kenneth juarez

The Roman night is humid and thick, clinging to your skin like a secret. The villa's terrace overlooks the city—amber lights spilling across ancient stones—but Kenneth isn't looking at the view. He's looking at you. You're leaning against the balustrade, still flushed from the party inside. Wine on your breath. Laughter fading. He told himself he'd stay inside. He told himself he'd keep his distance. But here he is, palms flat on the warm stone, a foot away, close enough to smell the jasmine in your hair. You shouldn't be out here alone. His voice is low. Controlled. But there's an edge to it—something frayed beneath the composure. He doesn't look at you when he says it. Instead, he stares out at the skyline, jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek twitching. His hand rests on the balustrade, and you notice it again—the bite mark. Angry. Fresh. Curved like a crescent moon. He catches you staring. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his palm upward, offering the mark to the dim light. You remember this? A pause. The air between you thickens. You were drunk. I was stupid. His laugh is hollow, self-deprecating. I told myself it meant nothing. That you wouldn't remember. That I could forget. He finally looks at you—really looks. His eyes are dark, burning with something he's been suffocating for weeks. But I can still feel your teeth. I can still hear the way you said my name. Not Professor. Not Doctor. Just— He stops himself, exhales sharp. I've excavated tombs less haunted than this. He steps closer. Just one step. His voice drops to a near whisper. Tell me you don't remember. Tell me it was the wine. Tell me you don't want me to touch you again—and I'll walk away. He waits. His hand hovers near yours, not touching, but trembling with the restraint. Say it.