CHAPTER FIVE- THE KISS.

Julliette.

Bars were basically a test of human endurance, and I was failing. Miserably. I had always suspected that humanity collectively agreed to invent them just to ruin nights for people like me—people who preferred walls to small talk, and strategy to slapdash flirting. And yet here I was, perched on a stool in a dim corner, nursing a drink that promised regret in liquid form and surveying the room with anything but ease.

I had hoped foolishly, as it turns out that tonight I could be invisible. Just Julliette Mercer: quiet, competent, unobtrusive. No chaos, no brooding hockey players.

I didn’t know I would meet him here.

He was quiet—so quiet I thought at first he might be a figment of my exhaustion-addled brain. Shadowy in a way that made the dim lighting his personal stage, sitting at a table alone with a calm that could have been mistaken for smugness if I weren’t hyper-aware of every second of the day. Something about him made the bar feel smaller, heavier.

My pulse sped up in spite of myself.

Then I realized who he was.

Dorian.

The Wolves’ goalie. The one who never spoke, who vanished in photos like a ghost, whose existence was more rumor than fact until today. He wasn’t just quiet; he was the kind of silent that made everyone else feel loud. And suddenly, I felt loud in the worst possible way—heart hammering, breath shallow, trying not to betray my presence as I stared like an idiot.

He lifted his head. Dark eyes met mine, and I had the distinct impression that he had been watching me the whole time. Not with curiosity. Not with mild interest. No, it was something heavier, something that made my chest tighten.

“You’re Julliette Mercer,” he said softly. His voice didn’t carry across the bar, it seemed to thread directly into my brain, a low hum of control.

I blinked. “Uh… yes? Still trying to figure out what you’re doing in a bar that serves questionable cocktails and bad lighting.”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that suggested amusement or maybe he was just acknowledging my audacity. Either way, it made my stomach flip.

“So,” I said, finally, because my brain refused to stay silent any longer, “you’re the quiet goalie, huh? The one who apparently doesn’t talk. Ever.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Small, subtle, but enough to make my legs weak. “I talk,” he said softly. “Just… selectively.”

I snorted, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Selective. Right. That explains a lot.”

He stood then. Slow. Measured. Every movement precise, controlled, deliberate. And in that instant, I realized I had been holding my breath without even realizing it.

I wanted to roll my eyes at the ridiculous tension in my chest. I am not this affected by a man who hasn’t even spoken more than five words. I am professional. I am completely in control.

Right. Professional. Completely.

“May I sit?” he asked.

I blinked at the calm audacity of the question. “You… may.” Probably not the most enthusiastic response, but my brain was temporarily short-circuiting.

He slid into the seat across from me, silently, and the tension in the air thickened, settling over us like a storm. I wanted to lean back, laugh, complain, anything but my body refused to cooperate. My pulse was a runaway train.

“You don’t… strike me as the type to drink here,” he said finally, voice low, calm. Not teasing. Just… Dorian.

“Observant. Good eye,” I said, smiling despite the rapid-fire chaos in my chest. “I’m here for the same reason as everyone else. Avoid humans. Contemplate life. Wonder how my fingers will survive another night with the Wolves. You?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was measuring my sincerity. “Same, I suppose.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You ‘suppose’? That’s a very non-committal way to describe yourself as the guy who literally stops pucks for a living. You deal with certainty.”

A faint grin. Subtle. Dangerous. My knees weakened in ways I refused to acknowledge and I wasn’t even standing.

The conversation or lack thereof stretched between us. Silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Every glance, every shift of his body, every tilt of his head carried weight, a slow pace of something electric.

And then he reached forward, just slightly. His fingers brushed mine, not a touch meant to be noticed, but it was enough. Enough to make me freeze, enough to make me acutely aware of how much I wanted him to keep touching me.

I didn’t move away.

God help me, I didn’t.

