God, she was so screwed.

The second Lana’s fingers brushed her shoulder—barely there, just a ghost of a touch—Sera felt her knees almost give out.
Not visibly.
Not yet.
But inside, she was chaos.
A rolling, sparking, breathless mess of want and panic and don’t-you-dare-blush-right-now.

She stared harder at the rack of dresses, pretending she was absolutely fascinated by a slip of pale blue silk.
(Which was a lie, obviously. She hadn't even registered the color.)
She needed a second—half a second—to get her pulse back under control before she said something completely humiliating.
Because Lana?
Lana was standing there like she knew.
Hands tucked into her jeans, head tipped just enough to make it criminal, grin lazy and lethal.

You gonna keep teasing me like that, or you thinking about cashing in some of that heat you’re throwing around?

Sera swallowed hard, felt it stick in her throat like honey.

The easy thing—the safe thing—would’ve been to laugh it off. To toss some breezy, practiced line and retreat behind the same armor she'd worn her whole life.

But looking at Lana, all golden skin and glinting eyes and slow, devastating patience, Sera realized something.

She didn’t want safe.

Not with her.

So she straightened up—slow, deliberate—and let the slip dress fall back onto the rack.
Turned to face Lana fully, every nerve ending crackling like static under her skin.

And smiled.
Crooked. Reckless. Hers.

“Depends...”
Her voice came out lower than she meant it to, thick with something she barely recognized—want, thrill, terror, all braided together.

“You planning on keeping up—” she let her gaze drag deliberately, wickedly, down Lana’s body and back up again, “—or just looking pretty?”

God, she was going to die.

Right there in the middle of Wild Honey Boutique, in a pile of silk and denim and Lana’s stupidly pretty smile.

But she held her ground.
Let the heat of it bloom between them—dangerous and bright and real.

Outside, the wind kicked up again, rattling the bell above the door like a dare.

Sera didn’t flinch this time.
Didn’t hide.

She just stood there, heart hammering against her ribs like a war drum, and waited to see if Lana would come closer.

If she would call her bluff.

If maybe—maybe—Sera didn’t have to run at all.

Oh, she was definitely flirting with death.

And honestly? Lana had never wanted to die so badly.

Sera’s smile—crooked, wicked, hers—hit Lana like a shot to the chest. Left her standing there, breathless and a little drunk on it, watching as Sera dragged her eyes over her like she had every right to look. Like she wanted to look.

Not safe.
Not sweet.

Real.

Lana didn’t play coy. Not with something like this. Not with someone standing in front of her looking like a goddamn dare wrapped in denim and thunderstorm eyes.

She pushed off the table she’d been leaning against, slow and deliberate, every muscle coiled with the restraint it took not to close the space in one reckless move.

Instead, she stalked.

One step.
Two.

Closing in like a slow tide until she was close enough to count the freckles dusting Sera’s cheeks, close enough to feel the soft hitch of her breath between them.

Lana didn’t reach out right away.
No. She made Sera wait for it.
Let it hum between them, thick and honey-slow.

Then—only then—she lifted her hand.
Careful. Unhurried. Like Sera was something precious. Like she was allowed to look but not touch unless invited.

She let her knuckles skim just under the line of Sera’s jaw, feather-light, tilting her face up by a whisper.

“You think I’m just pretty, sweetheart?” Lana asked, voice low and rough, a slow-burn smirk curling at the edge of her mouth. “Stick around. I might surprise you.”

Her thumb brushed the soft corner of Sera’s mouth—barely there, the lightest, laziest drag—and fuck, Lana felt the tremor that went through both of them.

It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was alive.

And for the first time in a long time, Lana didn’t want to pull back.

She wanted to jump.

“Or maybe,” she added, leaning in until her nose almost brushed Sera’s, until their breaths tangled and the whole world outside the boutique stopped mattering, “you’re the one trying to keep up with me.”

Not a question.
Not a tease.
A promise.

Oh, hell.

Sera knew she was flirting with danger.
(Literal danger. Pretty danger. Lana Hart danger.)
And still—still—when Lana moved in, when she lifted her hand with that criminal kind of slowness and skimmed her thumb across the corner of Sera’s mouth like she owned it—

Sera almost melted right through the damn floor.

No.
No, no, no.
Get it together, Vale.

She summoned every ounce of muscle memory she had. Every practiced tilt of her chin, every ounce of breathless, glittering bravado she’d perfected over years of being Evergreen’s golden girl.
But the second Lana leaned in, close enough that Sera could feel her breath and smell that soft wildflower-vanilla-wreck-your-life perfume—

It wasn’t armor anymore. It was instinct.

