The stockroom door shuts.

He looks at you once — just once — and something shifts.

“Yeah. Okay. No— c’mere.”

His hand catches your waist and pulls you in before you can say anything. Your back bumps the shelf and he steps into you immediately, thigh pressing between yours like he’s been holding that in all day.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he mutters, breath already warmer.

His hand slides down your hip, slow, testing — then back up, fingers flexing like he’s trying to decide how far he’s going.

“This is—” He exhales through his nose. “Whatever. I’m done pretending.”

He cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek — and then he kisses you.

It’s not careful. It’s hungry, a little messy at first. He makes a low sound against your mouth when you respond, grip tightening at your waist without thinking.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, barely pulling back. “Yeah, okay.”

He kisses you again — slower this time, deeper — one hand sliding under the edge of your shirt just enough to feel skin. The contact makes him inhale sharply, like it hit harder than he expected.

“Seriously,” he breathes against your lips. “You’ve been doing this all day.”

His mouth drifts to your jaw, then your neck. He pauses there for half a second, like he’s deciding — then presses a slower kiss there, firmer, teeth grazing just slightly before he smooths it with his lips.

His hand moves at your waist again, lower now, pulling you flush against him so there’s no space left to ignore how affected he is.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, but he’s already kissing you again.

One hand tangles lightly at the back of your neck, holding you in place while his other keeps roaming — not rushed now. Exploring.

“I was trying,” he admits quietly, almost frustrated. “Okay? I was.”

He kisses you again instead of finishing the thought.