“That's not?—”
“Don't.” I hold up a hand. “Don't tell me it wasn't my fault. Don't tell me the content was good. I saw the hashtag. I saw the comments.”
Watching paint dry wouldbe more thrilling.
Heritage walks are where fun goes to die.
#SnowFestFail.
I've been carrying those words around all day like stones in my pockets, and I'm so tired of pretending they don't hurt.
Everett moves closer.
I should step back. I should maintain the careful distance we've been pretending is enough to keep us safe. But my feet don't move, and my heart is doing something dangerous in my chest, and I'm so goddamn tired of fighting this.
“Do you remember our first time?”
The question hits me with the force of an angry fist.
“Everett.” It's supposed to be a warning. It comes out like a prayer.
“It was right here.” He's still moving, closing the distance between us with the inevitability of a tide. “You were so nervous you couldn't stop laughing. You said it helped you breathe.”
I remember.
God, I remember everything.
The way my hands shook when I reached for him because I was scared to touch him, but he was who I needed beside me when I was scared.
The way he kissed my forehead first, like he was asking permission.
The way he whispered my name against my skin like it was something sacred.
“We shouldn't?—”
“I remember the way you looked at me after.”Another step. He's so close now, his body heat dances over my skin.
“Like you couldn't believe we'd actually done it. Like everything had changed and you weren't sure if you were happy or terrified.”
“Both,” I whisper, the truth claws its way out of me whether I want it to or not. “I was both.”
“Yeah.” His voice drops, goes rough and raw. “Me too.”
He's close enough to touch me now. Close enough that I can see the rapid pulse in his throat, matching the wild rhythm of my own heartbeat.
“We can't do this.” My voice shakes. Everything shakes. “My brothers are out there. The cameras?—”
“Aren't here.” His fingers brush my jaw, featherlight, devastating. “It's just us. Like it used to be.”
“Nothing is like it used to be.”
“Some things are.” He tilts my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes. In the moonlight, they're dark and deep and full of something that looks terrifyingly like hope. “Some things never changed. Not for me.”
Tell him to stop.
Tell him you can't.
Tell him your brothers are fifty feet away making dick jokes about his ancestors and if they walk in right now, everything you've spent eleven years protecting will explode.
