*Camille*

Maybe I should’ve looked away first.

Right outside the station, he stopped. I turned, the glow of the streetlamp painting gold into his hair.

“I had a really good time tonight,” I said—quieter than I meant to.

“Me too,” he said. “Actually... I don’t think I’ve had a night like this in a long time.”

There was something in the way he looked at me. Not cocky. Not curated. Just real. Soft around the edges. Bare.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” I teased, “I might start thinking you’re trying to kiss me.”

“Maybe I am,” he said, stepping in.

His fingers brushed mine—barely. But it was enough to make my breath catch. And God, he was beautiful. Not filtered-beautiful. Real. Messy. Alive. A little dangerous. A verse scribbled in the margins.

He didn’t reach for my face right away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a hug that felt less like a greeting and more like a landing. I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing him in—crushed saffron and aged wood.

Then, I felt his lips graze my cheek.

He stayed there, a lingering heat against my skin. I went still, my breath catching in my throat until it turned into a series of short, shallow hitches. My heart wasn't just beating; it was thrumming in my ears, a heavy, rhythmic pulse that drowned out the distant hum of the trains.

I didn't pull back. Slowly, I turned my face just a fraction. Our skin slid together until the corner of my mouth brushed his. He didn't force it. He just moved, brushing his lips against mine in a ghost of a touch—not shy, but asking a question without saying a word. A silent request for permission, written in the heat between us.

I answered by leaning in.

I wanted to memorize him the way I memorized lyrics—line by line, breath by breath.

When he finally kissed me, it wasn’t a desperate crash. It was soft at first. A discovery. His hand slid to my jaw, warm and sure, his thumb tracing the line of my skin. My hand fisted the fabric at his waist, anchoring me to the spot.

He kissed as though he didn’t believe in second chances, his other hand anchoring at my hip to pull me closer. He tasted of late nights and first sins.

When we finally broke apart, the fairy lights above us blurred. Not from the rain. From the fact that I wasn’t sure who I was in that moment—only that I didn’t want it to end.

*Daniele*

Her lips were softer than I expected. Warm. Just the right shape. The kind of mouth you think about later—when you absolutely shouldn’t.

Guilt crept in, but she tasted of cinnamon and apple cider. Her perfume—her skin—had my brain short-circuiting.

My hands found their way to her: one at the small of her back, the other gripping her waist as though I needed proof she was real. Between us, the ghost of an old song hummed, a half-remembered melody pressed into the space where our bodies met.

Camille didn’t melt into it. She kissed back slow and precise, as if she were weighing whether I was worth the trouble. As though she knew I wanted more—and liked holding that power.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. Vince, probably.

I ignored it.

Instead, I leaned in harder, making the most of the space she’d given me. I kissed her once more—less asking this time, more curiosity. It was steady and sure, a silent claim that had my head spinning.

She broke away first. Lips parted, pupils blown—but her voice was all steel. "Was that another signature move?"

I grinned.

She arched a brow. "Solid seven."

I laughed, but before I could retort, she kissed me again—brief, biting, final. When she stepped back, her cheeks were flushed, but her gaze never wavered.

"So," I said, catching her hand before she could walk away. My thumb brushed her pulse point, feeling it. "Guess it is safe to say we’ll be doing this again."

It wasn’t a demand. Wasn’t even a push. Just a lazy, confident hint, tossed out like I didn’t care either way.

But her breath stopped. For a split second, something resembling relief flickered in her eyes; she’d been braced for me to let this dissolve into nothing.

Then she smiled, slow and real.

"I guess it is,"

She kissed me one last time—quick, sweet, a promise—before slipping from my grip.

I let her go, watching as she walked away.

And Christ, I was already fucked.

The guilt didn’t creep this time—it slammed into me.

I should’ve told her.

About the videos. The followers. The life that wasn’t entirely mine anymore. But I didn’t. 

Because for the first time in years, I’d felt like just Daniele—not the guy from the internet, not the viral content, just me. And I’d been selfish enough to want to keep that.

Even if it meant lying by omission.

Even if it meant hurting her later.

I dragged a hand down my face.

The truth sat heavy on my tongue. I could’ve said it. Should’ve.
But her mouth had been warm, and for the first time in years, I wanted to be wanted—not for the algorithm, but for me.