“Don’t look like that,” he whispers. His brown eyes are heavy with something I can’t place. “You know you like to be tested. I can tell.”
It should be a taunt. Instead, it’s a mirror. I feel the old, familiar twist inside me—the ledger of choices, the clean rationales—and beneath it, ridiculous and dangerous as an ember, a want that I have not named.
He moves closer. The motion is smaller this time, a challenge folded into curiosity. The room holds its breath with us.
He stops a breath away, the space between us charged and taut.
I can break this, I think. I can step back and the physics of the night will be restored: civility, distance, the rules I like. I can assert the line and watch him learn it. But it seems my curiosity won’t be quelled until it’s pet.
He’s smiling, a flash of triumph at having crossed yet another line.
I do not move. The way his chest rises and falls is a small proof of his courage. The way he looks at me—not pleading, not fearful, only challenging—slides a new weight into my chest. For a sliver of time, I see my own loneliness reflected in his eyes, and it is more unsettling than any threat.
I watch him lean forward, testing the edges of my patience, and I don’t move. There’s a spark in his brown eyes that says he knows exactly what he’s doing—that this is a game, a dare, and a challenge all at once.
The air between us thickens, charged. He smirks, that boyish defiance flaring in a way that’s infuriating and…intriguing. “You’re just a man pretending to be in charge of everything.”
“I am in charge of everything,” I say, standing.
He snorts. “Right.” He gets out of his chair, purposefully invading my space.
The word is a strike, and I feel it. His insolence draws a strange pull in my chest, like a tide I can’t quite resist. He leans even closer, and for a second, the room shrinks to just the two of us.
Then he kisses me.
It’s clumsy, aggressive, more want than technique, and utterly reckless. I can feel the pressure of his hands at the edgeof the table as he pushes me slightly back, and the motion is bold and unrefined.
The taste of wine lingers on his lips, the faint tang of his blood from that cut at his mouth, and something in me, something I didn’t know was awake, responds. I kiss him back, brief and calculated at first, testing, letting myself be drawn into the heat of it. He doesn’t hold back, and the roughness, the untamed force of it, shocks me with its intensity. He’s not trying to seduce me; he’s trying to challenge me, push me, make me react. And it works.
He presses harder, pushing me back against the table, the wood cold beneath my palms. I let the contact linger longer than I planned, fascinated by the audacity, the rawness. He’s fearless, reckless, defiant, and something about it—the want he wears like armor—makes it impossible not to respond.
Finally, I pull back. I can feel my chest heaving, the heat in my veins, the irritation and curiosity dancing together. He steps back slightly, wide-eyed and flushed.
I raise an eyebrow, wiping my mouth with my fingers. “You’re a terrible kisser.”
His cheeks flare red. “I...”
“You’ve never kissed anyone?” I wipe my mouth with my fingers.
“Yes, I have!” His ears blush pink under his golden hair.
I chuckle at his embarrassment, pulling him by his neck. “Follow me.”
I slide my tongue into his mouth, using my lips to steal his breath. He moans against me, hands knotting in the front of my shirt. My teeth catch his mouth, my hands pulling his hips against mine. He’s putty in my hands, waiting for me to mold him. But I don’t.
I release him. He looks dazed, his lips swollen.
“That’s how you kiss someone.” I turn from him and sit back in my chair, trying to hide the sudden bulge tenting my pants.
“I—just…wanted to confuse you.” His words stumble over themselves, embarrassed and frantic.
“You…you just react too much, and I…ugh.” He storms toward the door, spinning on his heel like a child who’s lost a game, but in the corner of his eye, there’s that spark of defiance that refuses to bow.
Alone, I sit back, resting my hands on the edge of the table. I feel an odd warmth creeping through my chest, a pull I don’t usually allow myself. That defiance, the reckless want, the little spark of mischief—it unsettles me in ways I’m not used to.
I glance around the dining room, every angle precise, and I think about the silence and the loneliness that usually fill these halls. And now—just for a moment—it feels lighter, less absolute. Maybe he’s a complication I don’t need, maybe he’s a distraction. But damn if I don’t want to see how long that spark can burn.
I stand, straighten my jacket, and run a hand through my hair, feeling the pull of that wild, reckless energy that just stormed through my carefully maintained order. He’s irritating. He’s infuriating. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might enjoy having someone to annoy me this way.
