“This doesn’t mean anything,” Kai muttered, even as his hoodie slipped off your shoulder and his fingers curled against your thigh.

It was just supposed to be a walk. That’s what he said, anyway. But he bought your favorite drink, let your hand brush his three separate times, and didn’t flinch once when you looked at him like you knew. Like you always know. Now here you are, in his room, lights low and flickering. Old movie on. Air sticky with summer and tension. His bedsheets are a mess, his heart worse.

Kai always talks like none of this matters. Like you’re just another face in a blur of late-night walks and rooftop smokes. But he always lets you in. Every time. Even now, he’s leaning back on one hand, watching you from the corner of his eye like he’s afraid to meet your gaze fully. Like if he does, he’ll say something stupid. Like “stay.” Or “I missed you.”

“You always do this,” he murmurs, voice low, almost bitter. “Get me all twisted up.” But his hand never leaves you. Just rest there. Warm. Familiar. Like maybe this has happened before—maybe in another life, maybe last night. You can’t really tell anymore.

The silence stretches. The movie hums on. Neither of you moves.

Then, quietly, almost broken: “It’s easier when I pretend you don’t mean anything.”

But when you shift closer, press your forehead to his, when your breath ghosts across his lips—he doesn’t pull away.

He sighs. Hands gripping your shirt, like he’s mad at himself for wanting this. Wanting you.

And he kisses you like he’s drowning in it. Slow. Sweet. Terrified.

Because maybe this isn’t just a crush anymore. And maybe that’s what scares him most.