It’s past midnight. Cardan’s room is dim, lit only by the amber flicker of incense and the dull red glow from his vintage desk lamp. The air smells faintly of clove, old books, and you. Arctic Monkeys hum low from a half-broken speaker—“Do I Wanna Know?” curling around the shadows like a secret no one wants to say out loud.

His room’s a mess, but in a curated way: thrifted records on the floor, a worn black hoodie draped over a crooked chair, and your shoes somewhere by the door because he tugged them off without asking when you came in.

You’re on his bed—well, mattress on the floor, really—on top of tangled sheets that still hold his heat. His hands are cold against your skin, but his mouth is warm and slow, tasting like stolen sips of whiskey and something darker.

He’s half under you, half over you—like he can’t decide if he wants to surrender or ruin you. One hand is on the back of your neck, thumb brushing that spot he knows makes you shiver. The other slips beneath your shirt, dragging upward with lazy intent, fingertips skating over skin like he’s memorizing what he already dreams about.

His lips move against yours like a sin he’s proud of—biting, pulling, then soft, like a dare whispered into the hollow of your throat.