When Jace heard the flapping, he slowly drew his mouth away from Clary's. It made a soft plosive sound, and Clary's breath hitched in surprise, or displeasure. He kept his arms around her and murmured into her ear, "Don't panic, but we've got an audience."

Clary turned around, her hair flicking in Jace's eyes. Ow. He blinked. Clary's expression turned mildly horrified by the sight of Hugo, balanced on a tree branch, who had been shamelessly observing their kiss with alert, glistening black eyes.

"If he's here," Jace said, eyeing Hugo, "Hodge won't be far behind." This meant Jace had to let her go. He didn't want to let her go. Not now. But he stated dutifully, "We should go,"

"Is he spying on you?" Clary turned around. "Hodge, I mean."

"No. He just likes to come up here to think. Too bad—we were having such a scintillating conversation," he joked. He laughed soundlessly and then thought, why did you say that? Are you trying to make this awkward?

Jace felt his face warm. He didn't dare look at Clary; he simply slid his hand into hers, and hoped fiercely that she would accept it. As he turned away to lead her out of the greenhouse, he felt her fingers curl around his, and heard her begin to follow in his footsteps. A ragged exhale left him. By the angel, her hands are tiny. He wanted to laugh out loud, buoyant as a child, as he pranced down the stairs; he wanted to turn around and bring her hand to close to his face, tracing the shape of her knuckles with his smiling lips, and kiss her fingers. Her palms were surprisingly dry, almost calloused in places – though that made sense, he thought. She was a compulsive artist. Her hands were her most precious tools. Just as his were his most indispensable weapon.

They walked back to her room in silence, and Jace pondered what he was going to do when they got there. His heart trilled in his chest. Every nerve ending in his body felt hyper-sensitive, ablaze with hot, sparkling energy.

Eventually, they wound their way to her door. She swiveled around to face him and leaned her hip against the wall. She said smilingly, "Thanks for the birthday picnic,"

He looked down at her hand, which he still had hold of. She followed his gaze, possibly waiting for him to drop it. He couldn't manage it. He didn't know what to say. He only wondered, very innocently, if she was planning to sleep now, but when he said, "Are you going to sleep?" an unintentional dip of suggestiveness entered his voice. He cringed internally.

Instead of giving a straight answer, she batted the question back at him. "Aren't you tired?"

Jace said something, then, that he hadn't planned on saying: a confession. When he said it, he could hardly bear to open his mouth, the words sounded so shaken and sincere, "I've never been more awake."

He stole a glance up at her. There was a lusty fire in her cheeks, her eyes wide. Her mouth fell apart and she inhaled.

Jace lived like this. On a blade's edge. On the tip of those pale pink lips. He knew that everything that passed his way, may never do so again.

And he saw his chance. Here it was, laid out in front of him, ready.

He leaped for it.

Before she could break eye contact, he reached out and placed his hands either side of her face. He could see in her glinting eyes that she knew. She knew what he was going to do.

Perhaps he was imagining it, perhaps it was the light; the blacks of her pupils swelled, and the lush green of her eyes, framed by her eyelashes, darkened, drunkenly enticingly. Jace's heart surged.

He barely restrained himself from rushing his mouth upon hers. With effort, he steadied himself: applying his lips carefully, caressingly. She responded. With force.

Jace let go. He let go of the simmering tension inside him, and wrapped it around her instead. He moved his hands to her shoulders, and pressed down hard on her lips; wanting her backed against the solid wall, so he could roam her body with more ease-

A door opened. No, Raziel, no—

"What the hell?" Simon's infernally ridiculous voice demanded.

Clary squeaked, and sprung away from Jace as quickly as if his touch had scolded her.

Here was another chance. A chance to swing his fist in the idiotic mundane's face.

Don't, Jace, don't. She'll be angry. You know how much she likes—

"Simon!" She exclaimed and gasped, embarrassed. Why? Why was she embarrassed? Jace thought angrily; it wasn't as if she'd been kissing Simon, too—"What are you—I mean, I thought you were—" Clary stammered.