The old Sera might've batted her lashes, let out a fake little laugh, played innocent.
But the real Sera—the one clawing her way out, shiny and reckless and hers—wanted to burn.

So she didn’t move back.

No—no, she leaned in.

Let the tip of her nose brush Lana’s. Let her breath catch deliberately between them. Let her smile tilt slow and wicked across her mouth like she had any control over the way her heart was beating itself to death inside her ribs.

“Careful, Lana,” she murmured, the words a velvet scrape between them, dangerously low and way too soft for her own good.
“You keep making promises like that..."
She dragged it out, let it simmer, let it sting.

"I might just hold you to them."

There.
There.
Still standing. Still breathing.

(Barely.)

She saw Lana’s pupils darken, saw her knuckles flex like she was holding herself back from—
God. From what?
Touching her again? Pulling her closer?
(Kissing her?)

The thought alone made Sera’s brain short-circuit so hard she nearly forgot how walking worked.

Before she could do something truly tragic like swoon into Lana’s arms like a romance novel extra, Sera pivoted.
Casual. Breezy.
(Definitely not sprinting away from her own feelings, why would you even suggest that.)

She let her fingers snag the nearest slip dress off the rack—didn’t even look at it—and turned on her heel toward the fitting rooms, hips swaying in a way she prayed looked intentional.

Halfway there, she tossed a look back over her shoulder.

One arched brow.
One perfect smirk.
A silent dare.

You following or what, sweetheart?

Her heart was hammering. Her palms were sweating. She was two seconds away from absolutely combusting inside this boutique.
But damn it if she wasn’t going to go down looking good.

The second the curtain swished closed behind her, Sera collapsed.

Not physically—god forbid she actually fall over—but emotionally?
Spiritually?
Internally?
Puddle.

She pressed her back flat against the fitting room wall, clutching the random slip dress like it might anchor her to reality, and sucked in a breath so sharp it almost hurt.

Okay. Okay. You're fine.
You're fine. You’re Sera-fucking-Vale.

Which sounded great in theory, except that every single cell in her body was currently buzzing like she’d just slammed three double espressos and a questionable energy drink.

She dropped the dress onto the little padded bench like it had personally offended her and slapped her palms lightly against her cheeks, willing the heat away.

Nope.
Still blushing.
Still violently aware of every place Lana had looked, every inch she had dared to touch, every fraction of space that had almost disappeared between them.

God, she was so stupid.

Smooth, Vale, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. Real smooth. What’s next? Giggling? Fainting? Writing Mrs. Lana Vale in your notebook like a 12-year-old lunatic?

The worst part—the part she refused to say out loud—was that it hadn’t even been the touch that ruined her.
It was the look.
That molten, slow-burning, patient look Lana gave her like Sera was something worth waiting for.
Like she was wanted not for being perfect or impressive, but just for existing.

She didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Sera inhaled through her nose, sharp and shallow, then exhaled through her mouth like she’d seen in yoga videos she never actually followed through with.
One breath.
Two.

Still buzzing.

Still burning.

She yanked the jacket back up higher on her shoulder, more for armor than warmth, and glared at herself in the mirror like she could bully her reflection into acting normal.

"Get it together, princess," she muttered under her breath, voice sharp and breathy all at once.

And for a second, she almost believed she could.

Almost.

Because outside that thin curtain, she could still feel it—
the possibility of Lana waiting, watching, deciding.

And god help her, a stupid, reckless part of her wanted her to.

Lana didn’t even hesitate.

The second that curtain swung shut, she was moving—
Not fast.
Not reckless.

Deliberate.

Because Sera hadn’t run.
Hadn’t slammed the door, hadn’t thrown up that perfect, polished wall she wore like armor.

She’d dared her.

And Lana?
God, she was never one to back down from a dare.

She tugged the curtain aside with two fingers, the same lazy confidence she wore like second skin, and stepped into the tiny fitting room like she owned it.

Like she owned her.

Sera spun around so fast she nearly tripped over herself, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, clutching a crumpled slip dress like it was a damn life preserver.

Lana didn’t even try to hide her grin.

Slow. Sharp. Pure trouble.

She leaned back against the wall, blocking the entrance with her body, arms crossed loose over her chest like she had all the time in the world to watch Sera come undone.

And God, what a sight she was.

