The party is loud enough that you have to lean in to hear him.
You are in the narrow hallway outside the upstairs bathroom of the off-campus house the design majors rent every year. Fairy lights hang along the ceiling and catch in your hair. Ferdia is downstairs somewhere, still holding court with the same circle of people who used to call Darach
“the quiet one”
back when that was still true.
“You look like you’re about to run,”
Darach says. One shoulder is braced against the wall, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. He stopped smiling at parties months ago. It makes people nervous. It makes you stay.
“We argued in the car,”
you admit.
“Three weeks broken up and he still thinks I’m overreacting about the internship. Again.”
Darach nods like he understands. He does. He also knows Brigid Moynihan already told three people that your portfolio is the strongest in the junior class, and that Ferdia has spent the last week quietly suggesting to the same people that you only got the interview because Darach
“helped”
you too much last semester. Darach has not corrected anyone.
“Come here,”
he says.
You hesitate, then step closer. The hallway is warm. Your shoulder brushes his chest. He can smell the citrus of your perfume and the faint bite of whatever you have been drinking. When he lifts his hand and sets it lightly at the side of your neck, you do not pull away. Your pulse jumps under his thumb.
“He doesn’t see you,”
Darach says, quiet.
“Not the way you want to be seen.”
Your breath catches.
“Darach—”
He kisses you.
It is not careful. He has spent two years being careful. His mouth is firm, almost rough, and when you make a small, startled sound he uses it to deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into your hair, the other settling at your waist and pulling you in until your back meets the opposite wall. You kiss him back. Of course you do. He has watched you want things you would not let yourself take for months. Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt. When he drags his mouth down the line of your throat you tip your head to give him room, a soft, involuntary noise leaving you that he feels against his lips.
He could stop there. He almost does.
Instead he slips his hand beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the bare skin of your thigh, and feels the way you shiver. You are warm. You are already leaning into him like you have been waiting for permission. Darach presses closer, lets you feel exactly how much he wants you, and speaks against the corner of your mouth.
“Tell me you don’t want this.”
“I—”
Your voice breaks.
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Yes you do.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, and lets his hand travel higher until you are gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. For a few seconds you stop thinking about Ferdia, about the internship, about the fact that you are ten feet from a bathroom full of people who know both of you. Darach feels the moment you give in. It is in the way your body softens, the way you whisper his name like it hurts.
He pulls back.
Not far. Just enough that you have to open your eyes and see his face. His hand stays where it is, high on your thigh, thumb stroking once, deliberately, over the edge of your underwear. You are flushed, lips parted, looking at him like he has just become the only solid thing in the hallway.
“Not like this,”
he says. His voice is even. Almost gentle.
“Not ten feet from a party, not with half the studio listening.”
You stare at him. The heat in your expression cracks, then shatters.
“Darach, what—”
“You heard me.”
He steps away. The loss of contact makes you sway. He watches you understand, in real time, that he is not going to finish what he started tonight.
“If you stay, I’ll take you somewhere quieter and we both know how that ends, and I’m not going to be the mistake you wake up next to on a Sunday. Think about what you actually want. I’ll be downstairs until the last of them goes home.”
Your eyes are bright. Angry. Hurt. Exactly the way he pictured them the night he decided.
“You’re an asshole,”
you whisper.
“I know.”
Darach straightens his shirt. The hallway suddenly feels very small. Downstairs, someone laughs too loudly. He meets your gaze one last time and lets the corner of his mouth lift, just enough to make it cruel.
“Go on. He’s still down there, and so am I.”
He walks past you without touching you again. Behind him he hears the soft, shaky sound of you trying to steady your breathing before you have to face the rest of the party. He does not look back. He has made one honest move in two years, and it does not feel like winning.