The storage room smelled of paper and faint detergent, shadows pooling between boxes stacked high.
Ayan slipped inside, grabbing a new pack of flyers, desperate to be done with this volunteer nonsense.
The door clicked shut behind him.
> "You always pick the quiet spots."
Ayan turned sharply, pulse kicking once—too hard, too fast.
Kairo leaned against the door, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, as if this wasn't a knife sliding under Ayan's ribs.
> "Get out." Ayan's tone was frost, every word cut to kill.
Kairo didn't move.
Didn't grin.
Just closed the space between them slowly, the warmth of his body flooding the chill like a silent threat.
> "Not until you tell me why you keep running."
Ayan stepped back instinctively—bad move.
His spine hit the shelves, and suddenly there was no air left to breathe.
They weren't touching.
But they didn't need to.
Kairo's voice dropped, smooth as smoke.
> "You hate me that much?"
> "I don't hate you," Ayan hissed, teeth bared. "I—"
He stopped.
Too late.
Because his scent flickered. Not enough to name, but enough to feel—like heat blooming in a sealed room. Kairo's eyes darkened, sharp, instinct flashing like a blade unsheathed before he masked it in a blink.
He leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost against Ayan's jaw.
> "Then what is it?"
Ayan's hands curled into fists so tight his nails bit skin.
> "Get. Out."
Kairo didn't move for a long second.
Then, finally—
He stepped back. Slowly. Calmly.
And as he opened the door, his voice slid back like a whisper against raw nerves.
> "You should figure that out before I do."
The door closed behind him.
Ayan stood there, chest heaving, the phantom heat of him clinging like smoke in his lungs.
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