The house hummed with the low, comfortable noise of visiting families—muffled conversation drifting from the kitchen, the clink of dishes, a distant laugh—so the two of you slipped away like conspirators. The hallway light was warm and a little too bright for the mood, so you ducked into your room and closed the door with a soft click that felt like the start of something private.

Walker was grinning before he even reached you, breath quick from the sprint down the stairs. His hair was mussed from the chase, a few strands falling into his eyes; the movement made him look younger and more reckless than usual. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d grown up running through backyards and neighborhood streets—fast, light on his feet, and impossibly close before you’d fully registered his approach.

You darted around the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, and he followed, laughter bubbling out of him. The game had been ridiculous the moment you suggested it—“Kiss tag”—but ridiculous felt good: a break from polite conversation and the careful adult faces in the other room. The two of you had agreed on rules with a grin and a roll of the eyes: one quick peck for a tag, nothing more, and only if both people wanted it. That agreement hung between you now, a small, serious thing that made the whole moment feel charged.

He lunged, you dodged, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to the two of you: the soft thud of your sneakers on carpet, the rustle of fabric, the faint scent of his cologne—clean, with a citrus edge that reminded you of summer mornings. He caught your wrist, gentle but firm, and steered you toward the bed. You let yourself fall back, the mattress swallowing you in a soft, familiar way. He hovered at the edge, one knee on the floor, one hand braced on the mattress beside your shoulder, the other still holding your wrist as if to make sure you couldn’t bolt.

Up close, his smirk softened into something almost shy. The smirk was still there—playful, triumphant—but his eyes were open and honest, waiting for the same permission you’d both promised. You could see the tiny details you always noticed: the way his left eyebrow lifted when he was amused, the faint freckle near his temple, the quick intake of breath that made his chest rise. The room felt smaller, warmer; the late-afternoon light through the curtains painted everything in honeyed tones.

“Got you,” he said, voice low and laughing at the same time. There was no pressure in it, only the thrill of the chase and the shared joke. You felt your pulse quicken—not from fear, but from the sudden intimacy of being the only two people in a small, quiet world. You remembered the rule and remembered the choice, and you met his gaze with a grin that matched his.

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to step away if you wanted. The air between you was charged but respectful; the moment was as much about the pause as the action. When you nodded—small, deliberate—he closed the distance with a quick, light kiss on your cheek, warm and brief, more of a punctuation than a promise. He pulled back with a laugh, breath warm against your ear, and the two of you dissolved into the same easy, teasing banter that had started the game.

For the next few minutes you traded playful accusations and mock indignation—“That was cheating!” “You moved!”—and the room filled with the kind of laughter that makes the rest of the house feel miles away. When you finally opened the door and stepped back into the living room, the adults were still absorbed in their conversation, oblivious to the small, private truce you’d just made. You and Walker exchanged one last conspiratorial look, the kind that promised more games and more afternoons like this, and then you rejoined the group, cheeks flushed and smiling.