Zenith called him late. Not a message. Not a text. A call.
Draven stared at his phone for a long moment before answering. "You shouldn't be calling me," he said quietly.
"I know," Zenith replied, his voice low, tight, stripped of the polish he wore in public. "But I need to see you. At my place."
Draven should have said no. He knew that. He had said no so many times in his head that the word had lost its meaning.
"Send the address," he said instead.
Zenith's house was quiet, tucked away from the noise of the city. Lights were dim except for the hallway lamp. When Draven stepped inside, the door closed softly behind him. Zenith stood a few steps away, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp as if he'd run his hands through it too many times.
"You came," Zenith said.
"I shouldn't have," Draven replied.
Zenith didn't argue.
The moment broke without warning. Zenith grabbed Draven by the neck—not rough, not cruel—and pulled him into a kiss. Draven could smell the faint trace of cedar from his shampoo, feel the heat radiating off him. When Zenith lifted his eyes, their eyes met—sharp, trembling, dangerous.
Zenith's hand rose, fingers brushing Draven's jaw. "Tell me to stop," he whispered.
Draven didn't.
The kiss came like lightning—fast, raw, hungry. Draven's back hit the door. Zenith's hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He lifted Draven slightly, moving them toward the bedroom, urgency guiding every step.
Draven kissed him back.
Then he pulled away, breath shaking. "No," he breathed, pushing at Zenith's chest. "We can't—"
Zenith caught his wrist gently. "I'll stop if you mean it."
Draven hesitated. His chest heaved. Every part of him screamed to run, but his body stayed. His fingers curled into Zenith's shirt. He didn't mean it.
Their mouths met again, slower this time, deeper. Zenith's hand slipped beneath Draven's clothes, resting against his chest. Clothing was tugged away clumsily, both of them helping each other, hands shaking, breaths uneven.
Zenith's mouth traced along Draven's skin, nipping gently, licking where he'd bitten. Draven moaned softly. He shifted above Zenith, his hand finding him, while Zenith continued kissing his body, leaving marks that felt like promises and mistakes all at once.
Zenith pulled Draven onto the bed, whispering, "Lift your ass." Draven obeyed.
Zenith tugged down his trousers and briefs, brushing along Draven's leg before Draven stopped him, breath tight. "Stop," he said. "This is my first time."
Zenith froze. Then he met Draven's eyes. "It's mine too."
Zenith reached into the drawer beside the bed and pulled out a condom. He placed it on himself carefully, explaining everything to Draven. Draven nodded, his chest tight with anticipation and nerves.
Later, Draven ended up on top of him, moving instinctively, learning as they went, until exhaustion finally pulled them apart. They collapsed onto the bed, bodies close, hearts racing.
Sleep came heavy.
Morning hurt.
Draven woke first. His back ached, muscles sore in a way that reminded him of the night before. Zenith was still asleep beside him. When he stirred, Draven pretended to be asleep. Zenith noticed anyway.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
"I'm fine," Draven said, though he wasn't.
Zenith smiled gently. "I'm going to shower and prepare breakfast. I left some clothes on the bed for you."
Draven nodded. He struggled to stand, moving slowly and carefully. He showered and put on the clothes Zenith had left. As he stepped into the kitchen, he tried to sit but felt the ache in his back.
Zenith noticed immediately. "Draven," he said, concern in his voice, "are you sure you're okay?"
Draven forced a small smile. "Yeah," he said, though it wasn't true.
And they both knew it.