You’re not dating.

Not technically.

You haven’t kissed — well, not really. You haven’t said anything. Haven’t labeled this constant back-and-forth, this charged silence in the diagnostics office, the way he leans just a bit too close when you talk, or the way you’ve started answering his sarcasm with smirks instead of scowls.

So no. You’re not dating.

But still.

You’re leaning against the whiteboard, chewing gum and pretending to care about the differentials scrawled behind you. He’s at his desk, twirling a pen between his fingers, watching you like you’re more interesting than any case.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he says.

You shrug. “Thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” he drawls. “For you.”

You roll your eyes, blow a bubble just to annoy him. It pops softly. His gaze doesn’t leave your mouth.

“You know,” he adds, pushing up from his chair with a grunt. “Chewing gum is a distraction.”

“Maybe I like distractions,” you say.

He steps closer. Just one pace, then another, until he's right in front of you. He’s too close. His cane taps the floor, and his eyes flick from yours to your mouth — slow, deliberate, predatory.

“You going to offer me one?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t share.”

“Good,” he says, voice lower now. “Because I don’t ask.”

Before you can react, his hand slips behind your neck, and his mouth meets yours — firm, unapologetic, and warm. Not soft. Not gentle. Just his. The kiss is quick but shamelessly precise — not about passion, but victory.

When he pulls back, you’re left blinking, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

He smirks.

Then chews.

Your gum.

“Minty,” he murmurs. “Knew you had good taste.”

And then, as if he didn’t just steal a kiss and your gum, he limps back to his chair like nothing happened.

But the burn in your chest stays.

And so does his taste on your tongue