The first time they locked eyes was across a sea of strangers in a house that throbbed with music and the dull glow of too many string lights.
Delorah had slipped out of her mansion that night without a sound, the click of her heels lost to marble floors and disinterested parents. Kit had done the same, slipping past house staff who were paid not to ask questions. Neither of them were missed.
She wore black jeans like second skin and a cropped blue top that shimmered faintly under the colored lights. A jacket dangled off one shoulder, giving her the look of someone who had just arrived—or maybe someone always half on her way out. Her long golden hair caught the light like a halo, casting a glow that made her pale skin seem porcelain.
Kit couldn't stop staring.
He had clocked her the second she entered the room. Not because of what she was wearing, but because of how she carried herself—like she was used to walking into places and owning them. Her lips were red, a little too red, like she had painted them on in the dark and decided it was good enough. But her eyes—that piercing, emerald green—made him forget how to breathe.
Meanwhile, her gaze caught his, and stayed. She scanned the crowd until her eyes landed on the dark blue ones peeking over someone's shoulder. Messy brown hair, black shirt, black jeans, black everything. A shadow with a pulse.
He looked away first, but she started walking toward him anyway.
When Kit tried to sneak another glance, he realized that she was actually walking forward to him. "fuck," was uttered by him, more of a breath than an actual word, and his shaky hand combed through his hair as he wondered what her reaction might be to him having been staring at her.
The house swallowed her in heat, color, and noise. Gold light shimmered off chandeliers, glinting off glasses of champagne and sequined dresses. Music throbbed under her feet like the pulse of some enormous, glittering beast. Everyone seemed to know everyone else.
Delorah didn't belong here—and she knew it. But she kept moving forward, eyes locked on the boy by the fireplace. The shadow with a pulse that she had to know.
He hadn't seen her yet. Or maybe he had and was pretending not to.
She took one step, then another—and was intercepted by a girl in a red satin mini dress.
"Delorah! I thought that was you," the girl shrieked over the music, looping an arm around her neck. Perfume and vodka fumes wafted off her like static.
Del blinked. "Hi, yeah—sorry, I—"
"God, it's been forever. Your mom and my mom were on the phone last week talking about internships. Didn't you apply to—"
"I really need to—"
But the girl was already handing her a red cup and snapping a selfie, pressing close like they were best friends. The flash was blinding.
By the time Delorah untangled herself and slipped away, the boy was gone.
Of course he was.
Frustrated, she drifted toward the hallway, heart thumping louder than the bass. She wasn't sure where she was going—just away.
Then she felt it.
A gaze.
She turned—and there he was, leaning against the wall at the hallway's far end, arms crossed, mouth tilted into that maddening half-smirk.
"I thought you were coming to say hi," the stranger said, his low voice somehow cutting through the music without needing to shout.
"I got caught."
"I noticed." He pushed off the wall, walking toward her like he had all the time in the world. "You looked like you needed saving."
Delorah raised a brow. "You think I need saving?"
"I think you're the only one here who knows she does."
The boy came to a stop just in front of her, and for a beat, neither of them said a word. Delorah's breath hitched slightly—not out of fear, exactly, but something sharper. Curiosity with teeth.
"I'm Kit," he said, voice low, hands sliding into his jacket pockets.
She raised a brow, pretending to be nonchalant about his greeting."Okay."
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth."You got a name, or is that classified?"
She paused for a moment, deliberating. Finally, she smiled."Delorah."
He seemed to roll the name around in his mind for a second, then nodded once."Pretty."
"Thanks," she replied, careful not to let her face give away the heat rising in her cheeks.
The party continued to throb in the background—bodies moving, music pulsing—but between them, there was a strange, suspended quiet.
"You here with someone?" he asked.
She shook her head. "You?"
"Nope." The word hung in the air like smoke, curling into something neither of them could define yet. Kit's gaze flicked to her cup. "That drink any good?"
"It's disgusting."
He smiled. "Wanna find something better?"
Delorah didn't answer with words. She just stepped forward.
They moved off together, down a hallway that seemed quieter than it should've been—paintings on the walls, shadows moving across marble floors, the thump of music growing distant. A world apart, tucked inside the same house.
Kit pushed open a door near the end of the corridor. "After you."
Delorah hesitated, just a beat, then stepped into what looked like a personal library. Books lined the walls—old and expensive-looking—but there was also a velvet couch, and a candle burning low on a side table.
Kit followed her in, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
"So," he said, hands still in his pockets.
"What's your deal?"
She gave a short laugh. "You think people just answer that kind of question?"
"Maybe not. But I figured I'd ask. You're hard to read."
"Maybe I like it that way."
Kit tilted his head, studying her. "I can respect that."
She turned toward the window, pretending to study the darkness outside, though all she could feel was him standing just behind her—present without touching, like a spark that hadn't jumped yet.
"What about you?" she asked. "What's your deal?"
Kit leaned against the wall beside her. "I don't really have one. Not tonight."
She looked at him then, really looked. There was something about him that didn't quite fit the party—the expensive house, the people chugging drinks in the other room. He seemed… out of step.
Like he didn't belong, but didn't care.
"That's not true," she said. "Everyone has a deal."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But mine's boring."
"You don't seem boring."
Kit smiled—smaller this time, more real. "Neither do you."
