Tension in Transit

The silence inside the carriage was no longer just quiet.

It was alive.

Thick. Sharp-edged. The kind of silence that scraped against skin like velvet soaked in glass — soft at first, but dangerous once pressed. It clung to the corners, draped over them like fog, and neither of them seemed willing to slice through it.

Jake exhaled — a slow, deliberate thing — and leaned back into the plush curve of the carriage seat. His leg extended beside Nate's, close enough for heat to pass between them in subtle pulses. The darkness outside pressed against the windows, lanterns swinging from the carriage casting flickering golden halos across his sharp cheekbones.

"Tell me something," Jake murmured, his voice low and laced with shadow. It wasn't teasing now. It held an unfamiliar weight. Like it came from someplace deeper, more dangerous.

Nate's eyes turned, wary. "What?"

Jake didn't look at him directly. He stared forward instead, as if watching a memory play out on the opposite wall. "If she had touched your face… would you have let her?"

The question was soft. Too soft. It curled under Nate's ribs like smoke.

He blinked. His lips parted, breath catching in his throat — but no words came. Not immediately.

Jake finally turned his head, eyes locking on his with something sharp and bitter behind the darkness. "Would you have leaned in… if she asked for a kiss?"

"You're being ridiculous," Nate muttered, voice taut, retreating toward the window and the shadows it offered.

"But you didn't answer." Jake's tone sharpened — not loud, never that — but devastating in its stillness. A quiet accusation. A blade without a swing.

"I wouldn't have," Nate said, slower this time. More certain. "Even if she tried. I wouldn't let her."

Jake's brows lifted, just a fraction. His gaze narrowed. The weight of that stare was a thing Nate could feel across his skin like the brush of firelight.

"And why not?" he asked, voice almost too calm.

Nate's jaw tensed. His hands curled in his lap.

"Because I…" He exhaled through his nose, slow and restrained. "Because I don't want to give something that isn't hers to take."

The carriage jolted slightly, the wheels slipping over uneven cobblestone. The motion shoved their knees together — a sharp, accidental collision.

But neither of them moved.

Jake's eyes glinted, and when he smiled, it was a dangerous, devastating thing. All crooked edges and coiled restraint.

"So," he drawled, voice like dark wine, "who does it belong to?"

Nate couldn't breathe.

Not properly.

Not with Jake looking at him like that — as if he were already his, as if the answer had already been written on his skin in ink only Jake could see.

"You're playing a dangerous game, pretty boy," Jake whispered, eyes flickering to Nate's mouth for just a second too long.

"And you're the one who taught me how," Nate said, voice low and tight like a wound pulled clean.

Jake stilled.

The smirk faltered — just slightly — before melting into something quieter. Something far more intimate.

His hand moved — languid, confident — across the space between them. Fingers brushed against Nate's knee. Just a ghost of a touch. Not possessive. Not yet. But promising.

Nate's heart thundered, erratic and unwelcome.

That touch was electric. Not sweet. No. It was the kind of thing that left bruises in its absence. The kind of touch you remember with shame and hunger.

Then — the carriage slowed.

Outside, the clink of reins and the soft murmur of soldiers echoed through the dusk air. They were back. The palace loomed somewhere beyond the veil of darkness.

Jake pulled his hand away as if nothing had happened.

As if he hadn't just carved a claim into Nate's bones with a single touch.

"You should be more careful," he said, lips curving into a mockery of warmth as he stepped out. "The palace has more eyes than even I do."

He disappeared through the open door, his silhouette melting into torchlight.

Nate stayed seated. Just for a breath longer. The scent of leather and storm still lingered, still laced the air.

And in the silence, he heard the question Jake hadn't asked — the one that trembled beneath every breath:

If I kissed you… would you have let me?

He bit his lower lip, nails pressing into his palms, blood rushing like wildfire beneath his skin.

Yes.

Gods help him.

Yes.

When he finally stepped out into the cool night air, the torchlight painted the world in sharp contrasts — gold against shadow, warmth against the cold ache in his chest. His face was composed. Regal. But inside, everything shook.

Jake stood ahead, halfway up the palace stairs, his back turned. His posture was too stiff — a subtle tension in his shoulders that Nate hadn't seen before. Not even when facing generals or kings.

Inside, the palace murmured with restrained elegance. Silks rustled. Guards pivoted. Courtiers whispered about trivial things under their breath — all while the world tilted sideways in Nate's chest.

The scent of polished marble, blooming orchids, and ancient secrets filled the corridor as he walked behind Jake.

But none of it mattered.

Because all Nate could think about — all he could feel — was the ghost of Jake's fingers on his knee…

…and the terrifying truth that he wanted more.

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