“Why’d you say yes to come out tonight?” he asks finally.
I think about lying. About saying “free booze” or “band morale.” But the truth slips out before I can stop it. “Because it meant I could see you.”
His eyes widen. His breath catches.
We stand there, close but not touching, the noise of the party muffled behind the door. His shoulders look tense enough to snap, but he doesn’t step away.
“You don’t even know me,” he says softly.
“I’m starting to.” And honestly, from the secret kisses we shared, I suspect I know him a lot better than most people in his life.
His head jerks, like the words hit harder than I meant them to.
For a second, I think he’s going to leave. Instead, he exhales slowly, eyes flicking toward the yard. “You’re not what I expected.”
I grin. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He huffs a laugh. One of his real ones.
The air cools my skin, but my chest is still burning. He keeps leaning on the railing like it’s the only thing holding him steady. I watch the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes keep darting toward the yard, then back to me, like he’s fighting himself.
The noise inside swells—someone’s chanting “chug, chug, chug”—and he shakes his head. “This is insane.”
“Yeah,” I say, but also fuck it. “Come on.”
I don’t give him time to argue. I push off the railing and nod back at the house. He hesitates, just a fraction, then follows. We head inside, cut through the crowd, and slip into a narrow hallway lined with closed doors. One’s cracked open, empty except for coats piled high on the bed.
Safe enough.
I step inside, close the door behind us, and flick the lock. The music dulls, the chaos outside muted. For a second, we just stand here, the glow from the string lights spilling through the blinds striping his face.
“Rafe….” His voice is low, a warning, but it doesn’t sound like no.
“Yeah?” I step closer. “You gonna tell me to stop?”
His breath catches. His fists flex at his sides. And then he shakes his head.
That’s all I need.
The kiss hits like a dropped amp—sudden, heavy, buzzing through every nerve. He has a good four inches on me, all long lines and basketball muscle, and when his hand fists in my shirt to drag me closer, he has to bend, easing down so our mouths line up. The shift makes the wall take some of his weight, his shoulders hunching just slightly as if he’s trying to fold all that height into me. His lips are firm, controlled like everything elseabout him, but there’s a tremor underneath, like he’s holding back a storm.
I angle closer, testing, and when his mouth parts, the world tilts. Our tongues brush—quick, electric—and he jerks just slightly, like the shock caught him off guard. Then he leans in harder, and I taste him. Warmth, heat, the faint tang of beer still on his breath.
My hand slides down to his waist, fingers splaying against denim stretched over muscle, solid and tense under my touch. He shivers, the sound of it breaking in his throat as his fingers leave my shirt to curl at the back of my neck. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s desperate, a tether pulling me deeper into him.
The world narrows to heat and breath, to the slick glide of tongues tangling, to the scrape of stubble against my mouth. Every inhale is his. Every exhale burns like fuel poured straight into fire. The muffled bass from the party vibrates through the floorboards, through my body, through his, like the song belongs to us alone.
We kiss again, tongues finding rhythm, giving and taking until my pulse is everywhere at once—temple, chest, fingertips pressed to his skin. I’m dizzy, burning, every nerve ending lit and screaming for more. His blush is still visible, but now it’s smeared across both of us, heat and want and something raw neither of us names.
When we break, his forehead tips to mine, both of us panting, breath hot between us. His hand lingers at my neck, mine at his hip, neither of us letting go even though the air between us is charged enough to spark.
“This is….” Ollie stops, shakes his head.
“Hot?” I supply with a smirk.
He huffs something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Yeah.”
“And intense,” I say, brushing my thumb over his hip.
