He wasn't a kiss.
He was a burn.
And I was stupid enough to beg for the flame.
I should've walked away that night—brushed off the tension, the heat, the way my pulse betrayed me.
But I didn't.
Because danger didn't look like a threat when it whispered my name like a prayer.
.....
We didn't talk after that first encounter.
Not at the club. Not for weeks.
But his shadow?
It followed me.
In reflections. In dreams. In the way I began dressing like I was waiting to be seen.
He haunted me like a scent you can't place but know you've breathed before.
.....
Then one evening, he was just… there.
Leaning against the brick wall outside my college library like he belonged in every page I'd ever underlined.
"Miss me?"
He said it like we'd known each other for years, not for stolen seconds and sinful glances.
I clutched my books tighter.
Tried to ignore the heat crawling up my spine.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, voice cooler than I felt.
"Curious," he replied, pushing off the wall. "I like that on you."
"I don't even know your name."
"You don't need it," he said, stepping closer.
His cologne—spice and sin—wrapped around me like a dare.
"You already remember how I make you feel."
I hated how right he was.
"I don't want trouble," I whispered.
His eyes darkened.
"Oh baby," he breathed, brushing a stray strand behind my ear,
"I am the trouble."
I should've run.
Instead, I tilted my chin and asked,
"Then ruin me properly."