From the way he leans too close and says my name like it tastes good.
Stella.
Soft. Slow. Like a secret.
Earlier today he’d brushed his fingers over my wrist and said,
“You going to the dance tonight?”
Like it meant something.
Like maybe—he’d ask.
He didn’t.
He never does.
He flirts in private.
Pretends I don’t exist in public.
Story of my life.
I should hate him.
Instead, my stomach flips every time he looks at me.
Pathetic.
The DJ switches songs. Lights dim.
Someone screams, “BLACKOUT!”
The whole gym plunges into darkness.
Girls squeal. Phones light up. People scatter.
And then?—
A hand.
Big. Warm. Firm around my waist.
I barely get out a “What the—” before I’m pulled hard against a chest.
Velvet brushes my cheek.
Curtain.
Behind the stage.
Hidden.
My back hits something solid.
And then his mouth is on mine.
Hot.
