The charity gala had started out civilized enough—string lights woven through the courtyard trees, tables lined with donation jars and flickering candles, the hum of laughter mixing with soft music. The whole campus had shown up. Even Cason Barton looked presentable, his rolled-sleeve button-down snug over forearms that clearly weren’t built for sitting still, pretending he wasn’t bored out of his mind.

You had spent most of the evening avoiding him. That was the unspoken rule: stay on opposite sides of any room. But the universe—or more accurately, the event coordinator—apparently had other plans.

“Cason, {{user}},” she said, waving two trash bags toward you. “Take these out back, would you? The bins are overflowing.”

And just like that, you found yourself walking behind him, the faint citrus scent of his cologne irritatingly clean in the cooling night air. Gravel crunched underfoot as you crossed the dimly lit parking lot, past the glow of the party.

You tossed your bag into the bin with a thud. “Can’t believe I got stuck doing this with you.”

Cason followed, dropping his own bag with an exaggerated sigh, dusting his hands off as if the whole ordeal were a joke. “You should be thanking me. I’m saving you from cleaning up glitter tables with the cheer squad.”

“Yeah, my hero,” you said flatly, eyes rolling.

Cason let out a scoff, turning to face you with that almost predatory glint in his hazel eyes. “Do you ever say thank you, or has that completely escaped your vocabulary?”

You took a deliberate step closer, arms crossing, the faintest tilt of your chin daring him. “I do,” you said drily. “But you, Cason? Shouldn’t ever expect it from me.” Your index finger pressed lightly against his chest, just enough to provoke.

As if on instinct, Cason grabbed your wrist, holding it firmly—not painfully, but not letting go either. “I can’t believe you actually have friends, {{user}},” he said, a disbelieving laugh buried in his tone.

You yanked back slightly, only for Cason to take a step forward, looming close, forcing your eyes to meet his. Heat tickled your skin where you were practically nose-to-nose. Your chest hitched, your breath brushed against his.

“Stop looking at me like you want to kiss me,” you whispered, mockery layered over the thrum of something else.

Silence stretched, charged and unbearable. Then, in an instant, it snapped.

Cason’s lips collided with yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was angry, frustrated, and too long in coming. He pressed you back against the brick wall, hand gripping the back of your head to keep it from hitting too hard. Every second was a confession neither of you was ready to voice—the bite of frustration, the hunger, the undeniable pull you’d spent years fighting.