The clock was past midnight.

The silent house. Only you, alone, in a wide sweatshirt and a restless heart.

Even the familiar sound.

Motorcycle. Headlight. Dry brake.

You went to the window and there he was.

Royal Kellan.

Leaning against the bike, messy hair, half-open jacket, look... devastated.

Literally.

You came down. Slowly.

He opened the door.

“Did you come to run against my neighbors now?”, you joked.

He looked at you for a long second. Without smiling.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“There’s a remedy for that, you know?”

He sighed. He put his hands in his pockets, took a step forward.

“It’s not insomnia. It’s you.”

The silence squeezed the air.

You crossed your arms, as if you wanted to hold your own chest.

“You should leave.”

“I should,” he said.

And climbed the steps anyway. Stopped a palm from you.

“But I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because I still feel your taste.”

His heart shot.

“It was just a kiss,” you lied.

He laughed. Low. Almost sad.

“It was a war. And I lost it.”

His eyes were dark, loaded.

“If I come in...”, he muttered, “...I won’t pretend I came to talk.”

You pulled the door slowly.

Opened. He looked right into his eyes.

“Then come in.”

And he came in.

Without hesitation.

He closed the door behind him. He dropped his jacket on the floor.

The hands went straight to your waist. The kiss came like an announced storm.

You didn’t need to say you wanted to.

He already knew.