Or had she?! The mundane replied,"Asleep? I was." His face was a clouded, brilliant beet red colour. Good. "Then I woke up and you weren't there, so I thought..."

Clary said nothing. She was fixated on Simon, her brow contracted sorrowfully, her neck muscles straining. He compared her with the imbecile gripping the door frame for support, and felt, in that moment, such an immense wave of contempt that he could barely contain himself.

Clary hung her head submissively. When she spoke, her voice was assuaging and ashamed. "I'm sorry,"

Sorry?! You're sorry for kissing me? He thought furiously, Because you wished you were kissing him instead?! What does Simon have that I don't?

He needed to say something. He needed to say something aloof and scathing and unconcerned. But there was an audible exaltation in his voice when he finally dared to open his mouth. "In future, Clarissa," he uttered her full name deliberately, hoping it would infuriate her; flinging it at her like a rebuke. "It might be wise to mention that you already have a man in your bed, to avoid such tedious situations."

Tedious. He felt very satisfied with that. That was a good word. Stricken, Simon blurted out, "You invited him into bed?"

Jace wondered if the reason rat-boy was upset was because Clary really had betrayed him. But that can't be it, he thought. She'd told Jace they were friends. He remembered the obvious way Simon had looked at her in Java Jones—by the angel, it felt like so long ago, now—and the way Clary had been completely, hilariously oblivious. But perhaps...'friends' meant something different to mundanes than it did to Shadowhunters? By the angel, what if it was? Like...that? Between them? Jace wanted to heave.

And Clary was still looking at Simon, her expression begging and doe-eyed. She hadn't even glanced at Jace. Look at me! He wanted to shout.

Jace leaned against the wall and folded his arms. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Ridiculous, isn't it?" He said, staring at the space above Clary's head. "We would never have all fit."

She ignored him. Jace gritted his teeth. "I didn't invite him into bed," Clary barked at Simon. "We were just kissing," she protested.

"Just kissing," Jace repeated, thankful for the condescension, as opposed to rage, that lathered his tone.

Do you just kiss boys like this all the time? Jace just kissed girls all the time, but it never meant anything to him. It was just fun. And why not? He hadn't thought...that Clary...was...but perhaps she was. She was pretty enough that the possibility of rejection seemed unlikely. Perhaps she kissed boys for fun, all the time, and acted like it didn't mean anything, like she was right now, all the time. Didn't she know? He thought, desperately. Can't she feel it? This is different. This is so, so different. He said bitterly, "How swiftly you dismiss our love,"

She turned her head, and looked at him. Finally. "Jace..." She began, her tone trembling, almost afraid. Then, she looked away again. At Simon. She said miserably, "Simon, it's so late. I'm sorry we woke you up."

"So am I!" He wheeled away and slammed the door behind him. The frame shook.

Now it was just them.

Jace was determined not to look her in the eye. He smiled amusedly, his tone mocking, "Go on, go after him. Pat his head and tell him he's super special little guy. Isn't that what you want to do?"

"Stop it," She warned. "Stop being like that."

He felt his smile widen impossibly with his indignation. He finally gave in and looked at her in the eye. "Like what?"

"If you're angry, just say it. Don't act like nothing ever touches you. It's like you never feel anything at all,"

He schooled his expression not to reveal anything. But he felt unmoored, untethered in some vital, visceral way. This was not supposed to happen. Clary was not supposed to say that. It unnerved him. That she'd seen straight through him. It was as if she didn't feel anything at all. She didn't look even mildly hurt by anything he'd said. In fact, she looked calm and superior. The colour in her cheeks had cooled, and her eyes were stony.

She looked like she was very irritated with the prospect of having to stoop to the level of telling him that he had to stop being infatuated with her, and leave her alone, because it didn't mean anything.

Not knowing what to say, he resorted to, "Maybe you should have thought about that before you kissed me."

She looked aghast. "I kissed you?!"

Well. No. He felt stung and intensely humiliated and he needed to go somewhere else—where he couldn't see her—get out into the fresh air, or something. "Don't worry," he said, with as much malice as he could muster, "it wasn't that memorable for me, either." With that, he turned his back on her and walked away.