Breathless.
Blushing.
Buzzing like a live wire.

Lana dragged her gaze over her—slow, obvious, no apologies—and let a low hum slip out of her throat.

“Cute,” she said, voice low and wrecked and fond all at once. “You thinking about modeling that for me, doll, or were you planning to run again?”

She let the words hang between them, thick and golden and daring.

Sera opened her mouth—probably to sass back, probably to save face—but Lana didn’t give her the chance.

She pushed off the door in one lazy step, closing the space between them until there was nowhere left for Sera to go.
Nowhere to hide.

She reached out—careful, slow—and plucked the slip dress from Sera’s death grip, tossing it onto the bench like it didn’t matter.

(It didn’t.)

And then, with all the cocky, devastating patience in the world, she let her hands settle lightly—barely there—on Sera’s hips.

“Tell me to stop,” Lana said, voice low and dangerous and wrecked. “Tell me to back off.”

She meant it.
She meant every word.

But Jesus Christ, she was praying she wouldn’t have to.

Because standing there—feeling Sera’s heartbeat slam against her palms, seeing the war flash across her eyes and lose—Lana knew.

Sera didn’t want safe.

Not anymore.

And neither did she.

The world had shrunk to the size of a fitting room.
Four walls. One crooked bench.
Two pounding heartbeats.

Sera’s mouth was dry, her pulse a wild staccato against the inside of her wrists, her throat, her hips—everywhere Lana’s hands hovered like a promise she hadn’t dared to ask for.

She could still feel the heat of Lana’s body, close enough that the air barely fit between them.
Could feel the weight of her eyes, heavy and sure and seeing her in a way that made Sera want to cry and laugh and kiss her all at once.

Tell me to stop.
Tell me to back off.

The words coiled around her, thick and sweet and terrifying.
Lana meant it.
She really would.

If Sera asked—if she even breathed wrong—Lana would pull away, would leave, would let her hide again behind all her old armor.

And God, Sera almost wanted to.

She could practically feel the exit sign blinking somewhere behind Lana’s shoulder—safe, safe, safe—all she had to do was step through it.

She could go back to pretending. To perfect.
To easy.

But she didn’t want easy anymore.
She wanted real.
She wanted this.

Still—her body refused to move.
Rooted. Trembling. Cracked open and exposed and terrified.

She couldn’t say it.
Not yet.
Couldn’t make the leap herself.

But she could meet Lana halfway.

Sera lifted her eyes—slow, shaky—and found Lana’s waiting there, steady and patient and aching for her to decide.

And with all the bravery she had left—
all of it, every last frayed thread—
Sera did the only thing she could.

She leaned in.

Just a whisper.
Just enough that the tip of her nose brushed Lana’s.
Just enough that her hands—shaking, stupid hands—lifted, not to push her away, but to brace herself lightly against Lana’s sides.

She didn’t speak.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t have to.

Her whole body said it for her.

I’m scared.
But I want you.
Please don’t stop.

The seconds stretched, taut and fragile between them, Sera balancing on the knife’s edge between terror and need—

—and praying, just this once, that someone would catch her when she jumped.

Oh, sweetheart.

The second Sera leaned in—shaky, reckless, real—Lana’s breath caught somewhere deep in her chest and refused to come back.

She felt it—
The tremble in Sera’s fingers against her sides.
The soft, desperate exhale against her mouth.
The way her whole body said I’m scared but I’m trying without a single word.

And it undid her.

Not in the way she usually came apart—wild, cocky, riding the high of the game.

This was different.
Softer.
Heavier.

This was Lana feeling her heart stretch open in real time and knowing, deep in her bones, she wasn’t walking away from this girl even if it killed her.

Slow—careful—Lana slid one hand up from Sera’s hip to cup her jaw, thumb brushing the hot, frantic pulse hammering under her skin.

“Yeah,” Lana breathed, so low it barely made it into the space between them.
“That’s it.”

And then—God help her—she closed the distance.

No crash. No fireworks.
Just a kiss so slow, so achingly careful, it felt like a secret only the two of them knew.

Lana pressed her mouth to Sera’s like a vow—steady and patient, leaving every single door open for her to pull away.

But Sera didn’t.

She leaned in harder, her fingers tightening in Lana’s jacket, breath shuddering against her lips like she couldn’t believe it was real.

Neither could Lana, honestly.

She kissed her like they had all the time in the world.
Like she wasn’t dying inside.
Like she wasn’t terrified she’d wreck it if she moved too fast.