“You’re… different,” I said finally, because silence was slowly killing me. “Everyone else is loud. Arrogant. Dramatic. You… just exist, and somehow, you make everyone else feel like noise.”

He didn’t reply immediately. Just held my gaze, dark forest green eyes holding mine with that unnerving, magnetic calm that somehow made me want to confess things I didn’t even understand.

And then, just as the moment was stretching thin and unbearable, he leaned closer.

My heart did something ridiculous. My hands trembled. I wanted to pull back, scream, run—none of which I did.

His lips brushed mine. Lightly at first, testing, deliberate. And then fire. Electricity. A jolt that made every nerve ending in my body scream awake. I was shocked, terrified, exhilarated—all at once. Breathless.

“Dorian—” I started, because my brain was reassembling itself, but he didn’t give me the chance to finish.He didn’t wait. Not for my protests, my sanity, or my well-thought-out plan to remain composed.

His hand brushed mine first. Accidental? I doubted it and that small contact made every nerve ending in my body light up like fireworks. My breath hitched.

And then his lips were on mine. Light at first. Testing. Electric. I froze for a heartbeat, shocked at the sudden intimacy, the forbidden rush. But the warmth, the steady, firm pressure… it was impossible to resist.

I hesitated, then let myself lean in, letting the moment sink in. My lips moved against his, uncertain at first, then firmer as the craving built. His hand cradled my face, thumb brushing my cheek in a slow, deliberate motion that made my head spin. I felt a shiver crawl down my spine, all sharp edges and sudden heat.

The kiss deepened, slow but insistent, forbidden and utterly consuming. I clutched the edge of the table for grounding, but nothing could anchor me. Not his presence, not the dim lighting, not even the tiny cocktail that had promised regret.

He was strong but careful, controlled yet entirely present, and I matched him instinctively, letting my hands rest on his shoulders, gripping lightly as if I could anchor us both.

The world fell away. The bar, the dim lights, the half-empty booths gone. There was only him and me, lips locked, breaths mingling, the quiet thrill of something forbidden crackling in the nonexistent space between us. Every brush of his fingers, every tilt of his head, made my pulse spike higher.

I finally dared to pull back just slightly, enough to see his eyes—dark, intense, consuming. He was watching me, studying me, and there was an unspoken command in his gaze: don’t stop.

So I didn’t.

I leaned forward again, pressing closer, matching him, letting myself give into the desire that had been simmering since the first moment my eyes had met him. Our lips moved together with more confidence now, more urgency. His hands moved from my face to my waist, anchoring me, drawing me impossibly closer, while mine tangled in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the strength beneath, the steady heat.

And just like that, it was no longer just a kiss. It was a statement, a promise, a dangerous little rebellion against every rule I thought I had. Forbidden, yes but thrilling. And I didn’t want to stop.

It felt like I was getting rid of the famine I didn’t know existed in my soul.

And then he pulled back, just slightly, enough for me to catch my breath. His eyes never left mine, dark, intense, dangerous. Forest green.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. Low, calm, deadly serious. “Not tonight. Not like this.”

I wanted to argue. To protest. To tell him that yes, maybe I shouldn’t, but I also wanted—God help me, I wanted.

But the words stuck somewhere in my throat. Instead, I just nodded, pulse hammering, aware of the lingering brush of his hand as he straightened, his presence still dominating every corner of my vision.

And then he was gone. Just as silently as he had appeared. A shadow folding back into the night, leaving me alone with a racing heartbeat and an entire brain full of thoughts I wasn’t ready to sort.

I sat there, stunned, drink half-forgotten, the electric heat of his lips still ghosting against mine. Every instinct told me I should run. Every instinct told me I should lock the door and forget this ever happened.

But one truth had settled into my chest like a stone: this wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t a fleeting misfire of impulse. This was Dorian. My quiet, brooding, magnetic, utterly dangerous goalie.

And if I wasn’t careful I was already in, way too deep.