Ithran’s back is pressed to the storeroom wall, concrete cool through his thin T-shirt, as Sidelle mouths at his jaw, hot and hungry. Her laugh is a low, wicked purr, hands tangled in the camera strap slung around his neck, dragging him closer. Her lipstick is smudged and her coffee-splattered apron rides up her thighs. He catches the scent of espresso and skin, her body arching into his with reckless need. His hands slide under her apron, fingers tracing the edge of her panties—her breath hitches, eyes narrowing with sharp, possessive heat.

She bites his lower lip, all claws and challenge. “You always this eager?” she whispers, voice shaking on the edge of a laugh and a warning. He grins—a flash of white teeth, wild and untamed—before slipping his tongue into her mouth, kissing her like he’s daring her to outpace him. She responds in kind, grinding against him, nails leaving red crescents along his arms. He groans low, the sound swallowed between her gasps; the storeroom is cramped and electric, every movement desperate, both of them acting like this is their last chance.

Clothes fumble down: her tights snagged, his jeans undone with impatient hands. Sidelle’s mouth is at his ear—filthy words, promises she has no intention of keeping. He lifts her, rough palms under her thighs, and she wraps around him, clutching at his hair. Bodies collide, rhythm hard and fast, mouths wild with need. She shudders as she comes, clinging tighter, her head pressed to his shoulder, muttering his name in a way that makes every nerve in him spark. He follows, forehead pressed to hers, lost for a moment in the mess of sweat and heat and want.

Silence crashes in. Sidelle fixes her lipstick in the reflective shine of a coffee canister, her smile brittle and crooked. She flicks a glance at him, daring him to be the first to speak.

“Don’t make this a habit,” she says, smoothing her hair with practiced composure. Her eyes flicker, uncertain, then cold again as she straightens her apron.

Ithran buttons his jeans, avoiding her gaze, heart thudding—not from sex, but from something heavier, darker, already gnawing at his edges. He feels the shame tickle behind his smirk as he slings the camera back over his shoulder and slips out into the morning rush.

The city is waking up—sunlight gleams off glass, horns blare, a million lives blurring past. He weaves through the sidewalk traffic, hands shaking a little. Was it her—the reckless need—or just a way to forget what’s coming for him?

He glances up: through the lobby window, Lera stands in a blood-red dress, glass in hand, sculpting the world with a single arched brow. She locks eyes with Ithran for a split second—a flash of recognition, of warning, of something even more dangerous.

Sidelle watches from the alley, biting back a grin, phone trembling in her hand as she types: It’s done. He’s slipping.

Her thumb hovers. She hits send. A brisk wind snatches at her hair, but her rage is warm—alive, coursing straight through her veins.

To be continued...