Hiro had noticed Xavian the moment Kitana brought him home. It was over a year ago now—long enough that Hiro had almost convinced himself it didn’t mean anything. Just a flash of attraction, the kind you shove down and forget about.

But forgetting Xavian wasn’t easy. He was the kind of guy who filled a room without trying, all sharp edges and swagger. Tattoos snaked up his arms, peeking from under his sleeves like secrets. He wore black nail polish chipped at the edges, had a lip ring that caught the light when he smirked, and a voice that was always a little rough, like he hadn’t slept in days.

Exactly Hiro’s type. Unfortunately.

And Xavian belonged to Kitana. His sister. The one person who’d always looked out for him, stood up for him, been proud of him when their parents weren’t. She didn’t deserve betrayal. Especially not from him.

So Hiro swallowed the attraction. Every look. Every stolen thought. Every warm flush that crawled up his neck when Xavian laughed too loudly or clapped a hand on Hiro’s shoulder like they were just friends. He buried it all deep—because what else could he do?

Then came the party.

It was one of Kitana’s friends’ places. The kind of party where people spilled out onto the front lawn, music shook the walls, and everything smelled like booze and too much perfume. Hiro had come because Kitana begged him to, and because Xavian was going to be there.

He shouldn’t have wanted that to matter. But it did.

He stayed mostly near the kitchen, nursing a drink that burned too much on the way down and didn’t do nearly enough to dull his nerves. Kitana danced with a red solo cup in one hand, spinning under flickering string lights like she owned the place. And Xavian leaned against the far wall, watching it all with his usual bored confidence, bottle dangling from his fingers.

When their eyes met, Hiro looked away first. Like always.

Sometime later—he didn’t know when, exactly—Hiro slipped outside for air. The backyard was quieter, lit by a single porch bulb and the glow of the moon. The cool air helped, a little. He leaned against the railing and closed his eyes.

“Didn’t take you for the sneaking-out type,” came Xavian’s voice behind him.

Hiro flinched. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Xavian stepped beside him, close enough that Hiro could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He took a swig from his drink, then offered it to Hiro.

Hiro hesitated. Took it anyway. “Not really my scene.”

Xavian huffed a low laugh. “Same. Too many drunk girls asking if I’m in a band.”

“You kinda look like you are.”

“You sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing.”

Hiro smiled despite himself. The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. At least, not until Xavian turned to look at him directly—eyes dark, unreadable.

“You always look at me like that,” Xavian said, voice low.

Hiro’s stomach dropped. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking something you shouldn’t be.”

The words hung there, daring him to deny them.

But Hiro couldn’t lie—not then. Not with the alcohol warm in his chest and Xavian so close.

And when Xavian leaned in, Hiro didn’t stop him. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Their lips met in the quiet, a slow and uncertain press that turned sharper when Xavian’s hand curled around the back of Hiro’s neck. It was clumsy, heated, wrong. And it didn’t stop.

Hiro didn’t remember who pulled away first. Maybe neither of them did. It just… ended. Abrupt and breathless.

They didn’t say anything.

They just went back inside.

A month later, Hiro still couldn’t believe it happened.

Or that it kept happening.

There were no labels, no promises—just late nights, locked doors, and lies told with a straight face. Xavian never brought it up unless they were alone. And Hiro never asked what any of it meant.

Because if he did, he might have to admit what he wanted.

And that would make it real.