24.0 #3
She toyed with the stem of her glass, eyes gone a little far away. "Mykonos," she said. "That tiny restaurant on the hill—the one with the vines over the stone wall and the candles in the little glasses. It was so beautiful." Her mouth tipped.
"I remember." My voice came out lower than it should've. I let my thumb skim the inside of her ankle. "And after dinner..."
Her gaze snapped to mine. We were both smiling; neither one of us was.
"You stood in front of the mirror after dinner—trying to fix your hair. You asked me to help with the tie," I murmured. "You remember what happened next, don't you?"
She did remember—the glass fogging, my mouth at her throat, the way I told her to keep looking. The pool later, warm as breath, her laugh echoing off white stone, my hands in her hair as the island went quiet around us. All the ways she said my name like she'd never meant another word more.
"That night was..." She trailed off, biting back a smile that wasn't sweet at all. "Beautiful."
"Cruel," I said, because I could feel the room tilt. "To bring it up while you're in pink pajamas and I'm trying very hard to be decent."
Her laugh slipped out—soft, shaky. The kind that hits all at once and then sits low in your chest.
I pressed my palm higher on her calf, moving up to her inner thigh.
"Brooks," she said, soft warning and invitation all tangled together.
"Amira."
We didn't lunge. We didn't even lean, not at first.
I just traced the inside of her thigh with my thumb and she pressed her heel into my leg, a silent answer that climbed straight up my spine.
When I finally shifted, it was an inch. Then another.
Close enough to feel the thread of her breath on my mouth.
"You know this is a bad idea," she whispered.
"Every good thing I ever did started like a bad idea," I said.
Her smile cracked. "Really?"
"No," I admitted. "But I want it to be."
Her laugh caught on its way out. She untucked one leg and swung it down, then the other, moving slow, like she was still deciding what to do with the space between us.
For a moment she just looked at me—eyes low, lips curved, wine-soft—and then she crossed that space completely, swinging a knee over my lap until she was straddling me.
The breath left my chest. My hands found her hips on instinct, thumbs tracing the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.
"Tell me to stop," I said.
She didn't.
So I kissed her.
It was careful at first, a test more than a claim, the kind you can still call an accident if you need to. She answered with a soft sound that felt like the bottom dropping out of me. The next pass wasn't careful.
She caught my shirt and pulled, and I went, one hand finding the back of her neck, the other sliding around her waist.
She stayed on top of me, hips shifting closer, kissing me like she'd been trying not to think about it all night.
Every time she moved, the world got smaller—just her weight, her mouth, her breath catching against mine.
When we came up for air, it was only because we had to. Her forehead rested against mine. Her fingers were still in my collar, knuckles against my throat. I could feel her pulse in the tips of them.
Only seconds went by before I kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, until she angled her chin and the room fell away.
I kept it there—at the edge on purpose. Not because I didn't want to fall over it, but because the wanting felt holy and I didn't trust myself not to wreck it.
My hands learned her again in small strokes: the line of her jaw, the soft curl at her nape, the place in her waist where my palm fit like a promise.
She made another quiet sound and I felt it, everywhere.
When I pulled back, her eyes stayed closed. "We said friends," she whispered.
"Co-parents," I corrected, the words rough in my throat. "Who are very, very bad at being just that."
Her lashes lifted, a slow smile curving at the corner of her mouth.
"I should probably head out," I said, though it came out softer than I meant.
Her hand was still on my chest, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric. "You shouldn't drive," she murmured. "You've been drinking."
"I'm fine," I started, but even as the words left my mouth, she leaned in closer. The look in her eyes wasn't concern—it was something else. The same ache that had been humming under the surface all night, unspoken but alive.
"Stay," she said quietly. "Just... sleep here."
I hesitated—not because I wanted to leave, but because I didn't trust myself not to stay for the wrong reasons. Her fingers slid up, brushing my jaw, light but deliberate, and that was all it took.
"You sure?" I asked, voice low.
She nodded once. "Yeah."
That was it. I didn't argue. Didn't even try. Her weight was still half on me, her warmth pressing through my shirt, and when she looked at me again, it was like she was memorizing every reason this should be wrong—and deciding none of them mattered.
She shifted off my lap, slow and deliberate, straightening her shirt. For a second I thought that was it—that she'd leave me sitting there to cool off and think better of it.
But she paused at the doorway and turned. "You can sleep in my room," she said.
The quiet stretched. I swallowed once, trying not to let the flicker of heat in my chest show in my voice. "Alright."
She didn't say anything else—just stood there, waiting.
When I finally pushed off the couch, she stepped aside to let me pass. Our shoulders brushed in the narrow space, nothing intentional about it, but it still managed to knock the air out of me.
In her room, she reached for the lamp. The light flicked on—soft, golden—spilling across the bed, the walls, her hair. For a second, everything looked too peaceful, too domestic.
She turned down the sheets before lying under the cover. I stayed in the doorway for a moment, watching her move. Then I pulled off my jacket, loosened the top few buttons of my shirt, and unbuckled my belt. The sound of the leather sliding free broke the quiet, low and deliberate.
She didn't say anything, just watched.
By the time I'd stripped down to my boxers, her eyes had softened—half curious, half shy, like she didn't know where to look. I could tell she was tipsy; her cheeks were warm, her gaze slow, the kind of dazed that made her sentences trail off before they landed.
"You okay?" I asked, voice low.
She nodded, smiling faintly. "Yeah. Just tired."
I sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. Her hand rested near the pillow, fingers curled lightly. I lay back beside her, pulling the sheet over both of us.
"Come here," I murmured.
She hesitated, then shifted closer until she was within reach. I slipped an arm around her waist, slow and easy, guiding her against me. She exhaled, soft and unguarded, her head finding my shoulder like it belonged there.
"Brooks," she whispered, half-laughing, half-drifting.
"Sleep," I said quietly.
Her hand found my chest, resting there as her breathing steadied. I lay still, staring at the ceiling, the weight of her body pressed into mine, the smell of coconut and wine on her.
Eventually, her breathing evened out completely. I let my eyes close, the quiet wrapping around us like a secret neither of us was ready to name.