His eyes darken fractionally, not with aggression, not even with heat, but with awareness.
“You and Kai aren’t identical,” I say, holding his gaze. “You share something. But you’re not the same.”
He gives a faint smile. “No. We’re not.”
“He’s…” I hesitate.
“Go on.”
“He’s deeper. The sweetness isn’t light. It’s heavier. Chocolate. Sometimes bitter. Yours is so bright and sweet and addictive. It’s…everything.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, but he doesn’t comment.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you that. You know your own scent. Your twin’s too. Just ignore me.”
Footsteps approach before I hear them fully; my body registers the change before my ears do.
The air alters.
Heat blooms low and sudden, not the steady grounding I feel near Koa but something sharper, almost electric. It prickles along my arms, pools low in my belly, and sends my pulse racing in a way that makes me grip the counter to steady myself.
Kai steps into the doorway.
He pauses when he sees how close we’re standing, his gaze flicking between us with a casualness that doesn’t quite mask the calculation underneath.
“Well,” he says lightly, “this looks intense.”
The chocolate in his scent hits me harder today, almost overwhelming against the base of smoke and salt. It wraps around the back of my throat and pulls something instinctivefrom my body that I don’t understand. It’s like, now that I’ve realised the difference between them, I can’t stop noticing it.
My breathing shifts.
Kai notices instantly.
“You look flushed,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I reply, though my voice sounds thinner than I’d like. “It’s…a lot when you’re together, that’s all. In a good way, though.”
He steps closer, and the restlessness spikes. The grounding I felt a moment ago fractures under the sudden brightness of him. My skin feels too sensitive. My pulse too loud in my ears.
It isn’t illness. It isn’t weakness. It feels like anticipation.
Koa moves half a step nearer without looking like he’s moved at all, and the effect is immediate and undeniable. The sharp edge dulls. My breathing steadies. The heat remains, but it no longer feels like it might tip me over the edge.
Kai’s eyes narrow, something darker settling behind the usual amusement.
“Interesting,” he says softly.
“What is?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer.
The tension between them thickens, subtle but unmistakable, and for the first time I’m aware that whatever is happening isn’tjustinside me. It’s moving through the room, through them, through the shared air we’re all breathing.
I step back abruptly, unsettled by how easily my body responded to proximity, to difference, to contrast.
“I need air,” I say, and this time it isn’t an excuse.
I leave before either of them can stop me, moving up the stairs with more urgency than dignity. By the time I reach the landing, the grounding has faded again, replaced by that low, restless hum that feels less like discomfort and more like something building.