Sage’s grip tightened at Law’s shirt, dragging him closer like there wasn’t already enough of him there, like closer was the only direction left.
The room didn’t matter.
The house didn’t matter.
Nothing outside that space mattered.
Just heat. Pressure. Contact.
And no room left to pretend they weren’t a thing.
The impact hit harder than it should have.
Not force—Sage wasn’t like that—but with intent.
Law’s back hit the wall.
Sage didn’t slow.
Bright afternoon light cut through the hallway windows, sharp and unforgiving. No shadows to hide in. Nothing softened. It laid everything out—Sage close, breath already uneven, hand fisted in Law’s shirt like he’d decided something and wasn’t backing off it.
Law didn’t move him.
Didn’t slow it down.
His hand came up instead—steady, automatic—finding the back of Sage’s neck again to keep him from slipping out of reach.
And then Sage’s mouth was on his—
harder this time.
No hesitation left in it.
Law felt the shift immediately—the difference between testing and taking—and let it happen for a second before answering it. He turned his head just enough to catch the angle, deepen it, take the impact and give it back.
Sage made a low sound against his mouth—barely there, more breath than voice—and it hit deep.
Law’s grip tightened.
Not rough.
But it damned sure was claiming.
He drew Sage closer with it, closing what little space remained, until there was nothing between them but heat and movement and the drag of breath that matched.
Sage’s hands moved—faster now, impatient, like he couldn’t hold still—fingers catching at his shirt, pulling, sliding, and then pushing past it.
The kiss came again.
Hot.
Lips touching.
Breaking apart, reformed, deepening again—Sage pushing in like stopping wasn’t an option.
Law widened his stance—met him and held it there.
Law kept the pace even.
