One touch. A single brush of your waist, one palm grazing across your back for less than a second of warm contact. Subtle… unnecessary. The real sin, however, was that it wasn’t König’s hand.

He had no right to feel this way, he knew that. He didn’t own you, or your waist. But sitting across the kitchen, he couldn’t find the strength to look away from Ghost’s wandering hand and not burn from the inside out. He didn’t own you, either…