The sun is fading into violet haze when Sarelle arrives on the rooftop, a loose white blouse slipping off one shoulder, curls wind-tousled, camera hanging from her neck. Her bare feet make no sound on the concrete, but the way her eyes flick up—sharp, measuring—makes it clear she wants to be seen. Kian is already at the far end, black t-shirt clinging to his frame, jaw set as he nurses a bottle of beer, gaze pointedly fixed on the skyline as if it’s a rival he can’t quite conquer.

Leya is there first, flitting between them like a spark, laughter tumbling from her lips as she arranges glasses and bottles on a mosaic-tiled table. She’s in a cropped yellow sweater that reveals a hint of midriff, denim skirt hugging her hips, eyes bright and hungry for connection. “House rules!” she declares with a wink. “No talk of work, no fighting, and everyone drinks when I say so.” She shoots Kian a look that dares him to contradict her, and when he merely smirks, Sarelle’s lips tilt in a half-grin—a silent challenge accepted.

As golden string lights flicker on overhead, the tension thickens. Sarelle leans back in her chair, one leg drawn up, absently scrolling through the night’s photos; Kian’s eyes keep flicking to her exposed thigh, the curve of her collarbone, trying not to get caught. Leya perches beside him, knees pressed close, voice low and conspiratorial as she teases him about his disastrous attempts at cooking last week. Kian’s laugh is rough and surprised, softer than his usual bravado, and Sarelle feels an unexpected twist in her gut. She’s never cared who her lovers flirted with before, but the sight of Kian letting his guard down, even a little, makes her uneasy.

Leya senses the shift, mischief lighting her face. “Truth or dare?” she announces, holding out a shot glass like a gauntlet. Downing hers, she points to Sarelle, eyes dancing. “Truth: ever kissed a girl?” Sarelle’s gaze flicks to Leya’s mouth—full, inviting—and for the first time, uncertainty flashes across her features. “Not yet,” she murmurs, voice velvet and heat. Kian’s jaw flexes. “Dare,” Sarelle adds, quietly rebellious.

The group leans in. Leya’s tongue darts over her lower lip, and she doesn’t break eye contact as she says, “Kiss me. Not a peck. Really kiss me.” Sarelle stands, slow and deliberate, bare feet brushing Leya’s as she moves close. There’s a hum in the air; Kian swallows, eyes dark, fingers tightening on his glass. Sarelle cups Leya’s face with one hand and brings her lips down in a kiss that starts soft, questioning, then deepens—hungry, exploratory, a low moan caught between them as Leya’s hands slide up Sarelle’s waist. It lasts longer than any dare should; neither pulls away until breathless laughter spills out, half nerves, half delight.

Kian can’t mask the flush at his throat, the way his body reacts—caught somewhere between longing and jealousy, even as he forces out a laugh. Sarelle straightens, cheeks pink, and shoots him a look—daring him to comment. A charged silence hangs. Leya, flushed and grinning wide, wipes her lips and catches Kian staring. “Want to play, or just watch?” she teases, but there’s a vulnerable edge to it that makes him glance away, jaw tight.

Later, as the night winds down and the others drift away, Sarelle lingers at the railing, twirling her camera strap around restless fingers. Her mind spins with the taste of Leya’s kiss, with the way Kian’s gaze burned through her. When she catches him watching her from the other side of the garden—his eyes darker, his posture tense, lips parted as if ready to speak—her heart stutters with anticipation and irritation in equal measure.

She turns away, pulling out her phone. The light from the screen highlights the lines of worry in her brow as she hovers over a familiar contact, thumb trembling. She closes her eyes and types a single word: “Miss you.” Before she can hit send, a shadow falls across her. Kian stands close behind, just out of reach, his voice low and rough. “Who are you texting?” The question isn’t casual. Sarelle tugs her blouse up over her shoulder, masking the shiver that runs through her. “No one that matters,” she replies, but her voice cracks, betraying her.

Kian’s mouth opens, as if to press further, but Leya calls them both from the stairwell, bright and oblivious. Sarelle tucks her phone into her pocket and breezes past him, head high, but inside she’s shaking—at the dare, the kiss, and the question she can’t bring herself to answer.

To be continued...