The campus was almost silent by the time Ayan walked into the volunteer hall.
Fluorescent lights hummed soft overhead, casting long shadows over the rows of stacked chairs and boxes. It smelled faintly of paper and detergent—sterile, harmless.
Kairo was already there.
Of course he was.
Leaning against the far table, sleeves rolled, head tipped back like patience carved into flesh.
When his gaze slid to Ayan, the corner of his mouth curved—slow, deliberate.
> "Didn't think you'd come."
> "You asked for help."
Ayan's voice was clean ice, every word measured.
"I'm not in the habit of leaving things half done."
> "Funny," Kairo murmured, pushing off the table.
"You've been leaving a lot lately."
Ayan ignored that, moving to the stack of folders waiting near the desk.
He could do this.
An hour, maybe two.
Mask on.
Walls high.
Keep breathing, keep control—
Except his body had other plans.
The air felt too thick, the collar of his shirt too tight. Heat licked up his spine in steady, cruel waves, and his hands—steady yesterday—trembled when he reached for a pen.
And Kairo saw it.
He always saw it.
> "You okay?"
Soft. Easy.
But the weight under those two words was enough to snap steel.
> "Fine."
Flat.
> "Sure."
Kairo stepped closer—not touching, never touching—but the space between them shrank until Ayan could feel him in the air. Warmth coiling like smoke, scent brushing faint and dangerous at the edges of sense.
> "You know…" Kairo's voice slid lower, velvet over knives.
"Most people ask for help when they're drowning."
Ayan stilled. His breath caught sharp.
> "I'm not—"
> "Liar."
Quiet. Brutal.
Ayan turned then—too fast, too sharp—and found him closer than gravity should allow. Shadows pooled around his frame, but his eyes burned gold under the cheap light, feral and patient all at once.
> "Say it again," Kairo murmured, head tipping just enough to let his breath ghost Ayan's cheek.
"Say you don't need me."
Ayan's mouth opened—words clawing up his throat, bitter and bright—
But his body betrayed him first.
A shudder. Barely there.
Enough.
Kairo's smile was a sin, slow and dark.
He leaned in—not touching, not yet—just close enough for his voice to brand Ayan's bones.
> "Thought so."
And then he stepped back, smooth, casual, like nothing happened.
Like he hadn't just pulled every wire out of Ayan's control and left him sparking.
> "Lock up when you're done," he said lightly, walking toward the door.
Pausing only once, hand on the frame.
"Or don't. I won't be far."
The door clicked shut.
Ayan stood frozen, heat roaring under his skin, breath tearing slow through his teeth.
Every instinct screamed run.
But deep down, the truth curled like fire in his gut.
He didn't want to.
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