“Yes,” a corner of his mouth lifted. “Something like that.”
“I’m still mad at you,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said, lips curving. “Means you’ll kiss me again just to prove it.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.
And, she didn’t hide any of it.
He cupped her jaw gently, thumb brushing her cheekbone as if he needed to memorize the shape of her.
No rush. No panic. Just him, finally choosing her.
When he kissed her again, it was slow, almost cautious, his mouth lingering over hers like he was relearning softness.
She leaned into it, smiling before their lips even fully met, her breath catching at the gorgeous rightness of it all.
His nose bumped hers, a little awkward, and the surprise of tenderness instead of urgency made her giggle, a light sound she tried to swallow but absolutely couldn’t. It bubbled up between them, softening everything.
Hektor pulled back half an inch, brow furrowing like he’d broken her instead of delighted her. “What?”
“You,” she whispered, still smiling against his lips. “You don’t have to look like you’re mapping battle strategy. It’s just…me.”
His face eased, and he dipped down again, kissing her like he was grateful she’d laughed instead of run.
This time, she didn’t giggle.
She melted.
A sharp clang broke the softness between them. Zara startled back just as a chorus of shouting erupted near the stairwell. A knot of basilisks spilled into the parking lot, all tail-lash and ego, their scales catching the lamplight in irritated flashes.
They weren’t truly fighting, not yet. More like posturing, the kind of loud, stupid, shoulder-shoving energy that only came when males, heat, and alcohol collided. One barreled into the bumper of a taxi.
Another hissed, “If you hadn’t ordered the wrong ceremonial batch, we wouldn’t look like amateurs to the elders?—”
“It was literally one bottle!” someone yelled back. “And the bartender said agave, not ash-grain. Get your ears checked!”
Another basilisk whipped his tail in emphasis. It smacked the pavement with the dramatic flair of a toddler slamming a spoon.
Zara blinked.
Romantic moment: vaporized.
Beside her, Hektor let out a breath that was equal parts annoyance and resignation.
“They always like this?” she asked.
He nodded. “Drinking, full moon week, wrong liquor delivery. Classic basilisk meltdown recipe.”
One of the louder ones puffed up and shouted, “I saidimport-grade, notfestival-grade! Do you want us banished to the outer dunes forever?”
Zara turned to Hektor, expression flat. “They’re arguing about the alcohol supply chain.”
“Yes.”
“And they’re threatening exile over it.”
“Yes.”
