted Cason’s hand, kissed the inside of his wrist where his pulse beat fast, and answered, “We’re driving to the coast Sunday. First trip as us.”

She felt the room exhale.

A slow song came on. Cason stood, pulling her with him. They swayed in the corner, her cheek against his shoulder, his mouth at her ear. “Tomorrow will suck,” he murmured, “but tonight you’re safe with me.”

She nodded, eyes closed, fingers curled into the back of his shirt. Their bodies fit like a practiced duet, no space between them. The questions and doubts circled the edges of the room, but here, in the circle of his arms, they couldn’t touch her.

Cason kissed the top of Jayne’s head, then eased away. “Want another seltzer?”

She nodded. “Lime if there’s any left.”

He slipped through the press of bodies toward the kitchen. The counter was crowded with half-empty bottles and sticky shot glasses. While he hunted for the seltzer, low voices floated from the hallway behind him.

“…can’t believe he’d do that to Armando,” Tyler whispered, leaning against the doorframe. “Ten years, man. That’s family.”

Sam muttered back, “They looked pretty cozy on the balcony. You think Jayne started it?”

Cason’s hand tightened around the cold can. He turned, keeping his voice level. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to me.”

Tyler straightened, guilt flashing across his face. “Hey, we’re just worried. Armando’s away two weeks and—”

“And I fall for his sister,” Cason finished. “I didn’t plan it. But I’m not sneaking around anymore.”

Sam shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s gonna hurt him.”

“It already does,” Cason said. “But lying would hurt more.” He popped the seltzer tab, the hiss loud in the sudden quiet. “Jayne’s not some secret fling. She’s my choice.”

Tyler rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re sure this is worth losing a brother over?”

Cason met his eyes, unflinching. “She’s worth everything.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I get that you’re loyal to Armando. So am I. That’s why I’m going to tell him face-to-face tomorrow. Until then, back off her.”

The two friends exchanged glances. Sam lifted his beer in a silent, grudging toast. Tyler gave a curt nod, but the space between them felt colder than the fridge light spilling over the counter.

Cason walked back to the living room. Jayne looked up, reading the tension in his shoulders. He handed her the can and slid onto the couch, pulling her into the curve of his arm. She tilted her head to his ear.

“Bad?”

“Manageable,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Just noise.”

Across the room Tyler and Sam rejoined the group, but their eyes avoided Cason and Jayne. Conversations resumed, laughter louder, as if volume could fill the new distance. Jayne’s pulse thudded; Cason’s thumb stroked slow circles on her wrist, steady as a heartbeat.

She leaned into him, feeling the small shift in the room—some friends closer, others retreating. The line had been drawn; there was no pretending they could all go back.