**Chapter 3: Midnight Menu**
The next two weeks passed in a strange, suspended haze—like batter left too long on the counter, thick and uncertain, waiting for heat to decide what it would become.
Liam kept texting. Sometimes funny memes he knew would make her laugh. Sometimes long paragraphs apologizing again, promising change. Sometimes just a single "thinking of you" at 2 a.m. Ava answered less and less. Not out of cruelty. Out of exhaustion. Every reply felt like stirring the same cold pot, hoping it would magically thicken into something new.
Mia dragged her to the mall, to movies, to late-night diner runs where they split fries and dissected every detail of the birthday night until the words lost flavor. But even Mia stopped pushing after a while. "You'll figure it out when you're ready," she said one night, dipping a fry in ranch. "Just don't let him keep seasoning you with guilt."
Ava nodded. She was trying.
Evergreen University's orientation packet arrived in the mail—thick envelope, glossy brochure, schedule of welcome events. She and Liam were both accepted into the College of Arts & Sciences. He'd chosen communications. She'd chosen creative writing. Same campus. Same freshman dorm towers visible from the quad photos. Same future they'd once drawn together on napkins at Denny's.
She tucked the packet into her desk drawer without opening the rest.
On a Friday night when the house felt too quiet and her mom was working a double shift, Ava found herself restless. The kind of restless that made her skin itch. She scrolled through her phone until the screen felt hot against her palm, then tossed it aside.
She needed air. Noise. Something to drown out the loop in her head.
She pulled on black jeans, a cropped hoodie, and the leather jacket she'd bought on impulse last winter. Lip gloss the color of ripe cherries. Hair loose. No plan beyond leaving.
The bar she chose was downtown, not the loud club kind, but the dimly lit, wood-paneled kind where people went to think instead of forget. Low jazz hummed from hidden speakers. Bottles glinted behind the bar like jewels in a display case. She slid onto a stool near the end, far enough from the clusters of after-work suits and laughing couples.
"Something strong but not stupid," she told the bartender, a woman with silver streaks and a kind smile.
"Old fashioned?"
Ava nodded. "Make it good."
The drink arrived amber and perfect, a twist of orange peel curled on top like a ribbon. She sipped. It burned clean down her throat—bourbon, bitters, a whisper of sugar. Warmth spread through her chest like melted toffee.
She was halfway through when she felt it.
Eyes on her.
Not the casual glance of someone checking out the new girl at the bar. This was deliberate. Heavy. Familiar.
She turned slowly.
He was three stools down, half in shadow, nursing what looked like the same drink she had. Charcoal button-down sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with quiet strength. Dark hair falling just over his brow. Sebastian Kane.
He didn't smile. He just lifted his glass in the smallest salute, then went back to staring into his drink like it held the answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.
Ava's pulse kicked hard. She could leave. She should leave.
Instead she slid off her stool, picked up her glass, and walked the three steps to the empty seat beside him.
"Dr. Kane," she said, sliding onto the stool. "Fancy meeting you here."
He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. Those storm-blue eyes held hers without flinching.
"Miss Thompson." His voice was the same low velvet she remembered from the storage room. "Shouldn't you be celebrating your impending freedom with people your own age?"
"Shouldn't you be grading papers or reading depressing Russian novels?"
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "Touché."
They sat in silence for a moment, the jazz filling the gaps. She took another sip. He mirrored her.
"You left the club early that night," she said.
"You noticed."
"I notice a lot of things people think I don't."
He studied her then—really studied her. Not like a professor assessing a student. Like a man assessing a woman who'd surprised him once and might do it again.
"Liam's been calling me," he said quietly. "Asking if I 'took advantage' of his girlfriend during seven minutes in heaven."
Ava's stomach twisted. "What did you tell him?"
"The truth. That I kissed you. That you kissed me back. That the timer went off before anything else could happen." He paused. "He didn't like that part."
She laughed, short and bitter. "He didn't like a lot of parts lately."
Sebastian tilted his head. "And you?"
"I'm… figuring it out." She traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip. "I keep thinking about that kiss. Not because it was a dare. Because it felt like the first honest thing I'd tasted in a long time."
The words hung there, raw and unguarded.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
"Honesty can be dangerous," he said softly. "Especially when it's flavored with things you're not supposed to want."
Her breath caught. "Like what?"
