Romance?

Kant had been doing fine. Or at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Two weeks. It wasn't that long. He'd stayed away, given himself space-enough time to convince himself that he didn't need to think about Fadel, didn't need to feel anything about him. He had been handling it well. No unnecessary distractions, no messy thoughts creeping in when he was alone. He had even stopped glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see that familiar figure watching from the shadows like some unavoidable force in his life.

Yeah, he had been fine.

Right up until now.

Because the moment he saw Fadel step into the bar-shoulders tense, expression unreadable, looking like he didn't even belong there-Kant felt something inside him lurch. His grip on his glass tightened as his heart knocked hard against his ribs, sending a sharp pulse of something like anger, like relief, like everything he thought he had buried.

Bison was talking, probably explaining why Fadel was here, but Kant wasn't listening. His ears were ringing.

What the hell was Fadel doing here?

More importantly-why did it matter so much?

He had convinced himself that distance was the answer, that staying away would undo all the turmoil Fadel had put him through. But seeing him again, just standing there, looking like this was any other night, ripped through every carefully constructed wall Kant had built.

He had been lying to himself.

And judging by the way his pulse refused to settle, it hadn't even been a very good lie.

Don't care. Be casual. Avoid.

Kant repeated the words like a mantra, gripping his drink tighter as if that would somehow steady him. He wasn't going to let this get to him. He wasn't going to let Fadel get to him.

Kant forced a smirk onto his face, raising his glass and tipping it back in one go. The burn was sharp, but not enough. He signaled for another.

Be casual. Laugh. Keep your distance.

He could do that.

Except his body betrayed him before his mind could catch up-his knee bouncing, his fingers tapping restlessly against the glass. He took another long drink, slamming it down harder than necessary. The noise barely registered over the low hum of conversation, but it rang loud in his head.

"Easy there, Kant." Style shot him a look, amused but wary.

Kant forced out a laugh, tossing an arm over the back of his chair. "What? Can't a guy enjoy his drink?"

Style didn't buy it, but he didn't push.

Good. Because Kant wasn't in the mood to explain why his pulse was hammering, why he suddenly felt like the air in the bar had gotten too thick, too charged.

His gaze flickered, against his better judgment, to where Fadel stood. He was talking to Bison-probably regretting coming here, judging by the way his jaw was set tight. Kant should've looked away.

But he didn't.

Because despite all the drinks, all the chanting in his head, all the damn distance-he knew.

He wasn't avoiding anything.

Not really.

And he sure as hell wasn't casual about it.

Kant exhaled sharply, jaw tightening as he slammed back another drink. Just stay there, Fadel. Stay with Bison. Stay the hell away from me.

But of course, life wasn't that kind.

He barely had time to process the shift in the air before Fadel was dropping onto the same damn couch, right beside him. Not across from him, not at another table-right next to him. Close enough that Kant could feel the faint heat of his presence, could catch that familiar scent of gunpowder and something sharp, something him.

Kant's grip on his glass tightened.

Bison and Style were still there-for about five seconds. Then, as if they had some great idea, they exchanged glances and disappeared toward the dance floor, leaving Kant and Fadel in a silence that felt like it could suffocate.

Great. Just great.

Kant didn't look at him. He wasn't going to give Fadel the satisfaction of even acknowledging he was there. He just threw back another drink, ignoring the way his pulse was doing something stupid.

Fadel, for his part, didn't say anything either. Didn't move, didn't shift away. Just sat there, heavy and solid like a presence Kant had spent two weeks trying to erase.

And it pissed him off.

"Didn't think bars were your thing," Kant muttered, still staring at the table. His voice was sharp, laced with the frustration he'd been drinking down.

Fadel didn't bite. Didn't roll his eyes, didn't give him an easy excuse to argue. Just shrugged. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

Something in Kant's chest twisted. He didn't know if it was from anger or something worse, but he wasn't going to let it show.

