Angel's POV
The house was chaos incarnate—laughter ricocheting off the walls, pillows flying like missiles, footsteps thundering down the hallway. My best friend's sleepover had turned into a riot, and I'd officially reached my limit.
I needed air. A moment. A sip of water without someone screaming my name.
Wrapped in a borrowed oversized hoodie, I slipped down the corridor and nudged the kitchen door open. Moonlight spilled across the marble counters in soft, golden sheets. Quiet. Still. Blessedly empty.
Exactly what I needed.
My best friend had promised it would be just us girls tonight. No parents. And definitely not him.
But fate clearly had a flair for irony.
Because he was there.
A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette at the far end of the kitchen, half-turned, dark hair falling over his forehead. Out of place in this loud, messy house,too controlled, too composed, too…him.
My breath jammed. The glass slipped from my fingers. Shards scattered across the tiles, echoing sharp in the quiet.
"Perfect," I muttered, dropping to my knees. "I'll clean it up, I—"
"Stop."
The word cut through the room like a velvet-edged blade—soft, absolute, impossible to ignore.
I froze. Fingers inches from a shard.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His tone alone could stop time.
"I said stop." His footsteps were measured, unhurried, drawing closer.
"I'm fine," I whispered, voice quivering despite the lie.
"You'll cut yourself."
Before I could argue, he reached me. The quiet authority in his presence pressed against me, grounding, suffocating, magnetic. He exhaled—low, impatient, but somehow warm.
Then he lifted me.
Effortlessly. Casually. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He set me on the marble counter, between my knees, steadying me with a hand that brushed my thigh—brief, accidental, devastating.
"Stay," he murmured.
I stayed. Barefoot. Breath snagging. Heart pounding helplessly.
He knelt to gather the shards, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Muscles shifted under his shirt, slow and precise. Focused. Elegant. Controlled.
"Didn't know you'd be home," I managed, curling my fingers around the counter edge.
He didn't look back. "This is my house."
"Well, yeah, but your sister said—"
"That I was out of the country?" he finished, clipped.
I swallowed. "Something like that."
"Plans changed." He swept the last shard into his palm. "Next time, don't clean up glass with your bare hands."
"I wasn't—"
He looked up. One look. One heartbeat. My words melted.
"Thanks," I whispered, pulse tripping over itself.
He stood, rinsed his hands, then filled a fresh glass with water. When he handed it to me, our fingers grazed. The touch was fleeting, but the air between us tightened, taut as a drawn string.
His scent—smoky cedar, warm, familiar—drifted over me. And suddenly…
I was back there.
Flashback
Years ago. Same kitchen. Same hum of the fridge. Same awareness pressing inside my chest.
I'd tiptoed in for water—messy hair, tiny shorts, no clue he was awake.
He stood barefoot, shirt unbuttoned at the top, eyes heavy with sleep and something I didn't yet have words for.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was low, rough with exhaustion.
I shook my head, heat crawling up my neck.
"You should go to bed." His gaze lingered far longer than necessary.
"I'm…not tired." The lie trembled.
Silence. Thick. Electric.
He reached out, fingertips brushing mine as he took the glass from my hand. A jolt—hot, quick, unforgettable.
Then, deliberate, he drank from the rim where my lips had touched. Slow. Like he wanted me to feel it.
"You shouldn't wander around here alone," he murmured.
I opened my mouth—but a door creaked upstairs. Reality intruded.
His jaw tightened.
"Goodnight," he said sharply, stepping back.
The moment shattered. The almost-kiss stayed lodged under my skin.
I blinked back into the present, clutching the glass a little too tightly.
He had his back to me, sleeves pushed up, water running over his hands. Pretending he didn't notice my staring. Pretending nothing in this room was dangerous.
"You shouldn't wander around here alone," he said quietly, echoing the past.
"I was thirsty," I blurted, too quickly.
He leaned against the counter, eyes dragging over my face, calm yet anything but calm.
"Be careful next time."
The unspoken why stuck on my tongue.
His gaze dropped slowly to my lips.
A silent, impossible moment stretched between us.
Then he reached for the glass still in my hand. Before I could react, he slid it from my fingers, eyes locked on mine as he lifted it and drank.
The sound was soft, devastating.
"Be careful next time," he repeated. Gentle. A warning. A promise. A crack in the wall he'd built between us.
Then he turned and walked away.
The air trembled in his wake.
I didn't breathe until he disappeared down the hall.
My hands shook. My heart refused to settle.
I stared at the glass. At the rim where his mouth had been.
Whatever line we weren't supposed to cross…
We had just taken the first step.