“It wasn’t fun anyway. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He looks at me, but not with his usual arrogance. There is no gleam in his eye, no confidence pressed into the corner of his lips. I miss it, actually.
He takes a long sip, puts the glass down and moves his hands to his lap. “My mom died of an overdose.”
My stomach drops and tightens, though I try not to react outwardly. I haven’t been allowed much of Warren’s inner-world, and I don’t want to be kicked out too soon by responding poorly.
“I’m so sorry.”
He waves off my apology, but his face falls as he lets his bravado slip back down. His eyes drift to his lap.
“She, uh, actually died on my birthday.”
Fucking hell.I don’t even try to stop my jaw from lowering this time. Words fail.
“It’s always a weird day for me. Then that, tonight?” He scoffs as he takes a large sip of wine. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to intervene but… thank you.”
His hands lift to the table as if he’s going to reach for me. He hesitates and goes for his glass instead, finishing it off. As he sets his wine glass back down, he looks directly into my eyes with intent—I don’t turn away.
It feels like granting permission. I’m letting him see me fully in return for his vulnerability. I don’t usually allow people in like this. Being open has never gotten me anywhere but heartbroken.
My parents didn’t do emotions. Connie had failed me. Kids were cruel, and teenagers self-involved. It left me with shallow relationships and empty connections. It taught me to favour polite over real.
Thisisn’t empty.This is deep, full, abundant. Warren’s eyes swirl with a pain that matches my own. Here, I could choose to exchange part of my hurt for his. We could hold on to it for each other. Ease some.
“While I’m hoping for a gold star from my therapist, I wish I’d decked Bryce for what he said.” His voice is low, quiet. I break our eye contact to watch as he form fists against the table.
“I’ve been called worse,” I offer weakly.
Warren tenses before he speaks. “I used to have a real problem with fighting. It’s why I didn’t stay with Luke until I aged out. I got into a fight with another kid at the home we were at… I don’t even remember why.” He flexes his hands—straightening his fingers before laying flat palms down. “Still, I’d really like to have hit him for what he called you.”
“Tell you what. Next time, I’ll hit him, and you can enjoy it from afar.” He watches my mouth part as I take the last sip of wine from my glass. “But I’m glad you didn’t. You’re better than that.”
I’m hyperaware of his stare as I lick the last drop of wine off my top lip. Something within me screams to get some distance between us. I take both of our empty glasses to the sink and begin washing up. There’s room to breathe over here. Room from that look in his eye.Like I’m edible.
After the glasses are sparkling, I turn and lean back on the sink. Warren collects empty pizza boxes, plates, and cups from around the living room, appearing deep in thought as he sets them down next to the stove.
I think he can see me out of the corner of his eye as I focus my gaze on his profile. I can’t help myself; the tension in his expression only further accentuates his sharp edges that draw me in. I follow the hard line of his jaw to his neck—which does nothing to cool the heat building in me.
I think I could choose to look away, if I wanted to, but I don’t. My breasts rise and fall as my breathing becomes laboured. My clothes feel far too tight on my skin. The moment he turns his head to lock eyes with mine, I know what we’re about to do.
“Chloe…”
He walks towards me, puts his hands on my waist, and uses them to effortlessly lift me onto the edge of the sink. My hands land flat above his collarbones, fingers curling into his T-shirt. He keeps one hand on my waist and moves the other across my jaw. Still, he doesn’t bring his mouth down on mine. His eyes shift between my own half-closed eyelids and then focus in on my lips—which pout in response.
“You’ve got to stop looking at me like that.” He brushes his thumb across my bottom lip, and my eyes fully close. He groans. “Don’t do that either.”
“Do what?” My voice is breathier than I’ve heard it before.
“Act like you want my touch that much.” He brushes my lip again, longer this time, from one corner to the other. I reel from it, but I hold still so he doesn’t pull away. I don’t want him to stop.
My tongue finds the pad of his thumb. Rough and salty. Possessed by whatever force there is between us, I nip his thumb gently as I look up at him. Warren’s eyes close this time. It is immeasurably rewarding to make him react.I want to see what other reactions I can pull from him.My heart stammers at that thought.
He slides his hand into my hair, holding the base of my skull in his palm before he smiles at me so wide I hardly recognise him. Not a look of desire, but something more—excitement, joy, gratefulness. Alarm sirens sound off somewhere in my mind. This could go wrong. Terribly wrong. I barely know Warren, and he is the only person standing between Willow and foster care.What am I doing?
“I think we should just be friends,” I stutter out while my aching hands rub the front of his shoulders and neck, speaking to the contrary. My better judgement is saying this is a bad idea. But the rest of me screams that this bad idea would feel so, so good.
Warren tilts his head with a smirk. His eyes narrow in on my chest as it heaves upwards, then towards my hands, which fist his T-shirt.
He licks his lips as he opens them, speaking in a hushed tone, “I said I didn’t want to be your friend.”
