The energy shifts.
A jolt of electricity.
Her eyes flare. She waits for me to crush the cigarette beneath my boot, to kill the moment before it becomes something else.
Instead, I lift it to my lips and inhale deep. Heat curls through my chest. The paper tastes like whatever watermelon lip balm is smeared across her mouth.
I want to taste more. Fucking all of it.
Her throat bobs, gaze flicking to my lips wrapped around the cigarette.
My dick jumps.
Fuck me.
Just like that, we’re both reminded.
I see the memories come alive in the blue swirl of her eyes.
Our texts.
I didn’t say anything outright damning, but the context was there. And she’s not an idiot.
I exhale slowly, smoke winding between us like a dark secret.
Annie looks away, breaking the spell. Moonlight spills across her face as she stares at the inky horizon. “Why did you move?” Her voice cracks on the last syllable.
I hesitate. Not just because it still hurts, but because I’m afraid of what might come out.
Taking another drag, I hand the cigarette back to her and blow a thin stream of smoke toward the sky. “I couldn’t look at them anymore,” I admit. “Or maybe because when I looked at them, I saw my own sins reflecting back at me.”
She spares me a timid glance. “Your sister?”
Turning, I lean against the side of the house. “Sometimes we run from something. Sometimes we run from ourselves.”
“Sounds like a losing race,” she whispers.
I nod. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Something shifts in her expression. Pain, understanding.
She drops her cigarette to the wood planks, grinding it out beneath the toe of her shoe before settling next to me, mirroring my stance. “I don’t think you’re a sinner, Chase. You’re a good person.”
We’re too close. Feels like nothing but a flimsy sheet of lace between us. Everything seeps through.
My jaw clenches as I look at her. “We’re all sinners, aren’t we?” I wait for her to find my eyes before adding, “Some of us just hide it better.”
Annie’s lashes flutter, fanning out in thick, dark wisps.
I think she’s about to reply. Counter the pain in my voice with enlightenment or wisdom.
But she surprises me.
Her hand reaches out, clasping with mine.
I nearly buckle. Her touch is warm, intoxicating. More soothing than the midsummer breeze, more healing than any carefully sanded fretboard beneath my fingers. She holds on to me like she wants to put me back together, piece by piece. A song taking shape, the melody uncertain but the rhythm undeniable.
I consider pulling away, putting distance between us…
