The first time they locked eyes, it was across a sea of strangers in a house pulsing with music and the migraine-glow of too many string lights. Golden filaments tangled overhead, veins bleeding neon into every corner.
Delorah slipped out of her mansion that night like a secret sliding between parted lips. Soundless, dangerous, deliberate. The click of her heels vanished into marble, lost somewhere in the hush of oil paintings and parents too busy to look back. Kit, somewhere across the city, made the same escape. He passed house staff trained not to notice, not to care. Two ghosts leaving no footprints. Neither missed, both forgetting what it meant to be wanted.
She wore black jeans poured on like night, cut sharp at the hip. Her cropped blue top flickered beneath the shifting party lights. A jacket dangled careless from one shoulder, just the right shade of disinterest to look untouchable. She looked like someone newly arrived, or maybe someone always half on her way out. Her hair spilled in gold sheets, catching the light, setting her crown ablaze, painting her skin fragile and dangerous.
Kit couldn't stop staring.
He saw her the instant she walked in, not for her clothes, but for the gravity she carried. She moved like someone born in spotlights. Her lips were too red, smeared in the dark, worn like armor. But it was her eyes—sharp green, glass-bright—that made him forget to breathe. Emerald, almost predatory. She looked at him, through him, already memorizing the shape of his shadow.
Her gaze caught his. Blue eyes, watching from behind someone's shoulder. Brown hair tousled, black shirt, black jeans, black everything. A living shadow, humming on the edge of the room. He looked away first, almost flinching.
Delorah moved toward him, crowd parting just enough. Kit risked another glance, saw her coming closer, eyes locked on him. "Fuck," he muttered, more breath than voice. His fingers raked his hair, heart ricocheting. What did she see, staring back? What did she want?
The house pressed close—heat, color, too many bodies lacquered in wealth and boredom. Chandeliers spat gold onto glass and sequins, turning the room into a fever dream. Music thumped beneath her feet, an animal, restless and hungry. Everyone seemed to know each other. Delorah knew she didn't belong, not really, but she kept moving. Her eyes found the boy by the fireplace, the shadow with a pulse, the gravity well her night would spiral around.
Had he seen her? Was he pretending not to? Relief or fear, she couldn't tell.
One step. Another.
Suddenly, a hand looped around her neck, perfume cutting through the air.
"Delorah! I thought that was you!" A girl in red satin crashed into her, voice high and desperate over the noise. Too familiar, too insistent, vodka and Chanel radiating from her skin.
Del blinked, trapped in forced closeness. "Hi, yeah—sorry, I—"
"God, it's been forever. Your mom and my mom were talking internships. Didn't you—"
"I really need to—" But the girl pressed a red cup into her hand, snapped a blinding selfie, cheek pressed close, all sticky, borrowed intimacy.
By the time Delorah slipped away, untangling herself from the static and vodka, the boy was gone.
Of course he was.
Of course.
Frustrated, she drifted toward the hallway, heart pounding louder than the bass. She didn't know where she was going—only that she needed to get away.
And then she felt it.
Someone watching.
She turned. There he was, leaning against the wall at the end of the hall. Arms crossed, head tipped back just enough to look lazy, a crooked half-smirk playing on his lips.
"I thought you were going to say hi," the stranger called, his voice somehow clear even with all the music and noise.
Delorah huffed, rolling her eyes. "Didn't get the chance. Someone tackled me."
"I saw." He straightened, walking toward her without rush, like the party could wait all night. "You looked trapped."
"Maybe I was." Her eyes narrowed, a little spark of challenge in her tone. "But I'm fine. Don't need rescuing."
He stopped a breath away. "Didn't say you did," he said, gaze searching. "But you're the only one here who doesn't pretend otherwise."
Something in her chest tightened. He was close enough now for her to see the tired edge in his eyes, the way his mouth almost quirked like he was in on a private joke.
He slid his hands into his pockets. "Kit."
