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“You do,” he says, more to himself than to me.

And then—

He smiles again.

Like he’s just won something.

I should leave. Walk away. Say something cool, indifferent, maybe even a little cold. There’s a way to recover from this heat crawling up my neck—I’ve done it before. With Silas. With Lucien. Even with Elias mid-sex joke and half-naked in front of a mirror.

But Orin isn’t saying anything. He’s just watching me like I’m made of slow-burning confessions, and the longer I stand here letting his eyes undress me in complete silence, the worse it gets.

And then I say it.

Gods help me—Isay it.

“You’re, like… really hot.”

The words drop out of my mouth in one long, breathless,uninvitedconfession.

I blink.

He blinks.

And because I’ve clearly lost every ounce of social instinct I’ve ever had, I double down like a fucking idiot.

“I mean—I’ve always thought so. I just didn’t say anything because, you know, ancient immortal power and probably ten thousand exes and a moral compass forged by cosmic fire or whatever. But, uh. Yeah. I’ve got ahugecrush on you.”

Kill me.

Orin’s smile doesn’t widen. It deepens. Sharpens. Like a line of ink dragged through wet parchment.

I can’t stop. I should. Ineedto. But apparently now is the moment my brain decides to vomit every humiliating thought I’ve ever had about the dangerously hot philosopher who’s been following me through shadow realms and giving me soul-stirring eye contact for weeks.

“I just thought you should know,” I add. “Before I say anything else completely idiotic. Or, like, catch fire spontaneously from the shame.”

His silence is a noose. I glance up at him, heart thudding somewhere near my throat, and he’s still smiling.

“I’m hot,” he repeats, voice low and amused, but not mocking.

“I’m deeply aware of how that sounds.”

“You have acrushon me.”

I groan, pressing a hand to my face. “Can you not repeat it? It’s bad enough I said it once.”

He doesn’t stop.

“You’ve been staring at me like you want to solve me,” he says, moving close enough that I feel his words like static across my jaw. “And you think I’m the dangerous one.”

I pull my hand away from my face, heat practically radiating off my skin. “You’redefinitelythe dangerous one.”

He hums softly, and then—finally—he lifts his hand. Slow. Intentional. His fingers brush the edge of my jaw, and it’s not possessive. It’s not even commanding.

It’s reverent.

And somehow, that’s worse.

“I knew you wanted me,” he says, voice velvet-drenched sin, “but I didn’t know you’d tell me like a teenager trying to impress a god.”