Shade hated Blaze.
Not in the normal way.
In the unfair way.
The kind of hate that wasn't hate at all—the kind that lived in the stomach, in the lungs, in the pulse.
The kind that made Shade show up at places she didn't need to be.
The kind that made Shade break her own rules.
Blaze leaned against the fence like she'd built it.
Like she was comfortable there.
Like Shade wasn't standing a little too close, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"You're staring," Blaze said.
Shade didn't blink. "I'm not."
Blaze smiled slowly. "You are."
Shade took a step closer.
Blaze didn't move.
That was the problem.
Blaze never moved first.
Blaze waited—calm, smug, unbothered.
Like she knew Shade would self-destruct eventually.
Shade's voice came out controlled. Too controlled.
"You're infuriating."
Blaze's eyes gleamed.
"I get that a lot," Blaze said.
Shade's stomach flipped.
"Stop," Shade snapped.
Blaze tilted her head. "Stop what?"
Shade's hands clenched harder.
Stop talking.Stop looking at me like that.Stop making my body betray me.Stop being the only person that makes me feel seen.
Shade didn't say any of it.
She refused to give Blaze that satisfaction.
So she turned it into something colder.
"You knew," Shade said quietly.
Blaze's smile widened slightly.
"Knew what?"
Shade stepped closer again until the fence pressed into Blaze's back.
Now Blaze blinked once.
Only once.
Shade forced her voice steady.
"You knew I was watching you," Shade said. "And you let it happen."
Blaze inhaled slowly, gaze locked on Shade's.
"I noticed," Blaze corrected. "There's a difference."
Shade's entire body went hot.
"So you—what?" Shade hissed. "You just… enjoyed it?"
Blaze didn't answer right away.
She just looked at Shade like she was reading her like a page.
Then she said, voice low and calm:
"I enjoyed you."
Shade's brain went blank.
Not externally.
Internally.
That sentence hit like a punch.
Then Blaze added—too casually, too cruelly:
"You're adorable when you pretend you don't care."
That did it.
Shade snapped.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
Just… completely.
All the restraint she'd built her whole life cracked in one single breath.
Shade grabbed Blaze by the front of her shirt and slammed her back properly against the fence.
The chain links rattled.
Blaze's eyes widened—finally.
Shade leaned in close, voice shaking with control pretending not to shake.
"Say it again," Shade whispered.
Blaze swallowed.
Then smiled.
"You're adorable," Blaze repeated softly, like she wanted Shade to lose it.
Shade's hand tightened.
Her voice came out like a growl.
"Why," Shade said, "do you do this to me?"
Blaze's smile faded into something real.
"Because you let me," Blaze said.
Shade's breath trembled.
"I don't let anyone," Shade whispered—angry, terrified. "I don't—"
Blaze cut her off, calm but sharp.
"You do," Blaze said. "You just hate it."
Shade's eyes burned.
That was the worst part.
Blaze was right.
Shade hated that Blaze was right.
And Blaze didn't even look scared.
She looked… pleased.
Like this was exactly where Blaze wanted her.
Shade's voice dropped.
"I can't stop thinking about you," Shade admitted, like it was a confession she'd rather die than give. "I hate it."
Blaze's eyes softened—barely.
"You don't hate it," Blaze murmured.
Shade's throat tightened.
"I do."
Blaze leaned in just enough to make Shade freeze.
Then she whispered, right against Shade's mouth:
"Prove it."
Shade stared at her.
For half a second she forgot how to breathe.
Then she did the only thing that made sense.
She kissed her.
Hard.
Like she was punishing Blaze for existing.
Like she was punishing herself for wanting it.
Blaze's hands caught Shade's waist instinctively—steadying her, holding her like she wasn't allowed to run anymore.
Shade's mind dissolved into heat and tension and relief.
The kiss deepened like it had been waiting for permission.
Shade pressed Blaze harder against the fence, like she needed the chain links to keep her from falling apart.
Blaze kissed her back like she'd known this was coming.
Like she'd been ready.
Like Shade wasn't the only one starving.
When Blaze finally broke the kiss, Shade stayed close, breathing hard, forehead nearly touching hers.
Blaze's voice came low, amused, wrecked:
"Was it really that hard," Blaze murmured, "to admit you feel something?"
Shade glared at her—furious, flushed, overwhelmed.
"Shut up," Shade whispered.
Blaze's smile returned.
Shade kissed her again.
Softer this time.
Not weaker.
Just… real.
And neither of them moved away.
Because there was nowhere to run.
Not anymore.
Not when Shade finally stopped pretending.
Not when Blaze finally stopped teasing.
Only the fence between them.
Only the heat.
Only the fact that Shade didn't know how to end things like this—
and didn't want to learn.
Shade didn't do love.
Until Blaze.