She raised her chin, feigning boredom. "Alright."
His smile widened, just a fraction. "You got a name, or do I have to keep guessing?"
Delorah hesitated, then shrugged. "It's Delorah."
He repeated it under his breath, as if tasting it. "Nice. Suits you."
She tried not to smile, failing just a little. "If you say so."
The world around them spun on—bodies, color, music—but between them, the air felt heavy and new.
"You come here with anyone?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Nope. You?"
"Nah." Kit's eyes flicked to the cup in her hand. "That any good?"
She made a face. "It's terrible."
He grinned. "Let's go find something that doesn't taste like lighter fluid."
Delorah didn't answer. She just stepped into his space, letting the current pull them both forward.
They slipped away together, leaving the party's chaos humming behind them. The hallway swallowed the sound, holding only their footsteps and the hush that always blooms in the wake of secrets. Paintings gazed down from gilded frames, their faces blurred by shifting candlelight. Shadows drifted across the marble, long and soft, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
Kit moved ahead, not rushing, just trusting she would follow. He pushed open a door at the corridor's end and glanced back at her, eyes unreadable. "After you."
Delorah hesitated, just long enough for her pulse to flutter, then crossed the threshold. The room was small, lined with books that smelled faintly of dust and old stories. Shelves rose floor to ceiling, filled with spines faded by time. A velvet couch lounged beneath the window, and on the side table a single candle guttered low, its flame throwing golden ghosts across the walls.
She lingered just inside, absorbing the strange intimacy of the space. It felt like a sanctuary, or maybe a trap. Kit followed her in, his hand resting for a moment on the door before he let it close—quiet, certain, final.
"So," he said, hands still deep in his pockets. The light from the candle played over his jaw, sharpening him into something fragile and bright. "What's your deal?"
She let out a breath, part laugh, part defense. "You really think people just answer questions like that?"
He shrugged, a little crooked. "Most don't. But you're hard to read. Figured I'd try."
"Maybe I like it that way," she replied, the words tasting like challenge and dare.
Kit studied her, head tilted, gaze steady and warm. "I can respect that."
She turned to the window, eyes pretending to search the darkness beyond the glass. The party's distant pulse seemed impossibly far away. She could feel him behind her, not touching, just present—a wire of tension strung between them, ready to spark.
She glanced over her shoulder, the question soft but sharp. "What about you? What's your deal?"
Kit leaned against the wall, shoulders slouched in a way that looked effortless but careful. "I don't really have one. Not tonight."
She looked at him fully this time. Up close, he seemed out of place with the rest of the house—wrong kind of sharpness, wrong kind of softness. There was a distance in his eyes, but not the kind that asks for rescue. He looked like he belonged nowhere and had stopped trying to.
"That can't be true," she said. "Everyone has a deal. Even if they're hiding it."
He considered this, mouth curving around something unsaid. "Maybe. But mine's nothing worth telling."
She shook her head, a real smile flickering. "You don't seem boring."
Kit's mouth softened into something honest, something almost shy. "Neither do you."
The candle burned lower, their shadows long and uncertain on the wall. Outside, the party raged on, but here in the hush, it was just the two of them—two people orbiting the same secret, waiting to see who would break the silence first.
Kit stepped closer, closing the distance in a way that felt deliberate, almost reverent. Candlelight trembled between them, turning the air golden and strange. She caught the ghost of his cologne—spice, a little smoke, something clean and sharp beneath it, a scent that made her think of rainstorms at midnight.
"Let me show you something," he murmured, voice low enough to be secret.
He crossed to the table and lifted the candle, tilting it until a thread of wax trickled into a waiting glass. The sound was soft, each drop marking time, a private rhythm. He watched the wax cool and cloud, then dipped his finger into it, testing for heat.
"What are you doing?" Delorah asked, curiosity coaxing her closer.
"It's just something weird," he said, half smiling. "Whenever I want to remember a moment, I leave a mark."
