Rafael frowns. “Well, that’s not what you said.”
“Rafael.”
He glances back at the car and I could swear his eyes stick to the plate, but he moves away before I can say anything, and we all make our way out of the parking lot.
As soon as we leave the park, a strange calm settles over us. Adrenaline is still running high, but none of us says a word until Ethan bursts into laughter, and through his gasps, I can make out the word “peanut.”
I chuckle, and Rafael turns to me, his eyes oddly soft, like he enjoys the sound. I hope he knows how grateful I am for this. Ill-advised as it was, he helped my brother. There’s nothing as attractive as a selfless man who fiercely protects others.
Actually… there’s no one as attractive as Rafael.
we shouldn’t, but we will anyway[trope]
the irresistible gravitational pull between two characters who know better but absolutely refuse to do better; typically fueled by questionable decisions, forbidden circumstances, and a complete lack of self-control, this trope features stolen kisses, whispered “this is a bad idea” declarations, and enough sexual tension to power Willowbrook for a week
The bed creaks softly as Rafael sits on the edge, and I climb in beside him, pulling the blankets over my legs. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds.
“Good to be back?” I ask as he settles next to me. The old wooden headboard creaks faintly as he shifts, the quilt rumpling under us.
“Oh, yeah.” He smiles widely, and it lights up his entire face. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt that clings to the lines of his shoulders and chest, his arm tattoos perfectly on display and immensely distracting. “Feels like coming home.”
I’d roll my eyes if he didn’t look so completely sincere. And you know what? He’s right. He looks so at ease here, broad frame relaxed against my too-small bed, hair mussed from the shower. Itdoesfeel like he belongs here.
The warmth of that thought is immediate, but it’s accompanied by a tight pang of guilt. Everything he said tonight comes rushing back in a painful flood—his past, the abuse, the reason for his sudden disappearance.
“It’s not your fault, Scarlett.”
I let out a puff of air, shaking my head. Rationally, I know he’s right. But emotionally? That’s another story. “It was my letter. My stupid, drunken letter.”
“Youdidn’t hit me. It’s not your letter that was wrong—it was his reaction. In fact, he hit me plenty before your letter, and if I hadn’t left, he would’ve hit me after it, too.”
The blanket shifts as he leans closer, his knee brushing mine under the covers, warm and reassuring despite the subject. But the logic of his words does little to loosen the crushing grip of guilt on my chest. It was my drunken mistake. My feelings that got him into trouble.
“Scarlett.” His fingers tangle with mine, the metal of one of his rings cool against my skin. “I blamed myself for my father’s actions for so fucking long. Don’t do that to yourself.” He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the top. “Please.”
The pressure builds behind my eyes. To distract myself, I reach up and run my fingers through his hair, pushing the strands back from his face. “You’re overdue for a trim, huh?”
“You don’t like my hair?”
“I love it, but it must be uncomfortable. It always falls over your eyes.”
He hesitates, then reluctantly gathers his hair and pulls it back, revealing a long, jagged scar etched into the skin above his temple.
My breath catches.
That’s why he wears his hair like that? To hide a scar?
My fingers inch closer, trembling slightly as I trace the rough skin like a road map through the years of torment he’s endured. “Is it from that night?”
His eyes flicker closed, his lips parting as if he’s savoring the feel of my touch. “Yeah. He hit me in the head with something. I didn’t even see what, because he was on top of me just moments after.”
I trace his scar again, as if my touch could erase it. “I hate that he hurt you. He was supposed to love you, to protect you.”
He turns his head, his nose brushing against my wrist, and inhales deeply. “I’m okay now, Freckles. I’m so…sookay.”
The heat of his breath is against my skin, warm and uneven. My hand trembles as it slips down from his scar, the faint rasp of his stubble brushing my fingertips.
His gaze drops to my lips, and the way his chest rises and falls matches the pulse thrumming in my veins. “We don’t have to,” he says, voice hoarse, like he’s fighting to hold himself back.
