Jack was in his room—a small, boxed space with peeling grey paint and cold air pouring from an overworked AC. It was the same room he had slept in the night he arrived here.
A hostage room.
Two gang members stood outside the door, guarding him. Their shadows leaked under the frame like warnings.
Jack paced the length of the room again.
One, two, three—turn.
One, two, three—turn.
The air-conditioning did nothing to cool him. Sweat rolled down his spine anyway. His fingers twitched restlessly at his sides.
He wasn't supposed to get caught tonight.
He wasn't supposed to let Arora see him with that phone.
He wasn't supposed to tremble like this.
He pressed a hand to his lips.
That kiss.
He'd tried convincing himself that he dreamt it. That it was nothing more than a drunk blur or a desperate fantasy. But the moment he remembered the warmth of her breath, the way her lips lingered on his for a second longer than necessary—
It felt too real to deny.
