I will say, in my own defense, that I had been operating under significant stress for several days in a body that was not mine. I had been cold and disoriented in a dark forest while three people discussed doing things to me that I did not want done. And Drew Porter—who had spent three days being composed and logical and quietly protective—was kissing me with the focused intensity he brought to everything.
So I kissed him back. With, I would say, considerable enthusiasm.
He was different here. The deliberateness was the same, but the restraint was gone, replaced by what I suspected was his actual temperature underneath all that silver composure. He was warm. He was present in a way that left no room for thinking about anything else. When he picked me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist, it felt less like a choice than a natural consequence of physics.
We reached the bed with more coordination than might be expected from two people who had known each other for four days.
"Drew," I managed at one point, "are you sure—"
He answered with actions rather than words. My carefully tailored shirt did not survive the evening intact. Neither did his. He looked—I took a moment to observe this properly—exactly as composed without his clothes as he was with them, which somehow made it more disarming.
In my real life, I had been seventeen and focused entirely on gymnastics. But this was not my real life, and the person in my arms was not a character from a cautionary tale anymore. He was Drew—specific and particular—with silver hair falling across his forehead and hands that were careful even when everything else about him wasn't.
I'll take a very good memory away from this world, I thought, and meant it.
His touch was warm and grounding. His thumb brushed the edge of my jaw, light as a breath. His hand slid to my shoulder, then lower, tracing the line of my spine. He was always careful, even when his eyes burned with something wild. When I exhaled, sharp and sudden, he paused, his gaze searching mine in the dark.
"You can tell me to stop," he said.
I knew I should have. But the night was soft, the air thick with the scent of rose incense, and his hand was warm against my skin. "I don't want you to," I whispered.
Drew's breath hitched. Then his mouth was on mine, slow at first, like he was testing a hypothesis. His hands mapped the lines of my body as if I were something precious. But there was nothing fragile about the way I kissed him back, my fingers tangling in his silver hair, my pulse roaring in my ears. I gripped the back of his neck and he made a sound low in his throat—something between a laugh and a groan.
"Ava," he murmured against my lips, and the way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine.
There was only this: the taste of him, the way his hands moved over me like I was something worth memorizing. When his teeth grazed my lower lip, I gasped, and he slowed, pulling back just enough to study my face.
"Are you okay?" he asked, so earnest that I could only nod.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, pulling me closer until there was no space left. I could feel him—hard and thick—pressing against me. A sound tore from my throat, and his lips curved against mine. When his teeth grazed my lip a second time, I opened for him, and he took advantage, slipping his tongue inside to tangle with mine.
"Fuck," he groaned against my mouth.