He pressed the pad of his finger, coated in warm wax, gently onto the inside of his wrist. The touch left a faint, glistening seal. He held out his arm for her to see, as if baring a secret.
She blinked at him. "You brand yourself for memories?"
Kit's laugh was soft, a flicker of real amusement. "Nothing permanent. It fades after a few hours. I just… like the thought of leaving a mark. Even if it doesn't last."
Delorah didn't say anything. She just watched the way the candlelight played on his skin, turning the wax to gold. She wondered how many moments he'd tried to keep before this, how many temporary scars he carried like pearls.
Kit dipped his finger again, slow and careful. This time he paused, meeting her eyes, asking without words.
"May I?"
She hesitated, pulse flaring, then nodded once.
He reached out, steady, and pressed the soft wax just below her collarbone. It was warm, almost gentle, the kind of touch that makes you aware of every nerve. Not enough to burn, but enough to linger. She felt her breath catch in her chest.
"Now you'll remember too," he said, voice a shade deeper.
Delorah swallowed, the air between them turning fragile and electric. "Even if you never see me again?"
Kit's eyes flicked up, catching hers. For a moment, he looked unbearably sincere. "I think I will," he whispered.
The room felt impossibly still. Outside, the world spun on—music, laughter, doors slamming—but in here, everything had narrowed to a single point of contact, a memory pressed into skin.
Delorah's voice came out softer than she meant. "Let's get out of here. I need some air." She laughed, shaky, trying to chase away the flutter in her chest. "Before I start thinking too much."
"Good idea." Kit's smile was crooked, touched by something he didn't bother to hide. He offered his hand to her, palm open, fingers loose, an invitation written in bone and skin.
She took it.
The candle guttered, sending shadows tumbling across the books as they slipped out together—marked, changed, carrying a little fire with them into the night.
Delorah's hand slid into his. Her grip was cool, steady, grounding. She tugged him from the hush of the library and the heat of the party, guiding them both toward the cracked sliding glass door that opened onto the backyard. The air outside was a shock—cool, almost clean, laced with the lingering bite of cigarette smoke and something acrid underneath.
Out here, the chaos of the house faded. The yard was dim, lit only by a handful of solar lights jammed into flowerbeds. Their glow painted pale, uneven circles on the grass. Whoever owned the place clearly cared; the lawn was trimmed and edged, white benches positioned in careful rings around the yard. In the far corner, a wooden gazebo squatted under a tangled mess of fairy lights, some blinking, some burned out. Inside, a group of teens lounged on the benches, laughter spilling out in lazy, spiraling waves. Smoke drifted from the center of their circle, sweet and bitter all at once.
Kit's jaw tightened when he caught sight of the gazebo. For a heartbeat, Delorah felt him hesitate. She'd slowed to let him lead, but now it was Kit who pulled them forward, his grip never faltering. The closer they got, the stronger the smoke grew—weed and vanilla vape swirling together, thick and cloying. Every step made her heart thump harder, caught somewhere between dread and excitement.
Laughter cut through the night, sharp as broken glass. Delorah stuck close, trailing just behind Kit as they mounted the wide, weathered steps. Up close, the gazebo almost looked enchanted, fairy lights flickering feebly over four teenagers sprawled inside. Halos of dirty gold painted their faces. But the illusion crumbled with the first voice.
A boy—broad-shouldered, mouth already twisted into a smirk—leaned forward, a half-smoked joint dangling from his fingers. He coughed, laughed, then let his eyes land on Kit.
"Well, well. If it isn't little Adrian, back from the dead." He dragged out the name, voice sticky with cruelty, like he expected the words to sting.
Kit stopped, his whole posture going rigid. Delorah felt the change in the air, the snap of tension, as if the world itself had shrunk to a single, dangerous point.
The boy grinned wider, lips curling around the next taunt. "Didn't think you'd still be crawling around after mommy bit it. What was it she used to call you? Adrian?" He made a mockery of the name, rolling it around in his mouth. "Guess you're trying out a new personality now, huh? You used to be so quiet. So sweet. Not anymore, right?"