And when Sera made a tiny, broken sound—half a gasp, half a prayer—into her mouth, Lana smiled against her lips.

Smiled like she knew she was in so deep there wasn’t a chance in hell she was getting out clean.

Good.

She didn’t want out.

She only wanted more.

Lana didn’t pull away.
Couldn’t.

Sera was pressed up against her now, fingers clutching the front of her jacket like she needed something solid to hang onto—and Jesus Christ, Lana would be that for her.
As long as she wanted.
As long as she needed.

She kept the kiss slow.
Patient.
Careful.

Not because she didn’t want to devour her—God, she did—but because she knew, deep down, that this wasn’t the kind of thing you rushed.

Sera was giving her something raw and fragile and real.

And Lana—somehow—knew better than to take it like it was owed to her.

She kissed her like a promise instead.

Like: I see you.
Like: I’m not going anywhere.

When they finally broke apart—just enough to breathe—Lana didn’t move far.
She stayed close, forehead resting against Sera’s, her hands still cradling the curve of her hips like she didn’t quite trust the world not to shift under them if she let go.

She let out a shaky little laugh under her breath—small, stunned, wrecked—and felt Sera’s answering smile tilt against her mouth.

God.

God, she was so fucking gone for her.

“You’re trouble, Vale,” Lana whispered, voice low and rough and wrecked in a way she couldn’t even pretend to hide.
She let her nose nudge against Sera’s, gentle and stupid and so obviously infatuated she half-expected Sera to call her out for it.

But Sera just stayed there.
Breathing her in.
Holding on like she was scared if she let go, she’d lose this too.

Lana tightened her hands just slightly, anchoring her.

“No,” she corrected herself, softer now.
“You’re the best kind of trouble.”

And God help her, she meant it.

Because standing there in the cramped, too-warm fitting room, with Sera’s heart pounding against hers and the smell of vanilla and static and something new wrapping around them like a second skin—

Lana knew one thing, clear and certain as anything:

There wasn’t a single part of her that wanted safe anymore.

For one split, shimmering second, Sera thought she might actually combust.
Just—poof—into glitter and nerve endings and sheer, unfiltered panic.

Because Lana kissed her.
Slow. Careful. Devastating.

And Sera—
Sera let her.

No running. No fake laugh.
No yanking the wheel and steering it into the nearest ditch the second things got too real.

Just—
Leaning in.
Breathing her in.
Clutching the front of Lana’s jacket like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

It was terrifying.
And it was the best thing she’d ever done.

She kissed her back—tentative at first, like she was afraid of messing it up, like she didn’t trust that something this good could actually be hers.
(Still didn’t, if she was being honest.)
But when Lana didn’t pull away—when she just stayed there, steady and solid and waiting—something inside Sera uncoiled.

Some tight, frantic thing that had been clawing at her chest for months finally—finally—let go.

And she kissed her like she meant it.

Like she was scared, sure.
But more than that—like she wanted.

Because she did.
God, she did.

The heat of Lana’s hands on her hips made her dizzy, made her reckless, made her brave.
Braver than she ever thought she could be.

And when Lana whispered You’re trouble, Vale, against her mouth, all lazy-sweet and wrecked, Sera almost laughed.

Almost cried.

Almost ruined everything by blurting out something humiliating like God, please don’t stop, please don’t change your mind, please, please, please—

Instead, she smirked.

Because she was Sera Vale.
Because if she couldn’t be the cool girl right now, she could at least look like it.

She let her forehead rest lightly against Lana’s, let her hands drag up the lapels of her jacket just enough to look casual (even though she was one thousand percent holding on for dear life), and tipped her head slightly, lashes fluttering like she still remembered how to be pretty on purpose.

“Yeah,” Sera breathed, voice low and wrecked and hers.
“I’ve been called worse.”

It was almost steady.
Almost.

Only the slight tremble in her hands—only the way she leaned just a little more into Lana’s touch, chased that soft anchor like she couldn’t help it—gave her away.

She stayed like that, tucked against her like it was the only place in the world that made sense, heart hammering loud enough she was sure Lana could feel it.

And when Lana corrected herself, whispering No. You’re the best kind of trouble, like it was a secret just for her—

Something inside Sera cracked.

Not broke.
Not bled.

Opened.

Wide and trembling and bright.

She blinked up at her, this girl who wasn’t safe and wasn’t sweet and wasn’t promising her forever—
Just right now.
Just real.

And for the first time in her life, Sera didn’t reach for more.
Didn’t try to make it bigger or shinier or safer.

