Temptation's edge

The living room hummed with a low warmth, the faint crackle of an old record playing in the background, mixing with the scent of takeout and the lingering traces of cologne. Dim light from the corner lamp bathed the space in a golden glow, flickering against half-empty beer bottles and discarded game controllers.

Damon leaned back into the couch, stretching his arms over the backrest, his smirk lazy but sharp. "Dinner at your dad's, how'd that go?" His voice carried a teasing edge, laced with a challenge Xavier couldn't ignore.

Xavier's jaw tightened. He placed his beer down with measured precision, fingers lingering on the condensation-slick bottle. His glare flicked to Damon, sharp as glass. Don't call him that. "Well I survived, what do you think?" He said, his voice carefully neutral. "He asked me to join his company."

The air in the room shifted. Conversations cut off. Even the low hum of the record seemed to dim beneath the weight of his words.

"What the heck?" Gilbert and Damon blurted in unison, their disbelief crashing into the silence.

Alexander, who had been lazily sprawled in an armchair, straightened, his brows lifting. "What did you say?" His voice was calm, but curiosity flickered in his eyes.

Xavier exhaled, running a hand through his hair, fingers pressing at the tension building at the base of his skull. "I didn't say anything."

Damon leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his smirk fading into something more serious. "What do you mean you didn't say anything, bro?" His voice lost its teasing lilt, replaced by quiet insistence. "You always have something to say."

Xavier stared at his hands, flexing them before lacing his fingers together. The words felt heavy, like stones in his throat. "I don't know…" He hesitated, then sighed. "Part of me wants to say yes. To take it. But then there's this other part of me that needs to hate him. That refuses to forgive or forget. And then—" his voice tightened, his chest constricting "—there's this part of me that *wants* to let go. That wants to stop carrying all this weight." His jaw clenched. "And I hate that part."

Silence settled again, thick and heavy. No one spoke, no one moved.

Alexander's voice was the first to cut through, low and steady. "It's okay to feel that way," he said, his gaze locking onto Xavier's, holding it. "Just don't let hate be the thing steering the wheel. We don't make good choices when we're driving blind."

Xavier swallowed, something in his chest loosening just slightly. He nodded. "Thanks, man."

Gilbert exhaled, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Whatever happens, we're here." His voice was light, but the weight of sincerity settled beneath it.

Damon clapped Xavier's shoulder, giving him a small shake. "Always, bro." Then, just like that, the shift began, the air growing lighter. "Speaking of having your back, how's tomorrow's game looking?"

Gilbert's eyes lit up, his grin widening. "Man, I'm ready. Scouts are coming, and I'm about to put on a show."

Xavier glanced at him, his lips quirking. "You're not nervous?"

Gilbert shrugged, stretching his arms behind his head. "Nah. Worst-case scenario, I fall back on tech and become a billionaire the old-fashioned way."

Damon scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, shut up."

Laughter rippled through the room, easy and warm. But then Xavier's voice cut through—softer this time.

"I'm nervous."

The laughter died down.

Damon's gaze flicked to him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice quieter but no less firm. "It's okay to feel that way. We're not gods, man. We doubt ourselves, we get nervous. But tomorrow? We're going to show up. And even if we don't win—" his lips twitched into a smirk "—fuck it. We've got rich dads to catch us."

Xavier let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah… except mine's still waiting for me to take the bait."

Gilbert nudged him, his grin softening. "Then make him wait."

Laughter filled the space again, but beneath it, the weight of Xavier's unspoken decision lingered, tucked between the easy camaraderie of friends who didn't need to say everything to understand it.

Later that evening,Xavier stepped onto his side of the balcony, the night air cool against his skin. He expected solitude, the distant hum of the city below—but instead, he saw her.

(Music recommendation: Earned it by the weeknd)

"Kamsi?" His brows shot up, surprise flashing in his dark eyes.

She turned to him with a playful smile, the moonlight catching the mischief dancing in her gaze. "Did you think I jumped over?" she teased, her lips twitching with amusement.

Xavier blinked, still processing the sight of her standing there. "Did you…?"

She let out a soft laugh, stepping toward him. "No," she said, her voice light. "Your mom let me in. She was actually really nice." Her head tilted slightly, watching for his reaction. "She said it's okay for me to wait here."

Xavier exhaled, shaking his head with a smirk. "For a second, I really thought—"

Kamsi cut him off with another chuckle. "No worry, I never get mind reach that level," she said, slipping into pidgin English with ease.

Xavier raised a brow, intrigued but not quite grasping the full meaning.

She caught his expression and grinned. "I'm not that bold," she clarified, her eyes twinkling.

A quiet laugh escaped him. Before he could think twice, he reached for her, his arms circling her waist. She fit against him like she belonged there, her warmth seeping into him, grounding him in a way he didn't realize he needed. He dipped his head, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. She sighed against his mouth, melting into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

When they parted, he brushed a thumb over her cheek, his voice softer now. "What are you doing here?"

Kamsi tilted her chin up, mischief still lingering in her gaze. "What? Is it bad that I wanted to see my boyfriend?"

Xavier froze. His heart gave a single, heavy thump. Boyfriend.

The word hit him harder than he expected, knocking the breath from his lungs. She had never said it before—not like that. Not so easily. It settled between them, an unspoken promise, an unshaken truth.

A slow smile crept onto his lips. He didn't respond with words—he didn't need to. Instead, he kissed her again, deeper this time, pulling her impossibly closer.

Something ignited in him, raw and consuming. His hands trailed down her back, tracing the curve of her waist before dipping lower. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers grazing the hem of her skirt, testing the fire between them.

"You make me want to do crazy things to you," he murmured, his voice a low, husky growl against her lips.

Kamsi's breath hitched, her body taut with anticipation. His touch was slow, deliberate, as if he was memorizing her through his fingertips. A shiver rippled through her as his hand drifted higher, his fingers teasing the soft skin of her thigh.

She swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Things like what?"

Xavier exhaled sharply, his restraint hanging by a thread. His hand slipped further, fingertips grazing the delicate fabric shielding her from him. He could feel the heat of her, the way her body tensed in response.

Her breath stuttered when his fingers slipped past the barrier, a sharp contrast of warmth against warmth. A soft gasp escaped her, her lashes fluttering as her grip on his shirt tightened.

Xavier paused, his dark eyes searching hers, silently asking for permission.

Kamsi met his gaze, something unreadable flickering in her expression before she gave the faintest nod.

That was all he needed.

His fingers moved with slow, tantalizing precision, exploring, coaxing, pulling soft, breathless sounds from her lips. Kamsi's body shuddered under his touch, her head tipping back slightly as pleasure pulsed through her.

Xavier watched her, mesmerized, his own breath uneven as he felt her react to him. The way she trembled, the way her body surrendered—God, she was beautiful. His lips found the curve of her jaw, trailing featherlight kisses as his fingers worked her into a haze of sensation.

Kamsi's fingers curled into his wrist, her grip tightening—not to stop him, but as if she needed something to hold onto, something to ground her as she unraveled in his hands.