Delorah watched, heart thrumming, waiting to see whether Kit would freeze or burn.
Delorah's head snapped toward Kit when she heard the name—Adrian—a puzzle piece she'd never had before, now sharp in her hands.
Kit didn't flinch. He let the word hang in the air, eyes locked on James, shoulders loose but every inch of him coiled tight. He stepped closer, hands still tucked in his coat pockets, gaze unreadable and dark. The air shifted, and for a heartbeat, even the laughter from the house faded.
James took another slow drag on the joint, trying to look bored, but his fingers were trembling. He didn't see Kit move until it was too late.
In a blur, Kit closed the distance, one hand out fast, seizing James by the collar and forcing him down against the bench. His other hand snatched the joint, pinching it between his fingers, and then, slow and controlled, pressed the burning tip to James's cheek. Smoke curled up, the scent turning harsh and metallic as it touched skin.
James howled, swatting wildly, but Kit held him in place with chilling calm, face inches from his. "You want to talk about names? Try keeping mine out of your mouth unless you're ready to lose teeth," Kit said, his voice flat and quiet, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.
Delorah stared, heart rabbit-fast in her chest, watching the way the light caught Kit's face—unmoving, expression carved from something ancient. There was no satisfaction in his eyes, only a promise. James jerked away, cradling his cheek, breath coming in sharp, angry bursts. The smell of burned weed lingered, mingling with fear.
Kit stood over him for another beat, daring anyone else to say a word. The rest of the group shrank back, uncertainty crawling across their faces. The silence felt loaded, dangerous, almost holy.
Finally, Kit turned to Delorah, every movement measured. He tipped his chin toward the far end of the bench, never breaking eye contact with the others.
For the first time, she realized: she had no idea what Kit was capable of. And for the first time, it didn't scare her. It made her want to know more.
Delorah followed, pulse roaring in her ears, not sure if she wanted to run or stay close to the flame. Someone—voice shaky—passed her a vape. She took it without thinking, her hand brushing Kit's as she sat down beside him.
She hesitated only a moment, then took the vape with trembling fingers and pressed it to her lips. The smoke burned bitter, catching at the back of her throat. She coughed, eyes watering, but refused to look away. Kit watched her through the haze, a faint, crooked smirk curling on his mouth. For a split second, he looked proud and reckless, almost beautiful in the broken fairy light.
Silence settled around them again, heavy and close. The only sounds were the low hum of someone's phone playing music and the soft whisper of leaves overhead. A car passed somewhere distant, headlights flickering across the lawn for a heartbeat, then gone.
Delorah realized something as she sat there, the taste of smoke sharp on her tongue. Whoever Kit was, it was dangerous to call him Adrian. That name was a boundary, a buried wire. She could feel the charge humming beneath his skin, waiting to snap. The thought unsettled her, but not enough to make her leave. If anything, it made her lean in.
The other teens began to slip away—some muttering excuses, some laughing too loud, a few disappearing into the shadows beyond the gazebo. Soon it was just the two of them, alone in the chill. For a while, Kit said nothing, only stared out at the empty yard like he could see ghosts moving just beyond the reach of the lights.
Delorah hugged herself, feeling the air nip at her bare arms. She turned, searching for the right words—maybe to thank him, maybe to break the spell—but Kit spoke first.
"You wanna get out of here?" His voice was soft, almost a dare. "Come back to my place?"
She hesitated. Not because she was scared, though the sensible part of her thought maybe she should be. No, it was something else—the weight of the question, the invitation to step off a ledge and hope the landing was worth it.
"Sure," she heard herself say, heart hammering. "Why not?"
Kit's grin sharpened, all teeth and trouble. "Good answer."
He stood, offered his hand, and together they left the glow of the gazebo behind.
The night opened up in front of them—wide, wild, and waiting.