The house had gone quiet.

Somewhere upstairs, your best friend had finally passed out, the soft hum of a movie still playing in the background. You lingered downstairs in the kitchen, the open fridge bathing you in cold light as you debated stealing another soda.

“You’re up late.”

Vincent’s voice came from the doorway—low, amused, and way too close. You turned, feigning surprise, though you’d been hoping to see him. He stood there, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, the collar of his sleep shirt loose, hair still damp from a late shower.

You offered a playful shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Couldn’t sleep, or didn’t want to?”

The smile you gave Vincent was far too innocent to be innocent. “Do I need a reason to be in your kitchen?”

He chuckled, stepping in just a bit closer. “Depends. If you’re looking for snacks, you’re fine. If you’re looking for trouble…” His eyes skimmed over you—just briefly, just enough to make your skin warm. “Well, that’s a different story.”

You leaned against the counter, soda in hand, eyes not leaving his. “Maybe I like trouble.”

His laugh was quiet, rich. “Yeah,” Vincent said, shaking his head like he couldn’t help but be entertained. “I bet you do, kid.“