In another moment, Kaz could almost laugh at that comment about bets, but as it is, it doesn’t get even the hint of a smirk.

At Noah’s question, his gaze glides up to him, perched on top of the table like a bloody disaster. “It’s not specific like that. It’s just… bare skin on skin.” Even admitting it out loud, putting words behind it in an exacting sort of explanation feels strange and foreign—

He wants to leave.
The conversation.
The table.
The room.

But he doesn’t.