Toric’s eyes went wide at that, heart slamming hard enough that he could feel it in his throat. He didn’t know if Vox meant metaphorically or not — only that the sound of it twisted something in his gut, heat blooming low and unwelcome. Shame curled in behind it, tangled with the spark of something he couldn’t name.

His fingers twitched at his side. He knew he should leave now. Say something before this went further than he could stop. Run.

But his feet wouldn’t let him.

Something splintered inside of him. The low groan of restraint starting to bend. 

Vox didn't fill the silence unnecessarily. He was comforted by it. He merely gazed into the warm copper of Toric’s eyes, expectant.

Toric’s throat constricted around nothing. He was frozen, hands balled up by his side. Vox pushed beyond his restraint, stepping closer. His presence alone was a living thing that sat tightly behind his ribs. 

Then, he said softly. “I could make you forget the lines you drew.”

Toric seized. Vox’s voice had dropped to a hush, just an exhale. A hot breath that grazed Toric’s ear.

“I see what you won’t name,” Vox whispered. “You’re not wrong to want it. I want it too.”

Toric’s eyes squeezed shut. Not out of surrender, but out of shame. With a muted, painful refusal to acknowledge the truth two inches in front of him. He clenched his teeth, his chest struggling beneath the weight of so much tension just to remain breathing.

Vox tilted his head, just barely brushing his lips against Toric’s cheekbone — tender and slow. Nothing hurried.

Inside, Toric could swear that his heart stopped.

Then, Vox traced lower with another feather-light touch of damp lips, softer than breath, just beneath his ear.

Vox followed it with a whisper. “You’ve imagined this.”

Then his mouth lowered. Dragging slowly toward the corner of Toric’s lips, grazing but not yet touching. Every movement he made was calculated. Controlled to the point of madness.

Toric made a sound he couldn’t swallow. Something small, cracked, and pitiful. A half-whimper torn from his throat without permission. It betrayed him. So did the flush rising up his neck. So did the way his body leaned like gravity had shifted around them.

He wanted it. He didn’t. He hated how much he wanted it.

And Vox knew.

His gloved hand hovered just above Toric’s belt again, he didn’t touch, he just let the proximity burn.

Vox’s mouth barely grazed him.

It wasn’t really a kiss. Just a drag — the soft, wet slip of parted lips that trailed from the corner of Toric’s cheek toward his mouth. Slow, damp and intimate in a way that pressed beneath the skin.

They didn’t demand when they finally drew across the swell of Toric’s bottom lip with a softness that almost felt unreal. Contact that couldn’t be misinterpreted. 

Toric’s lips parted without his consent. It was a need so instinctual that his mind couldn’t control it.

And then Vox pulled away, severing the spell.

Toric’s eyes snapped open, the horror hitting instantly.

His face burned, and his pitiful breath was caught halfway between a gasp and choke. The worst part was the way his body betrayed him. That familiar, awful pulse of shame between his legs. A spasm he couldn’t stop. One he was sure Vox had noticed. 

Toric could hardly breathe over the heartbeat pounding in his ears. His skin felt too tight. His uniform was suddenly unbearable. It was more than just the fact that he’d let Vox touch him. It was the fact that he had wanted it so badly. A split-second impulsive reaction that he could do nothing to stop.

He hated that Vox had seen that.

He hated that he hadn’t said no.

Toric stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own boots. His shoulder bumped against the wall.

He whipped around, breath caught in his throat—and shoved through the nearest door. It slammed shut behind him, a metallic screech that echoed down the corridor.

Blood roared in his ears. His fists were clenched so tightly they hurt. The pulse in his throat was still thrumming with heat. His lips still felt wet.

God.

What the fuck just happened?

What the hell was wrong with him?

His eyes burned with shame that churned in his stomach, sticky and hot. He’d let it happen. He’d wanted it to happen. He’d wanted to taste it. A Shame so rancid he couldn’t name it without choking on it.

He pressed a hand to his mouth and dragged it down his face, wiping it away, willing the memory to burn itself out of existence.

But it didn’t. 

He could lie to his mind, but not to the heat still running under his skin.