"Like someone fourteen years older. Like your boyfriend's uncle. Like a man who knows better and still wants another taste."
Heat bloomed across her cheeks, down her neck, settling low and insistent. She should have been shocked. She wasn't.
Instead she leaned closer, just enough that their knees brushed under the bar.
"Then why are you still sitting here?" she asked.
"Because I'm tired of pretending I don't want it."
The jazz swelled. A saxophone wailed low and lonely.
Ava set her glass down. "Finish your drink."
He did—slow, deliberate. Then he stood, tossed a few bills on the bar, and offered his hand.
She took it.
They didn't speak in the elevator up to his loft three blocks away. Didn't need to. The silence was thick with anticipation, like the moment before caramel hits the perfect hard-crack stage.
Inside, the space was exactly what she'd imagined: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather furniture, a record player in the corner, city lights glittering through tall windows. It smelled like old paper, cedar, and him.
He didn't turn on the overhead lights. Just a single lamp that cast warm gold across the room.
He poured two fingers of bourbon into low glasses. Handed her one.
"To bad decisions," he murmured.
"To the best ones," she countered.
They drank.
Then he set his glass aside, stepped into her space, and kissed her.
This time there was no timer. No audience. No napkin.
Just them.
His mouth was slow, savoring—lips brushing hers like the first taste of a perfectly seared scallop, crisp edge giving way to soft, buttery center. She opened for him. He took his time, tongue tracing the seam of her lips before slipping inside, stroking deep and deliberate. She tasted bourbon on him, rich and smoky, mingling with the orange from her own drink. Her hands fisted in his shirt. His slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him until she felt every hard line of his body.
He backed her toward the couch. She went willingly.
When they sank down, he didn't rush. He kissed her like he was mapping every inch—jaw, throat, collarbone—each press of lips a deliberate bite of flavor. She arched when his teeth grazed her pulse point, a soft gasp escaping. His hand slipped under her hoodie, palm warm against bare skin, thumb stroking the underside of her breast through lace.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her neck.
"Don't you dare."
He groaned—low, rough—and kissed her harder. Hungrier. She pushed at his shirt until buttons gave way. Her nails raked down his chest, feeling muscle shift under skin. He hissed, caught her wrists, pinned them gently above her head with one hand.
"Slow," he said, voice gravel. "I want to savor every course."
She melted at that.
He did.
Clothes came off in slow motion—hoodie, jeans, lace—each piece unwrapped like a gift. His mouth followed: tasting, teasing, drawing soft sounds from her she didn't know she could make. When he finally settled between her thighs, he looked up at her with eyes gone dark and wild.
"Last chance," he said.
She threaded her fingers through his hair. "I'm starving."
He smiled—slow, wicked—and lowered his head.
The first stroke of his tongue was a revelation—warm velvet dragging slow and sure, circling her most sensitive spot like he was coaxing the perfect reduction from a sauce. She cried out, hips lifting. He pinned her gently with one arm across her hips, holding her exactly where he wanted her while his mouth feasted. Licking. Sucking. Teasing. Building her higher and higher until her thighs trembled and her breath came in broken sobs.
When she shattered, it was with his name on her lips, body bowing like a wave cresting.
He didn't stop until the aftershocks faded.
Then he rose over her, kissed her deep so she could taste herself on him—sweet, salty, intimate.
"Still hungry?" he murmured.
She pulled him down. "Famished."
He entered her slow—inch by careful inch—giving her time to adjust, to feel every stretch, every pulse. When he was fully seated, he stilled, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard.
"You feel…" He swallowed. "Like sin wrapped in silk."
She laughed breathlessly, clenching around him. "Then sin with me."
He moved.
Slow at first—long, deep rolls of his hips that made her see stars. Then faster. Harder. The couch creaked beneath them. Skin slapped skin. Her nails dug into his back. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head so he could kiss her messy and desperate.
When they came, it was together—her crying out, him groaning her name like a prayer, hips stuttering as he spilled inside her.
Afterward they lay tangled, sweat-slick and breathless. The city hummed outside. The record player had long since clicked off.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. "This changes everything."
She traced the line of his jaw. "I know."
Neither of them moved to leave.
Neither of them wanted to.
But tomorrow orientation packets waited. Classes started in three weeks. Liam waited. Family waited.
And the most dangerous flavor of all was already on her tongue.
The one she wasn't sure she could ever give up.
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