I go inside. Up the stairs. Our room is empty. Tyler's still at Melissa's, or the warehouse, or somewhere that isn't here. I change fast. Gray henley, cleanest jeans, the shoes that don't have holes. Brush my teeth. Try to do something with my hair, which has never cooperated with anything in its life. Stare at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink.
Twenty-one years old. Living in a youth shelter. Three shirts. One pair of decent shoes. Going on a date with a thirty-two-year-old lion shifter who reads fantasy novels and rides a motorcycle and kisses like he means it.
I look terrified.
I look happy.
I grab my jacket and go back downstairs.
Silas is where I left him, leaning against the wrought-iron fence, reading by the porch light. He looks up when the door opens and his face softens into that almost-smile I've learned is his version of lighting up. He sees me and settles, the way I settle when I see him in the library every morning.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yeah."
But neither of us moves toward downtown. We're standing on the sidewalk outside Haven House, the porch light warm above us, and he's looking at me in the gray henley like I'm wearing something extraordinary.
"Dev."
"Yeah?"
"About last night. At the overlook."
"What about it?"
"I keep thinking about it."
"Me too."
"Not just the — I mean, all of it. But specifically —" He clears his throat. "The kiss."
"Me too." My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "That was my first real kiss. With someone I actually wanted to kiss."
He goes still. "Really?"
"I've kissed people before. But it was always, I don't know. Transactional. Or accidental. Or someone else's idea." I shrug, trying to make it lighter than it feels. "Last night was the first time I wanted it for myself."
His expression shifts. Not pity, not the careful sadness people get when I accidentally reveal too much of my history. Fiercer than that. His hand tightens around mine.
"Can I kiss you again?" he asks.
Here. Outside a youth shelter with a rainbow flag and a porch light and the distant sound of someone's Xbox through the window. Not romantic. Not scenic. Just the place I live and the man I want and the space between us closing.
"Yes," I say.
He pulls me in by our joined hands. His other hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face, and he kisses me like he's been thinking about it all day. Slow at first, his lips soft, careful, learning me the way he learned me last night. Then deeper when I make a sound I can't control, a small thing in my throat that makes his grip tighten.
I fist my free hand in his jacket. Pull him closer. He responds, not cautiously this time. His body presses against mine and I step backward until my shoulders hit the brick of the shelter wall and he follows, one hand bracing beside my head, the other still holding my jaw.
"Dev," he breathes against my mouth, and the way he says my name, wrecked, wanting, goes straight through me.
I kiss him harder. He makes a sound, low, almost a growl, something that vibrates in his chest and hums against my lips. His hips pin mine against the wall and I can feel him, the lengthof him hard against my thigh, and the knowledge that I'm doing this to him, that this quiet man who reads fantasy novels and drinks his coffee black is hard because of me —
I roll my hips. Instinct, not strategy. He groans, and the sound is so good I do it again, seeking the friction, the pressure, the electric point of contact between us. His hand drops from the wall to my hip, gripping hard, holding me still.
"Wait," he says. "Wait, Dev —"
"Don't stop."