Why can't we be art?

You could hear it from streets away—unmistakable. Music was blasting from the open windows of an old Gregorian house in Temple Bar, the kind that promised more than one life would change that night. Term at Trinity College hadn’t officially begun, but the welcome parties were already in a full swing. A sea of students drifted through the narrow streets and pubs—laughter, sweaty bodies, cheap alcohol—all drawn to that particular house that made it feel as if anything could happen.

She arrived late, as always. Andrea.

Black heels; well worn jeans; a slightly open white shirt that hinted a black lace; a watch that never kept precise time—that was her signature. She liked to arrive when the heat of the night was at its peak. A cigarette tucked behind her ear, a razor-sharp gaze, and that energy that made people let her through without a word, without a gesture. She wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, but her eyes swept the room on instinct.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall by the stairs, a drink in hand. Sebastian fucking Sallow. In his signature jeans and a rolled-up grey shirt, the rings on both hands caught the light like stars in the constellations of his fingers. He wore a half smile while a red-haired girl talked without pause, but he wasn’t looking at her. No. He was looking at Andrea.

Andrea had made an entrance without meaning to—as if she wasn't aware of the effect she had. She went straight to the kitchen, found a bottle of tequila, and poured herself a drink without even asking. The first shot went down hot, precise. The second was unnecessary. But the third… the third was inevitable.

—You took your time —said a voice right behind her.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

—I didn’t think you’d show up to this kind of party —she replied without turning.

Sebastian smiled—the kind of smile that could melt anyone. Even Andrea, not that she liked to admit it.

—I thought you were going to ignore me —he said under his breath.

Slowly, Andrea turned, taking another sip from her glass. Their bodies were already too close, as if the universe were used to their magnetism. Her eyes dropped to that smile—too arrogant, charged with the dangerous tension only he knew how to hold.

—I was considering whether you were worth it, Sallow —she said, meeting his glaze and biting the rim of her glass—. Still not sure.

—I’m absolutely sure. —Sebastian held her eyes, as if a single blink could undress her. —Let’s go upstairs.

Andrea laughed, tipping her head back, caught between dare and desire.

—That was fast. Whatever happened to playing it cool, Sebastian?

—When have we ever played it cool?

Andrea gave it a beat—or pretended to. She pretended that she could say no. But the truth was they were already climbing upstairs, sidestepping bodies, laughter, conversations dissolving into the music. They found an unlocked door; he shouldered it open and clicked it shut behind them. A blade of hallway light slipped under the door, but there was plenty of darkness inside. She leaned back against the wall, and Sebastian planted a hand on either side of her head.

—I didn’t miss you —she whispered.

—Don’t lie. —he said, and kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet, the kiss. It couldn’t be, not with the pull between them. It was brutal—possessive—as if he meant to take her breath. As if he wanted to remind her that no matter how they fought, no matter how razor-edged her comebacks were, here—in this stolen corner—there was no room for pride. Andrea fisted his shirt, pulling him closer. Their mouths collided; their hands found skin; the wall shivered under their combined weight. Light from the window flickered across their silhouettes. It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed like this, but every time felt like the world cracked a little wider.

When they finally broke appart—breathing ragged, undone, their names written into each other’s skin—Andrea cut through the quiet the way only she could.

—This isn’t healthy, Sebastian.

—And?

She sighed, almost teasing.

—And nothing.

Sebastian looked at her, lips still a little swollen and in that infuriating tone Andrea hated and always fell for, he said:

—See you at the next party, Andrea. Or in your bed.

She smiled, tilting her head.

—Or in yours–if you ever make your bed.

—Never.

They laughed, as if tomorrow didn’t matter. As if this—this dangerous game, these stolen slips into the dark, the pretend loathing in public—was the only thing that made sense.