SERAPHINA’S POV
Of all the people to run into this early—in OTS of all places—I would have wagered on literally anyone else.
But no. Fate—or cruelty—had deemed it fit to plant Kieran Blackthorne right in front of me.
The cavernous cafeteria seemed to shrink around us, voices fading to muffled static, dishes clattering like a far-off storm.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Just…watched me.
And fuck, I burned under his gaze.
Or maybe it was from the way his hands lingered—one still curled around my arm, the other braced firmly at my waist from when he caught me.
His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough that my pulse jumped beneath his touch. Almost possessive. As if letting me go wasn’t an option.
His hands were warm. Steady. The longer they stayed on me, the more acutely aware I became of every inch of contact.
Then, as if suddenly realizing how tightly he held me, he released me.
Too quickly.
I nearly stumbled back, losing the precarious balance he had given me.
