Chapter 1: The Frozen Kiss
The apartment smelled like regret and cheap pizza. The single bulb above the sofa buzzed with a dying frequency, casting everything in a sickly amber glow that made the clutter look almost intentional. Éric didn't mind. He'd long since stopped noticing the mess, the way the coffee cups bred in the dark corners of his kitchen, the way the takeout bags crumpled into a small mountain by the door like some modern art installation he'd accidentally curated.
What he noticed was Clarisse.Always Clarisse.
She sat cross-legged on his threadbare sofa, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from her fingers, her black hair a wild mess around her freckled face. She was mid-laugh, her head tilted back, that sharp, teasing cackle of hers filling the small space, bouncing off the faded concert posters and the scribbled equations he'd long forgotten the meaning of. Forty-five years old and she still laughed like a teenager who'd just gotten away with something.
"You're full of shit," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "There's no way you actually told your boss that."
"I absolutely did." Éric leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. "I looked him dead in the eye and said, 'Sir, with all due respect, I think your leadership style is about as effective as a screen door on a submarine.'"
"And he didn't fire you?"
"He promoted me." Éric grinned, that perpetual smirk of his widening. "Something about appreciating honesty in the workplace. Or maybe he was just scared I'd say it louder next time."
Clarisse shook her head, taking a long sip of her beer. The flickering light caught the curve of her throat, the way her Adam's apple bobbed as she swallowed. Éric watched her a beat too long, felt something stir in his chest that he'd been trying to ignore for years. She was his best friend. His person. The one who'd seen him at his worst and still showed up at his door with a six-pack and a scathing remark about his life choices.
But lately, that something had started to feel different.Sharper. More insistent.
"You've got that look again," Clarisse said, raising an eyebrow.
"What look?"
"The one where you're thinking about something stupid." She set her beer down on the armrest, leaning forward. "What is it this time? A new business venture? A tattoo? A sudden desire to join a cult?"
"All of the above, actually." Éric pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up with that strange, glitching neon-blue icon he'd downloaded three days ago. He'd almost deleted it a dozen times, convinced it was some kind of virus or a prank from one of his more technically inclined friends. But the app had a name that made him pause.Five Minutes. Nothing else. Just a timer and a button.
"I've been meaning to show you something," he said, keeping his voice casual.
Clarisse squinted at the phone. "Is that a dating app? Because I've told you, Éric, the algorithm is not going to find you a woman who appreciates your particular brand of chaos."
"It's not a dating app."
"Then what is it?"
Éric hesitated. The app had come with no instructions, no tutorial, just a single button that glowed when he opened it. He'd tested it on a fly earlier that day, pressing the button and watching the insect freeze mid-buzz, suspended in the air like a tiny, winged sculpture. For exactly five minutes, the world had stopped. Then, with a soft hum, everything resumed, the fly continuing its erratic path across his kitchen as if nothing had happened.
He'd spent the rest of the day trying to convince himself he'd imagined it. That the three cups of coffee and the lack of sleep had somehow conjured the whole thing. But the app was still there, glowing innocuously on his phone.
"Just trust me," he said.
Clarisse gave him a skeptical look, the kind she reserved for his more questionable ideas. "The last time you said that, we ended up in a police station in Atlantic City."
"And we weren't even arrested. That's a win."
She laughed again, and Éric felt that familiar warmth spread through him. He pressed the button.
The sound died instantly.
The buzzing of the bulb, the distant hum of traffic, the faint creak of the building settling—all of it vanished into a vacuum of silence so complete it pressed against his eardrums. Éric looked at Clarisse, frozen mid-laugh, her eyes wide and unblinking, her mouth open in that perfect, joyful curve. She was a photograph. A painting. A moment trapped in amber."Hello?" Éric said, his voice sounding strange and muffled. "Clarisse?"Nothing. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Éric's heart hammered against his ribs as he stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. He circled the sofa, studying her from every angle. Her chest was still, no rise and fall. Her eyes, usually so sharp and knowing, were glassy and vacant. For a moment, panic gripped him—what if he'd actually killed her? What if this weird app had done something permanent, something irreversible?
But the timer on his phone was ticking. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds remaining.
"Okay," he said to himself, his voice echoing in the silence. "Okay.This is real. This is happening."
He stopped in front of her, his eyes tracing the lines of her face. The freckles scattered across her nose like a constellation he'd memorized years ago. The slight frown she'd get when she was concentrating, the way her lips curved at the corners even when she was trying to look serious. She was beautiful. Not in the conventional sense—she was too sharp for that, too angular, with her flat chest and her skinny frame and her hair that defied all attempts at taming. But there was something about her that drew him in, that made him want to close the distance between them.
