“Oh my god, Kins! What did he say to you?” she whispers excitedly, her eyes wide. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. That was the most intense thing I have ever seen. You were practically vibrating!”
I can’t answer, I can’t move. The ghost of his whisper is still in my ear, the phantom weight of his hand is still on mine, and the terrifying truth is that my body had answered him, even when my mind could not.
Seventeen
Kinsley
The walk back to my dorm is a masterclass in dissociation. Chloe is talking, her voice a high, excited buzz next to my ear but the words don't form coherent sentences. They are just sounds, like the chatter of a television in another room. I hear phrases—”insane chemistry,” “so intense,” “what did he say?”—but my mind can't, or won't process them. I nod, and make a noncommittal sound in my throat. I focus on putting one foot infront of the other, on the rhythmic slap of my boots on the cold pavement.
“I mean, he’s definitely into you, but you totally threw him off his game,” Chloe says as we reach my dorm. “Threatening him? Kinsley, that was legendary. He probably went home to write about you in his diary.”
She laughs, and I manage a weak smile that feels like a grimace.
“I’m just… tired,” I say, the first complete sentence I’ve managed. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“Get some sleep,” she says, squeezing my arm. “And dream about your dark and mysterious stalker.” She winks, and the casualness of it is a physical blow.
The moment the door to my room clicks shut, the fortress I’ve built around my composure shatters. The silence isn't a relief; it's an amplifier. It takes the ghost of his whisper and puts it on a loop.
Do you ever think about my hand on yours?
Do you ever wonder what it would feel like if I didn’t let go?
I drop my bag and wrap my arms around myself, rubbing my skin furiously, as if I can physically scrub away the memory of the goosebumps that erupted on my arms. But it’s no use. The feeling is under my skin, a sickening, electric hum.
My mind knows the truth. He is a predator. A monster who invades my privacy, my safety, my very thoughts. He is playing a game where I am the prize to be won, a thing to be controlled. The anger is there, a hot, protective coil in my gut. The fear is there, a cold dread that whispers of what he’s capable of.
But there is something else. Something new, and infinitely more terrifying.
Yearning.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, my head in my hands. I hate myself for it. I hate my body for its treason. My mind screameddanger, but my skin prickled with a dark, terrible awareness. It wasn't just fear. Fear is a cold, sharp retreat. This was… a current. A pull. A sickening acknowledgment of his power, his confidence, his absolute physical presence.
He is infuriatingly, devastatingly handsome. It’s a fact I’ve tried to ignore, to file away as irrelevant. But when he stood up, when he leaned into my space, the fact became a weapon he used against me. The sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in those blue eyes, the sheer heat and size of him—it’s the classic, stupid, biological wiring of a moth to a flame, and I hate it. I hate that my own biology is working against my survival.
And the kiss.
He asked if I thought about it. The truth, the secret and shameful truth, is yes. I do, not with longing, but with a kind of horrified fascination. It wasn't a kiss. It was an act of possession, a brand. The memory of his lips, the pressure, the shock of it—it’s a scar I can’t stop tracing with my mind.
And now, his whisper has created a new scar right next to it.
I feel torn in two. One half of me, the logical, rational Kinsley, wants to run. To transfer schools, change my name, and disappear. The other half, the traitor in my veins, the part of me that thrives on intensity, that is drawn to the raging storm of my own mind… that part is captivated.
Is this me, or is this my disorder? Is this a genuine, twisted attraction, or is my hypomanic brain simply latching onto the most intense stimulus in the room?He is the human embodiment of a lightning strike, and I am a girl made of kindling, terrified of the fire but forgetting what it feels like to be cold.
I can’t deny the pull anymore. It’s there, a dark undertow beneath the surface of my fear. He isn’t just a monster I need to escape. He is an abyss I am terrified I might want to fall into.
How do you run from a man who makes your body betray your mind?
How do you fight a monster when some small, sick part of you is whispering for him to get closer?
Eighteen
West
The chill of the night air still clings to me, a faint echo of the exhilarating confrontation at Gino's. She walked away, trembling, convinced she had delivered a mortal blow. She has no idea she just handed me another piece of her soul. The look on her face, the way her body responded to my proximity, the raw, unadulterated fury in her eyes, it was magnificent. And the goosebumps. A primal, undeniable confirmation. My words, my presence, affect her on a level she cannot control.
I return to my apartment, the city lights a distant hum. The scotch remains untouched. I don't need it. The adrenaline is a purer, more potent intoxicant. I sit at my desk, the Moleskine open, but my thoughts are not for strategy tonight. They are for dissection. Replaying every micro-expression, every tremor, every flicker in her eyes.
