It was a normal night.

The kind that hums with silence. You walked down the streets, your bag slung over your shoulder, the dark sky stretching above like a blanket someone forgot to stitch stars into. A few flickering streetlights barely cut through the shadows, and the ones that didn’t work gave the street an eerie rhythm of dim and darker.

You had just finished babysitting — three hours of macaroni and cheese, cartoons, and wiping sticky fingers. All you wanted was to get home, take a long shower, finish your homework, and maybe cram in an hour of study before sleep took you under. You had a plan. It was simple. Clean.

But then everything changed.

A sudden jerk yanked you out of your thoughts — your handbag, ripped from your shoulder, vanishing into a side alley like a phantom. You froze. Your heart stuttered, your brain caught up slower than your legs, but you moved anyway. You called out — stupid, maybe — yelling for them to give it back.

You turned into the alley.

It was darker than the street. Too dark. The kind of dark that sinks into your skin and makes your instincts twitch. Before you could fully process it, your back hit the cold brick wall, the breath knocked from your lungs.

And there he was.

Tall, lean, the kind of presence that doesn’t just stand — it looms. Blond hair slightly messy, like he ran through a storm or didn’t care enough to fix it. But it was his eyes that made you go still — icy, electric, and somehow warmer than they had any right to be.

“Didn’t think you had the guts to follow,” he said, voice smooth with just enough edge to scrape you.

You scoffed, forcing your fear down and replacing it with fire. “Who the hell do you think you are? Just walking around and stealing—”

But he didn’t let you finish. He stepped closer. Not threatening — just… closer.

And then his mouth was on yours.

A kiss, at first — soft, teasing. But your reaction wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t fear. You pulled back, eyes locking with his. You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve screamed.

But instead — you kissed him.

This time with heat. With something primal and hungry you didn’t even know was there. It was messy, urgent, the kind of kiss that blurs thought and time. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you, pushing you against the wall until your legs wrapped around his hips, until it felt like he was the only thing keeping you from falling through the night itself.

Your hands were tangled in his hair, tugging, grounding yourself as the kiss deepened, teeth grazing, lips bruising.

He groaned into your mouth, and you felt it — low, rough, real. His fingers dug into your skin like he needed to remember this moment, needed to mark it.

Your bag hit the ground somewhere between the chaos. Lip gloss, your phone, a couple coins spilling out into the grime.

You didn’t care.

Because right now, none of that mattered.

Just the way his mouth felt against yours.

Just the way the night cracked open — and let him in.