49-Zach
The king-size bed and foldaway cot take up the entire area.
There’s barely enough room on the strips of carpet for two people to stand without brushing shoulders. After Kit finishes in the bathroom, I grab my bag and squeeze past him, escaping the confined, charged space.
Steam clings to the corners, drowned in soapy musk. It settles into the air like he’s marked it, a ribbon of warm cinnamon and smoke woven through the cleanliness. Taking a cold shower, I scrub the day off me; sweat, dried snot, and sorrow that clings to me like latex.
Feeling marginally more human, I step out and wrap myself in a fluffy towel.
I change into my oversized T-shirt; the anime print so faded the ramen-eating blond is barely visible.
By the time I brush my hair and teeth, I’ve regained most of my composure, but the moment I open the bathroom door, I forget how to breathe.
Kit’s lying across the cot, remote in one hand while the other’s bent behind his head.
Wearing nothing but a pair of loose, nickel-gray sweats, he flips through channels with casual ease while my body goes nuclear.
Today’s grief doesn’t vanish, it just rearranges itself, settling lower, heavier, molten.
There are rumors—fans speculating whether Judas’s abs are shaded on, that the red body paint hides imperfections, and the cloak is strategic.
It’s real. All of it perfection.
His torso is lean but sculpted, the kind of definition that comes from years of performing, not constant gym sessions. He turns, reaching for his phone on the tiny square table, revealing more bare flesh.
Freckles and moles smatter his back as though angels peppered kisses along his creamy skin at random.
In the center, right along the spine where the shoulder blades taper inward, half of Somnium’s logo has been transformed into a crown.
Crescent moons diminish gradually from each side, their tips pointing upward like delicate prongs of a celestial tiara.
Threaded through the moons are thorny vines, winding and crossing in an organic lattice.
I shouldn’t be staring this hard, but I can’t look away.
Two people sit on either of Kit’s shoulder blades.
The left figure is the upper half of a woman falling, limbs loose, her wild hair trailing upward as though she’s been dropped from the heavens.
On the right shoulder is a half-naked man, desperately reaching for her.
Between the two of them, under the crown in thin looping cursive, reads, ‘I have been half in love with easeful Death,’ from John Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale.
“I can feel you staring,” he says in a whimsical, sing-song voice, still looking down at his phone.
My jaw snaps shut so fast I nearly bite my tongue. “I—sorry.”
Kit’s rich glee curls around my ribs like a hand at my waist. He rolls onto his side to face me, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, taking me in from my T-shirt to my toes before he schools his expression into something neutral.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper aware of how little I’m wearing. When I packed, I didn’t expect company. Certainly not him. His gaze lingers, creating an unbearable pulse between my thighs.
“I never thanked you,” Kit says, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot, “for allowing me to join you, and simply be Kit today, with Steve.”
The sincerity in his voice hits me harder than the sight of his bare skin.
Kit’s rarely unguarded; trying to steady himself before he speaks. He faces me fully, the thin metal frame screeching against the movement. Elbows braced on his knees, he combs his fingers through his wet hair in one slow, nervous sweep.
“I didn’t do anything,” I murmur as the tiny hotel room presses around me.
My fingers grip the hem of my shirt, knuckles whitening. A jolt runs through me like I’ve touched an electric fence. I take a half-step back and bump into the edge of the dresser, causing the old flat-screen to wobble.
Kit’s on his feet in a flash to secure it, standing too close to me for a room this small. Warmth radiates off his skin. His ribs flare, abs flexing and stretching as he takes a deep breath. He regards me with an earnest expression that knocks my heart clean loose from my chest.
I glance around the room, finding the stiff bedspread, patterned with some ugly geometric print. Looking at him feels too raw, but I force myself to meet his stare, even though it’s like stepping into a spotlight.
Hands loose at his sides, Kit’s like a jaguar waiting patiently for the prey to run. A charged silence crackles between us, humming with things unspoken. I’m done pretending I don’t want him.
I’m a blast bound to go off, and he’s the only thing capable of safely containing me.
Sitting on the edge of the king bed, legs crossed beneath me, I face him. Kit glances down to my spread thighs before returning to my face. His expression flickers, a shadow crossing his features before he masks it.
“We should remain sensible.” His hand twitches a fraction, as if he’s using every ounce of restraint to hold himself back.
“We should.” I agree, punching my fists into the mattress to keep the shirt’s hem from revealing my panties.
He exhales slowly, eyes drifting to the window. Kit turns back to me; the man who held me when I shook, who trusts me enough to confess his darkest moments.
“You know telomeres?” he asks, the words dragging out of him as he turns toward the dresser, gripping the edge as though bracing himself. “They’re those little caps that burn down when a cell divides. That’s what I feel like. Every time I get close to you, something in me shortens, it gives.”
Eyes melting, his control cracks as he faces me. “And still, I keep stepping closer, even when the costs are permanent. I’m torching myself just to stay near, but I don’t care.”
The confession is a match against dry tinder inside me.
He straightens, rising from the edge of the dresser with a slow, deliberate motion. I reach out a hand. Taking it by the fingertips, he follows my command, clearing the space as I drag him toward me. With a half-step, he’s looming.
Flecks of silver and turmeric dot his irises. The lamplight catches on the blunt lines of his torso; a perfect etching of muscle that seems carved rather than grown. Faint beginnings of curly hair sprout below his belly button.
Running both hands through his hair, Kit pushes it back from his forehead. The motion draws me to the curve of his inked upper arms, and the tension in his shoulders.
Heat radiates off him as his fingers fist with faint tremors. I tilt my chin up as Kit presses into the space between us, offering every delicate piece of himself. He moves first. Or maybe I do.
We cross a threshold I can never step back from.
Whatever fragile line we’ve been walking gives way as distance dissolves in a gasp. Our lips meet, and the world narrows to that single, devastating point of contact. It’s hesitant.
The barest brush of mouths—as if either of us might retreat.
His hand rises slowly, trembling as though he’s reaching for something sacred. Rough fingers curve along my jaw, Kit’s thumb grazing the hollow just beneath my ear before settling against my cheek. His hand steadies and undoes me simultaneously.
He tilts his head to shift the angle, deepening the kiss with urgency and intention as he lifts me from the mattress.
I wrap my legs around his hips, grinding myself against him.
Our mouths part just enough to share our rickety exhales.
Salt, cigarettes, and spearmint toothpaste caress my taste buds as our tongues mingle.
My hands slide upward, scratching along his taut skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest beating under my knuckles too fast and uneven.
Time shrinks to the reverent, slow glide of lips; a careful press. He pauses, as if he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth before returning to it again.
One of his hands slips under my shirt and finds my waist, fingers spreading across the curve of my back as if he needs to anchor himself.
The firm grip lures me closer, leaving no space between us.
His hard length presses into me as he sits us down on the bed, my underwear doing nothing to obstruct it.
Pausing for air, our foreheads brush, neither of us able to withdraw completely. His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone. My fingers graze his collarbone before brushing the back of his neck, a subtle shiver running through him at the contact.
Our kiss is slower still—stretching the descent for as long as possible. His lips move with mine in a rhythm that’s less like discovery and more like recognition. As though some part of us has always known this.
We finally break apart, but only by inches. His forehead rests against mine. A shaky laugh leaves him, half wonder and surrender.
“Gods, help us,” he murmurs, voice rough and unsteady as our mouths merge.
Tangled together, we fall.