He stepped closer, just enough to make her breath catch. The candlelight flickered, and she could smell his cologne—faint spice and something sharp beneath it.
"Let me show you something," he said, voice soft.
He moved to the table and picked up the candle, letting wax drip into a small glass, the sound faint and rhythmic.
"What is this?" she asked, stepping closer.
"Something weird I do. When I want to remember a moment."
Kit dipped his finger into the soft wax and pressed it gently onto his wrist, then held it out to her.
She blinked. "You branded yourself?"
He laughed. "Just a temporary scar. I like the idea of leaving marks."
Delorah didn't respond. She just watched him.
He dipped his finger again and held it out toward her. "May I?"
She hesitated. Then nodded.
He pressed the warm wax just below her collarbone—light enough not to burn, heavy enough to feel.
"Now you'll remember too," he said.
Her pulse skittered in her throat. "Even if you never see me again?"
Kit's eyes flicked up to meet hers. "I think I will."
Outside, the world continued in static and noise. But in that moment, the air between them was still, electric.
"Let's get out of here. Get some air." Delorah finally spoke up, her voice a little thick. Maybe some air would help with the butterfly feelings that were dancing in her stomach.
"Sounds good to me." Kit replied, his voice also affected by emotion. He held his hand out to her.
Delorah's hand slid into his. It was cool and steady. She tugged him forward, out of the quiet library ,away from the buzz of the party, and past the cracked sliding glass door. Out into the backyard, where the air was calmer, cooler, and reeking faintly of cigarette smoke and something sharper.
The yard was dimly lit—just a few solar lights stuck into the flowerbeds, casting pale circles onto the grass. Whoever's house this was, they'd kept it nice. White benches ringed the yard, and tucked further into the corner was a small wooden gazebo strung with mismatched fairy lights. Inside sat a group of teens—four boys, three girls—passing around something smoky. Laughter drifted out from them, thick and slow.
Something in Kit's jaw tightened when he saw the gazebo. Delorah had all but stopped in her tracks, yet now he was the one pulling them forward. Her heart quickened.
The scent of smoke grew stronger the closer they got, curling through the air with that unmistakable mix of weed and vanilla vape. Laughter echoed from the gazebo, sharp and careless, like a knife through the quiet of the estate grounds.
Delorah stayed close to Kit, trailing just behind him as they ascended the wide, creaking steps. From the outside, the gazebo looked almost magical—strung with old fairy lights that flickered weakly in the dark, casting halos over the four teenagers lounged inside. But the spell shattered almost immediately.
One of the boys—broad-shouldered and smug-faced—let out a cough-laugh and waved a half-smoked joint lazily in the air. "Well, well. If it isn't little Adrian back from the dead," he sneered, drawing out the name like it was a joke.
Kit stopped in his tracks. Delorah felt the shift immediately—like the air had gone sharp.
"Didn't think you were still crawling around after mommy bit it," the boy went on. "What was it she used to call you? Adrian?" He grinned around the words. "Guess you're trying out a new personality now? You used to be so quiet and sweet. Not anymore, right?"
Delorah glanced sideways at Kit, the name catching in her mind. Adrian?
Kit didn't answer. He just stood there for a second, hands in his coat pockets, eyes locked on the boy like he was already imagining what it would take to shut him up.
The joint slipped from the boy's fingers mid-puff. It landed with a faint sizzle against his cheek.
"Shit!" he shouted, jerking back and swatting at his face.
Kit didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, casting a long shadow as he entered the gazebo. The light flickered over his sharp cheekbones and unreadable expression.
"Still got that smart mouth, James," Kit said coldly. "Still sloppy with your hands."
James glared, rubbing his cheek, but the taunt had landed. The other teens—two boys and the girls—fell silent, watching Kit with a mixture of recognition and unease.
Delorah could feel it too. That tension in the air. Kit didn't need to raise his voice to be dangerous. He just was.
Then, without another word, he turned to her and nodded toward the far bench.
Delorah followed, heart pounding in her throat. She wasn't sure what had just happened—but she was suddenly, deeply aware that she didn't know this boy at all.
Someone passed her a vape without asking.
She hesitated, then took it with trembling fingers and brought it to her lips. The burn in her throat made her cough, eyes watering as Kit leaned back beside her, smirking faintly.
She forced herself not to look away.
The gazebo settled into silence again, broken only by the soft hum of music from someone's phone and the rustle of leaves in the trees above them.
She realized something then—something that would echo through her later thoughts.
Whoever "Kit" was, it was a bad idea to call him Adrian.
And somehow, that made this whole night feel even more dangerous.
Even more real.
As the last of the gazebo boys disappeared into the woods, the night felt like it belonged to just the two of them again. Kit didn't say anything for a moment—just stood there, staring out over the empty backyard like he was watching some invisible thing drift away.
Delorah hugged herself, suddenly aware of how cool the air had gotten. She turned to say something—to thank him, maybe—but he beat her to it.
"You wanna get out of here?" Kit asked, voice low. "Come back to my place?"
She hesitated. Not because she was scared—though maybe she should've been—but because something about the question felt weighty. Like stepping off a ledge and trusting the fall wouldn't kill her.
"Sure," she said, surprising herself. "Why not?"
Kit grinned, all teeth and mischief. "Good answer."