It’s not a soft kiss. It’s not sweet or tentative. It’s sharp, angry. A spark struck from the flint of every poor decision I’ve ever made. His hand is on my waist instantly, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. The heat between us is volcanic, reckless, and my mind goes blank.
For seconds, there’s nothing but heat. The taste of him, the sting of wine and salt, the sound of breath and heartbeat and the low, involuntary growl in his throat as my teeth catch his bottom lip. My whole body floods with it, a numb, dizzy rush that blots out everything else.
Then my brain slams back online, a cold bucket of water.
I break away so fast my lips sting.
Evan’s breathing is rough. His eyes are dark. He looks like he wants to drag me onto his lap and not let go until morning.
“That wasn’t…” I start, but I can’t finish.
“Don’t,” he says, rough.
“This was a mistake.”
Evan stands, slow. “Didn’t feel like one.”
My chest tightens. “That’s the problem.”
I wrench the door open, step into the hall, and turn back just long enough to throw one last line like a blade.
“Goodnight, Wilder.”
Chapter Six
Evan
The night passes in pieces — her mouth, my sister's face, her mouth again, and the specific kind of self-loathing that doesn't let you sleep; I’m drawing her in, making her want to come to me, exactly as I’m supposed to. She’s pretending to fight it, sure, but no one kisses like that unless they really want it.
The job is to get close. I got close. That's all this is. I've told myself that four times this morning, and it keeps not being true
The entire day I’m on alert, listening. For her. It’s the rhythm that tips me off — four rapid-fire smacks of boots on vinyl, then a pause, then another two, like she’s recalibrating how hard she wants to hit the ground. I’m already up from my beat-up couch and moving. I’ve got my hand on the doorknob, the door barely cracked, breath held like she’s a deer and I’m a twig away from spooking her.
She rounds the landing down to the entrance with a velocity that, if it weren’t for the backpack weighing her down, would probably leave scorch marks on the building’s worn carpet. The backpack’s open at the top, folders and books bristling out, a vivid blue pen clamped in her mouth like a cigarette. I let my eyes do the inventory: heavy boots, black leggings, a battered Army jacket. Her hair’s up, the curls fighting for freedom, red as a warning flare.
Three paces from my door, she senses me. She doesn’t stop, because that would show I have an effect, but her nostrils flareand her jaw goes tight enough she could crack a molar. She angles her gaze away, but she clocks me in the periphery and her stride, for one half-step, falters.
I step into the hallway, just enough to let her know this is a standoff.
“Molly,” I say, voice soft enough that it can be mistaken for casual if anyone’s listening.
She gives me her shoulder, tightens the grip on her backpack. “Wilder.”
The way she says my name is sharp enough to shave with.
I say nothing; let her have the opening move.
She tries to walk past, but the hallway’s built for one and a half humans wide, and my presence is an obstacle. I don’t block her, not exactly. I just lean, arms folded, like the hallway’s a bar and I’m waiting for happy hour. My aim: make her pause, make her see me.
She cracks first — her breath, a sigh, but angry. “Didn’t think you’d be home.”
“I live here,” I say.
“Mm.” She finally pivots, slow, like she’s choosing how much of herself to show. “Congratulations.”
I lean against the doorframe, keeping my stance loose. I’m not going to crowd her. If I move wrong, she’ll bolt. I can already see it in the way her fingers clamp on the backpack strap — white knuckles, defensive grip.
“You’re heading out,” I say.
