You sit at the rooftop’s edge, Brighton Island glowing below. Killian stands behind you with an unopened cigarette pack in his hand.

“So you gave up smoking now?” you tease.

“Not here,” he mutters.

“Because I’d judge you?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. “Don’t want it mixing with your lipstick.”

You swallow. “Worried… or want me closer?”

“Maybe both.”

You move a little nearer. His jaw flexes.

“Since when do you care about anything but yourself?” you ask.

“You used to taste like fear,” he says quietly. “Now you taste like something I don’t want to break.”

The admission rattles you.

“You did this to yourself?”

“Yeah. Because you’re worth rewiring for.”

Your breath catches. “Do you miss it?” you nod toward the cigarettes.

“Some habits die hard. But I’d rather keep the air clean if it keeps you breathing.”

You sit beside him, shoulders brushing. He tenses.

“Trying to be good for me?” you whisper.

“Trying not to fuck it up,” he breathes.

Something in him snaps. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in.

“I said don’t sit close,” he growls. “I’ll touch you. I won’t stop.”

“You didn’t move away,” you whisper.

“Can’t.”

And then he kisses you—hard, like he’s been holding back for months.

He pulls you to your feet, guiding you downstairs and into your bedroom before you can think. The door shuts. His restraint is gone.

He presses you onto the mattress, kissing you deeper, slower, as if he’s learning you.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispers against your lips.

“I want you.”

That’s all he needs. He kisses you again, breath shaking.

“This is going to ruin me,” he mutters—

but he still doesn’t let go.