Charlie doesn’t remember. There is no way Charlie remembers. But. “The other night, outside the club—”
“Please,” Charlie cuts him off with a strangled syllable. “Let’s just go to bed and talk about this tomorrow.”
Charlie fucking remembers.
Dev should let them both live in their little bubble of false ignorance, but he can’t, because Charlie remembers. He remembers, and he knows Dev remembers, and he’s just left him alone with the knowledge of the kiss all week.
Dev leaps up from the bed. “Okay,” he snaps. “You can go to bed. But first, let’s play a quick game.” He grabs Charlie by the drawstring of his pants and pushes him back against the wall beside the bed, hard. “Let’s see who pulls away first.”
He only means to call Charlie’s bluff—to force him to admit he remembers and is pretending not to for reasons Dev doesn’t want to think about too deeply. Because those reasons are probably in the regret-and-shame family. Yet as soon as Charlie’s body knocks against his, the joke of it dissolves, because Dev is reminded what it feels like to have Charlie there, tucked up just beneath his chin. It feels so good.
Dev fights to keep his amused grin, the grin that says this is just a game, now admit you remember. Charlie reaches up and presses two fingers to the corner of Dev’s smile like he did that night, and Dev takes it as proof. “You liar, why did you—？”
And then Charlie presses his mouth to the corner of Dev’s smile, and Dev’s anger no longer feels relevant. Charlie pushes, then pulls back with some hint of reserve before he throws himself completely into the momentum of the kiss. It all comes back to Dev—he didn’t imagine it outside the club. Kissing Charlie feels different than kissing anyone else. Maybe because it’s new, or maybe because it’s a little awkward, or maybe because it’s Charlie, whose hands feel enormous on Dev’s cheeks and the back of Dev’s neck as Charlie folds himself around Dev exactly like a duvet.
Dev gives himself one minute. One minute to wrap his arms around Charlie’s waist. One minute to pretend this is a thing they can keep doing. Then he pulls away.
“We can’t. You’re drunk.”
Charlie’s eyes snap open. “I’m not drunk at all. I didn’t drink anything.”
“Oh. Right.”
Charlie releases Dev and stumbles over to the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He drops his head into his hands. “Shit. I am sorry.”
“Which part are you sorry about?”
“The kissing-you part,” Charlie whimpers into his hands. Dev didn’t know adult men were capable of whimpering, but it’s Charlie, so he whimpers majestically. He’s whimpering over the thought of kissing Dev. It hurts more than it should.
“Kissing me just now?” Dev bites out, “or kissing me on Sunday and pretending you were blacked out?”
“Dev.” Charlie looks up, tears streaming down his face.
Well, shit. Dev can’t fixate on his bruised ego when Charlie’s crying. He sits down next to him on the bed. “Hey. Hey… it’s fine. It’s all fine.” Dev puts a hand on Charlie’s knee.
Charlie’s entire body tightens at the touch. “How is it fine, exactly?”
It’s not. It’s the absolute opposite of fine. He kissed the person he’s been assigned to handle twice, and now the star of their show is crying shirtless in a hotel room on his birthday. But Dev has a history of willing things into existence on the basis of sheer tenacity, so maybe if he keeps saying it’s fine, it will become fine, eventually. Not for him, but for Charlie.
“I only meant… it’s not a big deal.”
Charlie slides his leg so he breaks contact with Dev’s hand. “Not a big deal?”