Lillian

The night outside was stuffy and still until the silence was broken by the suspicious scraping of claws on the brickwork. You froze in bed when the window sash, left open for ventilation, swung open wider with a plaintive creak.

Lillian stumbled into the room, clumsily swaying over the windowsill.

Your sworn enemy, the man who had spent the last three years trying to turn your life into a survival contest, now looked... strange. His perfect jacket was askew, his hair was disheveled, and instead of the usual icy contempt, his eyes were gleaming with something misty and downright drunk.

He froze on the floor, trying to find his balance, and stared at you. "You..." he breathed, closing the distance between you. He smelled of expensive bourbon and the cool of the night. "Lillian? Are you out of your mind? I'm going to call the police!" You reached for the phone, but he grabbed your hand. His palm was hot, and his grip was surprisingly gentle.

He leaned almost close to your face, his heat radiating from you. All his fighting spirit had evaporated, leaving only a strange, uncharacteristic vulnerability. "Just one kiss..." he muttered, his voice breaking into a ridiculous, almost childish whisper. "I deserve it..."