"Connor would kill you," I whisper.
"I know."
"This is a terrible idea."
"I know that too."
But neither of us pulls away. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my mouth parts. His other hand slides into my hair, and I'm leaning in, and he's leaning in, and we're a breath apart when he stops.
Just stops. Forehead pressed to mine. Eyes closed. Breathing hard.
"Tell me to go upstairs," he says.
"I can't."
"Lucy." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. "If I kiss you right now, I won't be able to stop. And your brother is asleep twenty feet above us."
"I don't care."
"You should." But his hand tightens in my hair. "You should care that I'm leaving in two weeks. That this can't go anywhere. That I'll hurt you."
"What if I hurt you?"
His eyes open. Dark and intent and burning with want.
"Then we'll be even," he says.
We stay like that. Foreheads touching. Breathing each other's air. Balanced on the knife-edge between restraint and giving in.
Finally, he pulls back. Puts six inches of space between us that might as well be six miles. His jaw is tight, and his hands are shaking, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes.
"You should go to bed, Lucy."
It's not a suggestion. It's a plea.
I stand on shaking legs. Wrap the blanket around my shoulders because I'm cold without him next to me. He stays on the floor by the dying fire, watching me with an expression I can't name.
"Goodnight, Ryder."
"Goodnight."
I make it to the stairs before I look back. He's still watching. Still wanting. Still holding himself in check for reasons I understand even if I hate them.
In my room, I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. My heart is hammering. My lips are tingling from a kiss that never happened. And I can hear him moving around downstairs. Hear the creak of the stairs as he finally comes up. Hear his door close.
The bathroom between our rooms feels like both a barrier and a promise.
I lie in the dark and replay every word. Every touch. The way he looked at me when he said he liked all of me. Not just the sunshine part.
Something fundamental shifted tonight. We acknowledged the want. The danger. The impossibility of this. And neither of us walked away.
I don't know what happens next. Don't know how to want something this badly when it's wrapped in so many reasons why I shouldn't. But I know I'm in trouble.
We both are.
Ryder
The morning after our almost-kiss, I wake to the sound of Maisie singing Christmas carols in the hallway. My shoulder protests when I roll over, a dull ache that's been my companion since the injury. The real pain sits lower, in my chest, where Lucy Wright has carved out space I didn't know existed.