His fingers hovered over her jaw, trembling slightly. "You're going to kill me for this," he murmured. "But I've been wanting to do this for so long."
He traced the line of her jaw, feather-light, marveling at the warmth of her skin despite the frozen state. Her freckles felt like tiny raised bumps beneath his fingertips, and he lingered there, mapping the terrain of her face with a reverence he'd never shown anyone else. Then, slowly, he leaned in.
Her lips were soft. Warmer than he expected. He pressed his mouth to hers, tentative at first, then more insistent, deepening the kiss even though she couldn't respond. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. A low sound escaped his throat, something between a groan and a whimper.
God, he'd wanted this. For years, he'd told himself it was just friendship, just the comfortable intimacy of two people who'd seen each other at their worst. But this wasn't friendship. This was hunger. This was need.
His other hand drifted lower, over her shoulder, down her arm, settling on her hip. Her jeans were tight, the denim worn soft from years of use. He traced the curve of her ass, tentative at first, then bolder, cupping her through the fabric. The power of it—the sheer, heady knowledge that he could do anything right now, that she was completely and utterly his—made his head spin.
"Fuck," he whispered against her lips. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The timer ticked down—three minutes.Two. One—
The sound rushed back like a wave crashing over him. The bulb buzzed, the traffic hummed, and Clarisse blinked.
She gasped, her hand flying to her chest, her eyes darting around the room. "What—" She shook her head, her brow furrowing. "What happened? I feel weird."
Éric stumbled back, shoving his phone into his pocket. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it. "Weird how?"
"I don't know." She touched her lips, her fingers lingering there. A shiver ran through her body, visible even in the dim light. "I feel like... I feel like someone just kissed me. Like I can still feel it." Her eyes met his, sharp and searching. "Did you do something, Éric?"
"No." The word came out too fast, too high. "I didn't do anything. We were just talking, and then—"
"Liar." She said it softly, almost fondly. She stood, crossing the distance between them in three quick steps. Her eyes bore into his, and he felt exposed, stripped bare by that knowing gaze. "I can feel your lips on mine. I can feel your hands on me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You touched me, didn't you?"
Éric opened his mouth to deny it, but the words died in his throat. She was too close. He could smell her perfume, something floral and sharp, could see the way her pupils dilated in the flickering light.
"Clarisse, I—"
"My turn."
Her smile was a knife. She pulled his phone from his pocket—he hadn't even noticed her moving—and held it up. The app was already open, the timer ready. Her finger hovered over the button, and in the glow of the screen, her eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and something darker. Something hungry.
"You filthy pig," she said, her voice dripping with wicked delight. "You thought you could do all that and I wouldn't find out?"
"Clarisse, listen—"
"Shh." She pressed her finger to the screen.
The world went silent.
Éric's heart stopped.
Éric's heart stopped.
I watched him freeze mid-breath, his chest caught in that half-expanded state, eyes locked on mine with that familiar mix of panic and desire still swimming in them. The flickering bulb above cast its sickly glow across his face, and for a moment, I just stood there, drinking him in.
Five minutes.
I had five minutes of this arrogant, mischievous, impossible man completely at my mercy. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, something electric and dangerous curling in my stomach. My finger tingled where it had pressed the screen, and I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine, the phantom pressure of his hand on my hip. The ghost of his lips and his total disregard of my consent. Oh, he was going to pay halfway to sundown.
"You absolute bastard," I whispered, my voice swallowed by the dense silence of the frozen world. "You couldn't just talk to me like a normal person, could you? You had to freeze time and cop a feel."
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't.
I stepped closer, circling him the way he'd circled me, studying the sharp planes of his face in this unnatural stillness. He was frozen in a state of utter disarray. Grey threaded through his mud-colored, chaos-bun prone hair and laughter lived at the corners of his eyes. He was impossibly ridiculous. And I loved him. And sometimes I wanted to strangle him with equal intensity.
I let my fingers trail across his jaw, the stubble rough against my skin. He was frozen mid-plea, that stupid handsome face caught in a mask of panic and longing. I'd memorized every line of it over the years. The way his left eyebrow quirked when he was about to say something inappropriate. The way his lips curved into that insufferable smirk when he thought he'd won. The way his eyes softened when he looked at me, thinking I didn't notice.
I noticed everything.
"You know what your problem is, Éric?" I murmured, tracing the line of his collarbone where his shirt gaped open. "You think you can take whatever you want, whenever you want it. You think the rules don't apply to you." My fingers drifted lower, over his chest, feeling the frozen thump of his heart beneath my palm. "But I've got news for you."
I stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the static of his frozen energy, that strange, electric hum that seemed to radiate from him even in stillness. His eyes were locked on mine, wide and glassy, and I wondered if he could see me, if some part of him was aware of what I was doing, watching me through the glass of his own captivity.
"I'm not some fly you can pin to a board." My voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and dangerous. "I'm the one who's been waiting for you to slip up for twenty years."
My hand found his belt, and I paused, my breath catching in my throat. The timer ticked down in the back of my mind. Three minutes and twelve seconds. I could do anything I wanted. The thought burned through me like whiskey, heady and dangerous.
But what did I actually want?
I'd felt his lips on mine. I'd felt his hands on my body, those large, calloused hands that had helped me move apartments and held my hair back when I was sick and clapped too loudly at my terrible karaoke performances. And I'd felt them somewhere else. Somewhere possessive and hungry and completely at odds with everything I thought I knew about us.
My fingers curled around his belt loop, and I tugged him toward me. He was frozen solid, unmoving, but I pulled him close enough that our bodies were almost touching. I could smell him. Stale cigarettes and old pizza and that citrusy cologne he wore even though he swore he was allergic to fragrance.
"If you wanted me," I said, my lips brushing his ear, "all you had to do was ask."
I pulled back, studying his frozen face. The timer was ticking down. Two minutes.
What was I going to do?
Part of me wanted to return the favor. To touch him the way he'd touched me, to claim him in the same possessive, animal way he'd claimed me. I could undo his jeans and wrap my hand around him, feel the weight of him in my palm, see his face when time resumed and he realized what I'd done.
But that felt too easy. Too transactional.
I wanted him to suffer.
I wanted him to want me so badly that his skin burned with it. I wanted him to dream about my hands on him and wake up aching. I wanted him to lie in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment we'd ever shared and wondering where it all went wrong.Not wrong. Different.
The timer hit one minute.
I pressed my lips to his, not with the gentle reverence he'd shown me, but with the fierce, demanding urgency of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. It was a promise and a threat and a question all at once. A promise of what could be. A threat of what I'd do if he ever put his hands on me without permission again. A question I didn't know how to ask.
When I pulled away, his lips were slightly parted, glistening, marked by me.
The timer hit zero.
Sound crashed back into the room like a wave. The bulb buzzed overhead, the building groaned, and Éric gasped, stumbling backward, his hand flying to his lips. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, and he was breathing like he'd just run a marathon.
"What—" He touched his mouth, his fingers trembling. "Clarisse, what did you—"
I held up his phone, the app still glowing on the screen. I gave him a slow, deliberate smile, letting him see every ounce of mischief and hunger and wicked promise in my eyes.
"Fair's fair," I said, tossing the phone onto the threadbare sofa. It bounced once and landed face-up, the neon-blue timer staring at us like an accusation. "You wanted to play games, Éric. So let's play."
He stared at me, his chest heaving, his hands clenched at his sides. There was something new in his eyes, something I'd never seen before. It wasn't just surprise, or guilt, or even desire. It was fear. Real, genuine fear of what I might do next.
Good.
"You don't get to freeze me and touch me and expect me to just forget it happened." I stepped toward him, and he stepped back, his shoulder blades hitting the wall. I watched his throat work as he swallowed. "You don't get to take what you want and pretend it's innocent. We're too old for that, and we're too close for that, and I deserve better than that."
"Clarisse, I—"
"I'm not finished." I pressed my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart rabbiting beneath my hand. "You've had twenty years to say something. Twenty years to tell me how you feel. Instead, you waited until I was frozen to put your hands on me. That's not brave. That's pathetic."
His jaw tightened, a flash of anger cutting through the fear. "It's not that simple."
"It's exactly that simple." I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear, my voice a low, dangerous murmur. "You want me? Then look me in the eye and say it. Right now. No app, no tricks, no frozen time. Just you and me and the truth."
I pulled back, meeting his gaze. The silence stretched between us, thick and charged.
Éric opened his mouth, and I could see the words forming on his tongue, could see the battle playing out across his face. But the seconds ticked by, and nothing came out.
A slow, bitter smile spread across my lips.
"That's what I thought." I turned, grabbing my purse from the armrest where I'd left it hours ago. "You know where to find me when you grow a spine."
I walked toward the door, my heels clicking against the scuffed floor, and I didn't look back. But I felt his eyes on me, burning holes through my back, and I knew—I knew—that the game wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
The door slammed behind me, and I stood in the hallway, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I pressed my back against the wall, closing my eyes, and let myself feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
I'd won this round. But there was something coiled in my chest, something I'd kept locked away for years, and I could feel it rattling the cage. I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep it contained much longer.
And from the look on his face, neither would he.