The stairs are cold under me, but my skin feels hot—too hot—like every inch of me is leaning toward her without thinking.

She’s sitting one step down, knees brushing mine, her eyes flicking between my face and my mouth like she’s deciding whether to break the silence or let it strangle us.

I lean in first. Or maybe she does.

Our lips meet in the middle, soft at first, almost hesitant… then hungrier when I feel her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. The world narrows to the scent of her shampoo, the scrape of the wall against my shoulder, the way her breath catches just before she pulls me closer.

The stairwell is quiet except for us—our muffled breaths, the faint creak of the steps under our shifting weight. I don’t even notice my hand cupping her jaw until I feel her leaning into it, kissing me like she doesn’t care if someone hears.

And maybe I don’t either.