She just stayed.

Held there by two sure hands and a kiss that tasted like wildflowers and firelight and second chances.

Lana didn’t rush it.
Didn’t jerk her closer like some scene out of a movie.

She just pulled—slow and sure—by the belt loops of Sera’s jeans, until their bodies brushed, until she could feel the heat of her in every breath.

Sera tilted her chin up instinctively, breath catching against Lana’s mouth, wide brown eyes blinking up at her like she didn’t know whether to run or collapse.

God, she was beautiful like this.
Wrecked. Brave. Real.

Lana kept one hand anchored at Sera’s hip, fingers looping snug into the denim, grounding her there.
But the other—
The other she let roam.

Slow.
Lazy.
Like she had all the time in the world to learn her.

She let her fingertips trail up the side of Sera’s waist, feather-light over the thin stretch of fabric between her jacket and her jeans.
Over the soft rib of her sweater.
Along the line where her jacket had slipped half off her shoulder.

Every tiny shiver, every subtle sway closer—Lana caught them like precious things.
Held them inside herself like confessions.

Her touch wasn’t rough.
Wasn’t greedy.

It was… curious.
Like she was asking permission with every slow pass of her fingers.

Mapping Sera’s body by memory, not by force.

She slid her hand higher—up her side, the curve of her ribs—then back down, knuckles brushing the inside of Sera’s wrist where her hands still fisted uselessly in Lana’s jacket.

And when she felt Sera’s breath hitch—sharpen—panic rising for a split second behind those wide eyes—

Lana softened.

Pressed her forehead against Sera’s again, the tip of her nose nudging hers, so gentle it broke something inside her.

“You can tell me to stop,” she whispered, breath warm against Sera’s lips.
“Anytime, Vale. You just say the word.”

She let the hand at Sera’s hip slide forward—slow and steady—to splay lightly across her lower stomach.
Just resting there.
Not pushing.
Not demanding.

A warm, steady weight.

Something to lean into.
Something to trust.

“I mean it,” Lana murmured, voice roughened at the edges by something she didn’t bother hiding anymore.
“You’re the one driving this.”

She tilted her head, just enough to press the softest, laziest kiss against the corner of Sera’s mouth—a kiss that barely even landed, more promise than possession.

“You want me to stop,” she said, voice almost a smile, “I’ll stop.”

But her hand—God, her hand kept moving.
A slow drag of fingers up Sera’s side again, along her ribs, brushing the underside of her jacket.
Not forcing.
Just… asking.

Just reminding her:
I’m here.
I’m not going to hurt you.
You get to choose.

And if Sera stayed—
If she kept leaning in—

Lana was ready to lose herself right alongside her.

Sera barely noticed anything outside of Lana.

The world—the store, the racks of soft dresses, the lazy gold light—had all blurred into nothing, dissolved into static at the edges of her mind.

It was just this.

The heat of Lana’s hands.
The brush of her body, slow and sure, pulling her closer by the belt loops of her jeans like she belonged there.

And Sera—
God, Sera let her.

For one breathless heartbeat, all she could do was sway closer, eyes fluttering shut, feeling every slow trail of Lana’s fingers up her side like a spark lit along a fuse she didn’t even realize she'd been carrying.

She felt wild.
Untethered.
Alive.

But somewhere—deep, ingrained, drilled into her bones by a lifetime of living under the Vale name—instinct kicked in.

Her eyes snapped open.
Her head whipped around, sharp and panicked, scanning the boutique like she half-expected her mother to be lurking behind a rack of sundresses with a camera and a loaded shotgun.

Nothing.

No nannies.
No Adeline Vale.
No hushed whispers of Seraphina, darling, what would people think?

Just them.

Just Lana.
Golden and devastating and real in a way no one had ever been for her before.

The bell above the door rattled softly in the breeze, but no new footsteps came.

No one was watching.
No one cared.

And for the first time in her life, Sera wasn’t performing.
Wasn’t posing.
Wasn’t thinking five steps ahead about what it would look like.

She was just... feeling.

Her chest hitched—sharp, ragged—and then, trembling but sure, she turned back to Lana.

Looked at her like she was something holy.

And chose her.

Sera didn’t say anything—she didn’t have to.
She just leaned in, closing that last breath of space between them, tucking herself into the shape Lana made around her like she was slipping into something she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing her whole damn life.

Her hands—still stupid, still shaking—fisted tighter in Lana’s jacket.

