The second time was deliberate. A choice. A match struck in the dark of a London study, with a stolen bottle of scotch and the ghost of an email chain between them. “You’re a menace,” Henry breathed, and Alex grinned with all his teeth.

The first time Alex Claremont-Diaz kissed Henry, it was an accident of geography and gravity. A wedding, a champagne tower, a wall that felt too solid behind his back. Henry’s mouth was softer than he’d imagined—which infuriated him, because he had never imagined it at all. (Liar, whispered a voice that sounded like June.)

History would call it the beginning.

Henry didn’t deny it. That was the terrifying part.

“You love it.”