One Night, One Mistake.
1080 Words
It happened too fast and also not fast enough.
One moment Kaiden was standing near the table, trying to steady himself, fingers digging into the edge of polished wood as heat rolled through him in waves that made no sense. The next, Amelia was in front of him, much closer than she had been a second ago, her face flushed, eyes too bright, movements loose and unfiltered.
“This is not normal,” he said, voice lower than he intended.
Amelia blinked at him slowly. “Why are you talking like that.”
“Because something is wrong,” he replied. “You should sit down.”
“I am sitting down,” she said, even though she was very clearly standing.
She swayed, then laughed, a breathy sound that made his head spin worse.
“You’re hot,” she added casually.
His jaw clenched. “You drank the juice.”
“So did you,” she said, pointing at him. “You drank it first.”
“That wasn’t alcohol.”
“Neither is apple juice,” she countered proudly. “We’re being healthy.”
This was a mistake. Every instinct he had was screaming at him that this was a mistake unfolding in real time, that control was slipping from his grip and he did not like losing control.
He reached for his phone again, patting his pockets. Nothing.
“Where is my phone,” he muttered.
Amelia frowned in exaggerated concern. “Maybe it ran away. Phones get scared when you frown too much.”
He looked at her sharply. “Amelia.”
“Yes,” she said, stepping closer. Too close.
Her dress shimmered as she moved, the silver catching the low light. He became painfully aware of the space between them shrinking, of the warmth radiating from her body, of the way her eyes searched his face like she was trying to understand something she had just noticed.
“Why are you looking at me like that,” she asked.
“I’m not,” he said.
“You are,” she insisted. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing.”
“The intense thing,” she said, waving her hand vaguely between them. “You never used to look at me like that.”
“You were a child.”
“I am not a child,” she said quickly, offense flashing across her face. “I am an award-winning designer.”
“I know.”
“And you are very close,” she added softly.
He realized then that his hand was on her arm.
He did not remember putting it there.
He pulled back immediately. “We need to stop.”
She tilted her head. “Stop what.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The room felt smaller. Warmer. The music from somewhere distant throbbed faintly through the walls, slow and heavy, syncing with the pulse pounding in his ears.
“I should take you home,” he said finally.
Her brows knitted together. “Where.”
He froze.
He didn’t know.
Her address was not something he had ever needed before. Lucas had always been the constant between them. Lucas had been the one who handled things.
Lucas is not here, a traitorous part of his mind reminded him.
“I can stay here,” Amelia said suddenly, brightening. “This place is huge. You said it’s like an apartment.”
“It is,” he replied carefully. “But that doesn’t mean you should.”
She stepped back, spinning slowly, arms outstretched. “I like it. It smells expensive.”
He rubbed his temple. “Amelia.”
“Yes.”
“You need to lower your voice.”
“No,” she said again, stubborn as ever.
She stumbled slightly and reached for him without thinking.
This time, he caught her.
Her hands fisted in his coat automatically, grounding herself. Her face was inches from his chest. He could feel her breathing, quick and uneven.
They both stilled.
Neither of them spoke.
The heat surged again, sharper this time, coiling low and dangerous.
“This is bad,” he said hoarsely.
She looked up at him, eyes unfocused but curious. “Why.”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“So are you,” she replied.
“I never drink.”
“Well,” she said, smiling slowly, “there’s a first time for everything.”
That smile undid something in him.
He did not remember who moved first.
He only knew that suddenly her hands were on his shoulders, pushing his coat back, laughing softly as it slid off and landed somewhere on the floor. He knew that his breath hitched when her fingers brushed his collar, clumsy but intentional.
“Amelia,” he warned.
She leaned in, forehead pressing briefly against his chest. “You say my name like you’re mad at it.”
He exhaled sharply.
“This cannot happen,” he said.
She looked up again. “Then don’t let it.”
The logic was flawed. He knew that.
He also knew that his control was unraveling.
The room blurred at the edges as the heat climbed higher, his thoughts slowing, filtering, narrowing to her and the way she felt against him, warm and real and very much not a child anymore.
Her laughter faded into something quieter as she leaned closer again, her voice dropping.
“Why did you leave,” she asked suddenly.
The question hit him unexpectedly.
“Now is not the time,” he said.
“You never answered,” she murmured. “You just disappeared.”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t belong.”
She frowned. “You belong everywhere.”
Her words landed softly but deeply.
His hand slid to her waist before he could stop himself.
She inhaled sharply.
“Oh,” she whispered.
That sound tipped the balance.
Clothes became obstacles.
Not ripped or rushed, but misplaced, forgotten, sliding to the floor as hands fumbled and searched for balance, for something solid to hold onto. The couch was there suddenly. The wall. His jacket. Her heels abandoned somewhere near the door.
Their words dissolved into half sentences, into murmured protests that neither of them truly meant.
“This is a mistake,” he said again, even as neither of them could see yet.
The city kept moving outside.
Inside, time folded in on itself.
One night.
One moment of lost control.
One mistake that would change ever.
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