"Tch." He scoffed, leaning back into the couch, stretching his arm over the back of it-not near Fadel. Definitely not. "Yeah, well. Maybe you shouldn't have."

Silence.

Not tension, not heat. Just something unspoken lingering between them, pressing against Kant's skin, making him want to throw back another drink just to drown it out.

But he didn't.

Instead, he finally turned his head, finally looked at Fadel-and damn it all, that was a mistake.

Because Fadel wasn't looking at him with the usual sharp, unreadable glare. He wasn't looking at him with cold indifference. He was just watching him, something quiet and unreadable in his expression, something that made Kant's breath catch for just a second too long.

His fingers twitched. His body was betraying him again.

So, he did what he was best at-he smirked, he pushed, he filled the space with something reckless.

"You miss me or something?" Kant drawled, lazy and cocky, leaning in slightly. "You here to make sure I haven't dropped dead without you?"

Fadel's lips twitched-almost, almost like he might smirk back.

"Don't flatter yourself," he muttered.

And that-that was the moment Kant knew he was screwed.

Kant felt it creeping in-the thing he had been running from for weeks.

It wasn't just anger. If it were, he could deal with it. He could shove it down, throw a smirk over it, drown it in liquor and sharp words. But this-this was everything else, tangled up in a knot so tight he couldn't breathe right.

He was looking at Fadel, and it was messing him up. Because Fadel wasn't cold. He wasn't distant. He wasn't even irritated. He was just there, solid and real and too close.

And Kant hated it.

Hated that his chest was too tight, that his fingers were restless, that being in the same room as this man felt like standing on the edge of something dangerous.

Get out. Now.

The decision hit him like a gut reaction, sudden and sharp. He needed to move, needed distance before this spiral swallowed him whole. So, he shoved himself up from the couch, reaching for his jacket in one quick motion.

"Tell Bison I'm heading out," he muttered, barely looking at Fadel. His voice was too clipped, too raw, but he didn't care. He just needed to leave.

But he didn't get far.

Before he could take a full step, something stopped him-a firm grip around his wrist, warm and unmoving.

Kant sucked in a sharp breath.

Fadel.

Standing now, too, mirroring him. Close. Eye to eye.

And it was wrong. It was wrong because Fadel wasn't looking at him like he usually did. There was no challenge in his gaze, no calculated restraint, no mask of indifference. There was just something raw, something unresolved, something that made Kant's heartbeat crash against his ribs.

He was about to snap, to shove Fadel off, to say something cutting-anything to break this moment-when Fadel spoke first.

"You stay," he muttered, voice low, almost unsteady. "I will go." His grip on Kant's wrist tightened for a fraction of a second before he let go. "I... I shouldn't have come."

Kant swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears.

This wasn't just his turmoil.

Fadel was going through it too.

And that realization hit worse than anything else.

Kant stood frozen. His wrist felt hot where Fadel had held it, like the touch had burned straight through his skin, past muscle and bone, straight into something deeper-something he didn't want to name.

Fadel's words echoed in his head, looping like a slow-burning fuse.

"You stay. I will go. I... I shouldn't have come."

There it was. Proof.

This wasn't just him. It wasn't just him.

Fadel was caught in this mess too, tangled up in whatever this was-this unbearable tension, this pull that had driven Kant out of his own damn mind for the past two weeks. The realization hit him hard, a sharp collision of relief and something terrifyingly close to panic.

Because if it wasn't just him, if Fadel was feeling it too...

Then what the hell were they supposed to do about it?

His instinct screamed at him to shove it down, bury it deep like he always did. But his body wasn't listening. His fingers twitched, aching to reach for Fadel before he could turn away. His throat felt tight, his chest even tighter.

Say something. Stop him. Act like it doesn't matter. Do something.

But all Kant could do was stare, watching as Fadel took a step back, his expression still raw, still conflicted.

"He's leaving."

That should've been good. That should've made it easier to breathe.

So why the hell did it feel like the ground beneath Kant was shifting in a way he couldn't control?