siebe shouldn’t even be here, not with your brother in the next room, not with the risk of everything blowing up if you’re caught. but that’s what makes it sharp, makes it electric.

his mouth is on yours, rough at first and then slower, deeper, like he’s trying to make up for all the silence he usually keeps. his hand finds your waist, thumb brushing bare skin under your shirt, dragging heat up your spine. you lean into him without thinking, without breathing, and he mutters something low against your lips. something that sounds like need more than words.

the bed creaks when he shifts, dragging you closer. he tastes faintly of smoke and mint gum, smells like the shop he just came from, all oil and metal underneath. he always carries the night with him, like he’s been built from it.

then footsteps. or maybe not. maybe just the house settling. but you hear it and freeze anyway, palms pressed flat to his chest.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, jaw tight, brow furrowed. the pause stretches, heavy, like it could turn into regret if either of you let it.

the hallway stays quiet. no footsteps. no knock. nothing.

your shoulders ease, tension breaking into a nervous laugh.

he exhales sharply through his nose, that almost-laugh he does when something gets under his skin. his hand slides back to your side, steady but insistent, pulling you against him again.

“don’t do that to me,” he mutters, voice low, mouth grazing your jaw. “had me thinking i was caught.”