And when Lana brushed her fingers up her ribs again, slow and reverent, Sera shivered.

Not in fear.

In surrender.

In trust.

Her breath hitched when Lana pressed that lazy kiss to the corner of her mouth, featherlight, like a secret only she got to know.
And then—God—when Lana murmured You’re the one driving this, like Sera had any idea where she was going—

Sera’s laugh cracked free.

Soft. Shaky. A little wrecked.

She leaned her forehead against Lana’s again, let her fingers drag up higher to clutch the collar of her jacket instead of her ribs, and breathed her in like she might disappear if she looked away.

She was still scared.
Still buzzing and burning and half-convinced she was doing it all wrong.

But she wanted this.

Wanted her.

So she lifted her chin—barely—and, in a voice that trembled no matter how hard she tried to steady it, whispered:

"Don't stop."

And for once, Sera Vale didn’t think about how it looked.
Or what came next.
Or what she was supposed to be.

She just let herself want.

And God—
It felt like flying.

Lana froze the second the words left her mouth.
Don’t stop.
Barely a whisper.
Barely a prayer.

But it shattered something inside her all the same.

Because Sera wasn’t running.
Wasn’t hiding behind a joke or a perfect smile.
She was choosing her.
Scared and messy and real.

And God, Lana had never wanted anything more in her entire fucking life.

She exhaled slowly, shaky and wrecked, forehead still pressed against Sera’s, feeling the tiny tremors running through her body.

“You got it, princess,” she murmured against her skin, voice breaking somewhere in the middle.
Soft. Careful. Devastating.

Lana didn’t rush.

She let her hands find Sera’s again—loose fists still curled in the front of her jacket—and slowly, gently, coaxed them down.
Tugging them free, threading their fingers together instead.
Tethering them.

Sera blinked up at her—wrecked, wild, glorious—and Lana smiled.
A small, broken thing.
More wrecked than cocky now.
More hers than she knew what to do with.

She shifted her hands again—tracing slow paths up Sera’s arms, over the loose sleeves of her suede jacket, across trembling shoulders—until she found the hem of the camisole underneath.

Slow.
Careful.
Asking permission with every inch she touched.

She slipped her hands under the jacket first—feeling the heat of Sera’s skin through the silk—and pushed it gently back, letting it slide off her arms.
Not tossed aside.
Not ripped away.

Unwrapped.
Like something precious.

And when the jacket hit the floor with the softest whisper, Lana didn’t move away.

She stayed close.

Letting her palms drift up Sera’s sides again—up the thin straps of her camisole, along the trembling line of her ribs—and feeling her every unsteady breath against her hands.

“You’re so beautiful,” Lana said, almost to herself, voice wrecked and low.

She wasn’t sure if Sera even heard her.
Wasn’t sure it mattered.

Because she wasn’t saying it for points.
Wasn’t saying it to be smooth.

She just needed her to know.

She needed her to feel it.

And God, if Sera let her—
if she kept standing there, trembling and brave and burning—

Lana was going to make sure she never, ever doubted it.

Lana’s hands trembled, just a little.

Not because she didn’t want this—
God, she wanted this more than she’d ever wanted anything—
but because she wanted to get it right.

Wanted to touch her like she deserved to be touched.
Wanted to make sure Sera felt every second of it.

No rush.
No pressure.
Just her.
Just this.

She stayed close, chest brushing Sera’s, feeling the wild, frantic beat of her heart through the thin silk of the camisole.

And then—slow, slower than she’d ever moved in her life—Lana slid her hands up Sera’s arms, fingertips feathering over the soft skin of her shoulders.

She hooked her thumbs lightly under the narrow straps of the camisole.

Waited.

Breathed.

Gave Sera every heartbeat she needed to pull away, to say no, to run if she wanted to.

But Sera just looked up at her—wrecked and raw and wide open—and nodded.

Tiny.
Almost invisible.

But it was enough.

So Lana moved.

She brushed the straps down Sera’s shoulders—soft, reverent, like she was unwrapping something holy.
The silk slid down easily, whispering across Sera’s skin like it had been waiting for this moment, too.

First one strap.
Then the other.

Easing down her arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake, leaving Sera standing there in nothing but that delicate lace and bravery stitched together.

Lana couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move for a second.

Because it wasn’t just skin she was seeing.

It was trust.
It was fear and hope and reckless, desperate wanting wrapped up in every trembling breath Sera took.

“You’re perfect,” Lana whispered, like it hurt to say it.