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And then I see him.

Zeke.

In the doorway, shoulders tense, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, jaw locked like he’s trying to fight something off.

His eyes are locked on me.

And I swear, the temperature in the room spikes.

“Zeke?” I whisper, heart thudding.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Just stares.

Then, in two strides, he’s across the room.

His hand cups the back of my neck, warm, calloused, and heavy.

Like he’s claiming me or something with that purposeful touch.

And then he kisses me.

Slams his mouth onto mine with a growl so low and primal it sends a shockwave through my bones.

I freeze for half a second. Just long enough to register the heat, the possessive edge, the way his lips move like he’s memorizing every shape of me.

Then I kiss him back.

It’s not cute.

It’s not gentle.

It’s—it’s fire.

Pressure.

A collision of heat and want and something I can’t name yet, but I feel it down to my marrow.

And just when I start to melt into it, to lose myself completely in the taste of him, it happens.

His eyes open.

And they’re glowing.

Not metaphorically.

Not poetically.

Actually glowing.

A vivid violet, shimmering like some sort of ethereal wildfire.

I gasp.

He jerks back.