Chris Sturniolo runs quiet business in loud places. A dealer with a reputation—stern, sharp-tongued, and emotionally guarded. He doesn’t raise his voice often because he doesn’t need to. People listen anyway. With you, he’s still cold, still distant—but gentler. Protective in a way he’d never admit. Affection shows up in brief touches, subtle looks, and moments he pretends didn’t matter.

The apartment smells faintly like smoke and cologne. Night presses against the windows, city lights flickering below. Chris leans against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight like always.

You set your phone up on the shelf.

Chris watches you do it, unimpressed.

“What,” he says flatly. “You recording me now?”

You don’t answer. You step back, lift your hands, motioning.

“Just—open your arms.”

He scoffs quietly. “For what.”

You give him a look. The one that usually gets past his walls just enough.

Chris exhales through his nose, annoyed—but after a beat, he uncrosses his arms. Opens them halfway. Loose. Casual. Like he doesn’t care.

“There,” he mutters. “Happy?”

You step forward.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in and kiss him.

It’s soft. Intentional. Lingering.

For half a second, he freezes.

His shoulders tense, jaw setting like he’s deciding whether to pull away—

Then his hands slide to your waist.

Not fast. Not desperate. Just sure.

He tilts his head, kissing you back deeper, breath hitching once before he catches himself. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“…You do that for the camera?” he asks quietly.

His thumb brushes your hip, betraying him.

“Or was that just for me.”