The town had started to glow under the wash of twilight, the kind of dusky light that painted ordinary streets with a softness that begged you to linger. Eliza tugged her scarf tighter around her neck as she walked beside Ari, their steps unhurried, as if neither wanted the night to end too soon.
They had left the café hours ago, deciding impulsively to wander without a destination. The air carried the faint smell of rain on stone, and the streetlamps hummed to life one by one, lighting their path in warm halos. Ari's hand brushed against Eliza's more than once, not accidental, not quite intentional either, and each time, Eliza felt the same current jolt through her veins.
"Do you always work that late?" Ari asked, her voice quieter than usual, as though the evening had pressed a secretive hush over them.
"Depends," Eliza said, biting back a smile. "Sometimes I stay after closing just to avoid going home. It's too quiet there."
Ari tilted her head, studying her with eyes that caught and held the glow of passing lamplight. "Maybe quiet isn't so bad. Depends on who you share it with."
The words lingered between them, weighted and full of something that Eliza couldn't laugh away. For the first time, she wasn't sure how to answer. So she didn't. She just let herself meet Ari's gaze and didn't look away.
By the time they reached the edge of town, they found themselves at the small riverside park empty, save for the ripple of water and the rustle of trees. The benches glistened faintly, still damp from an earlier drizzle. Ari led her to the stone steps that dipped close to the water's edge.
"It's beautiful here," Eliza murmured, hugging her knees as she sat.
Ari lowered herself beside her, their thigh brushing hers. "It is," they said softly, though their eyes weren't on the river they were on her.
Eliza felt the weight of that gaze. It set every nerve alight, left her acutely aware of the closeness, of the way Ari's shoulder curved toward hers, of the heat rolling off their body despite the night air's chill.
"I'm glad you came with me," Ari said after a long silence.
"I am too." Eliza's voice came out breathier than she intended. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly restless, suddenly aware of how fast her pulse had quickened.
Ari leaned in slightly. "Eliza…"
The sound of her name from her lips was enough to undo her. She turned toward her, and suddenly there was no space left. Ari's hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed her cheek with a gentleness that sent fire through her veins. Her breath caught. Her eyes flicked to her mouth, back to her eyes, then to her mouth again, an invitation she didn't know she'd given until Ari closed the gap.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, testing. Eliza melted into it before her mind could catch up, the world narrowing to the press of their lips, the warmth of Ari's palm against her skin. But when Ari deepened the kiss slow, deliberate, with a hunger that had been held back for too long Eliza's body answered with equal urgency.
She grabbed at Ari's jacket, pulling them closer, as though afraid they might pull away too soon. The river's hush and the cool air around them blurred into nothing. All she felt was Ari solid, warm, achingly real.
Ari's tongue brushed against hers, and Eliza gasped into the kiss, a sound that made Ari's hand slip from her cheek to cradle the back of her neck. The pressure was both commanding and tender, and it made her shiver.
Eliza broke the kiss only to breathe, her forehead resting against Ari's. Their breaths mingled, harsh and uneven.
"That…" Eliza whispered, her lips still brushing theirs, "…was not quiet at all."
Ari chuckled, low and husky, before stealing another kiss this one rougher, hungrier. Her other hand slipped to Eliza's waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of her coat as though she wanted her closer still, close enough to erase the thin, tormenting sliver of space that remained.
Eliza responded in kind, her own hand sliding up Ari's chest, feeling the quick thrum of their heartbeat beneath layers of fabric. She'd never felt this alive, this consumed, this seen.
When Ari pulled her onto her lap, the move was fluid, unhesitant. Eliza gasped but didn't resist; she straddled her, her knees pressed against cold stone, her body pressed to hers. The position stole what little air she had left. Her scarf came loose, her hair tumbled forward, and Ari's hands framed her hips like they belonged there.
They kissed again, deeper, messier. Eliza moaned softly against Ari's mouth, surprising herself with the sound. Ari swallowed it hungrily, her grip tightening.
Every second teetered between restraint and surrender, between the safety of stopping here and the danger of tumbling further. But the danger thrilled her.
Ari finally tore her lips away, resting her forehead against Eliza's again. "Tell me to stop," she whispered, her voice rough.
Eliza's answer came without hesitation. "Don't you dare."
Her words ignited something. Ari kissed her again, slower now, savoring, as though committing every taste, every shiver, every gasp to memory. Her hands stroked up and down her back, sometimes firm, sometimes feather-light, pulling her into a rhythm that felt like dancing without music.
The night deepened around them. The world could have ended then, and Eliza wouldn't have cared. All she wanted was this the kiss that unraveled her, the arms that anchored her, the intoxicating mix of heat and tenderness that made her forget every wall she'd built.
When they finally pulled apart, it wasn't because the desire faded. It was because they both needed to breathe again. Eliza stayed on Ari's lap, chest heaving, lips swollen from the ferocity of it.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The river flowed. The trees whispered. The night held its breath.
Then Ari smiled faintly, brushing a thumb across her lower lip. "You taste like cinnamon."
Eliza laughed, breathless. "Blame the chai latte."
Ari's expression softened, though her eyes still burned. "I'll never think of chai the same way again."
Eliza leaned forward, kissing her once more, softer this time, more lingering than urgent. It felt like a promise.
And though neither said it aloud, they both knew this was only the beginning.