I kiss her.
At first she goes still, a split second of resistance, the instinct to pull away.
Then she understands.
I feel it in the way her shoulders drop, in the way her hand curls into my shirt like she needs something solid to hold on to.
I keep my stance wide, blocking her from view. My forearm braces beside her head. My body is a shield.
The kiss is supposed to be cover.
That’s it.
Except the second her mouth softens under mine, control becomes something I have to fight for.
She tastes like coffee and nerves and something sweet I can’t name. Her lips are warm, plush, and for one dangerous heartbeat my brain forgets the stairwell, forgets the threat, forgets everything except the way she responds when I deepen the kiss just slightly.
Her breath catches, and then she kisses me back.
Not timid.
Not shy.
Like she’s been starving for something she didn’t know she was allowed to want.
My hand slides to her waist, steadying her, and the curve of her body fits against mine like it was designed to make me lose my mind.
Too young, Sutton.
Not the time.
Not the place.
Footsteps reach our level.
I shift my body, angling so the men coming up get nothing but my back and her hair and the shape of a couple caught in a moment.
One of them snorts.
“Get a room,” a man mutters as they pass, voice full of annoyance.
They keep moving.
Upward.
Past us.
And they never see her face.
They never see the way she’s trembling under my hands.
I don’t move until their footsteps fade, until the voices disappear above us.
Then I break the kiss.
Slowly.
Because if I pull away too fast, it looks wrong.
