Late Night Confessions
1154 Words
Luke:
I should’ve walked away.
I should’ve kissed her back, whispered something cutting, and reminded her who the hell I am.
But I didn’t.
I pulled away.
Because that kiss—it wasn’t a kiss.
It was a dare.
A threat.
A weapon.
And I wasn’t ready to bleed for her yet.
I drove around the city for a while to clear my head. I came back and circled the lot one last time, like a coward. Too scared to confront her. My jaw tight. My pulse riot-drumming behind my ribs. Her taste still on my tongue—whiskey, smoke, and something wild.
Every cell in my body screamed go back, but my honor screamed louder.
She didn’t like me. That much was obvious.
But her body?
That traitor leaned into mine like she wanted to melt into mine.
And damn me—I wanted it.
Wanted her, even if she’d gut me with the knife hanging from those tight black jeans and laugh while I bled out.
I ended up where I always did when the world didn’t make sense.
Up on Hollow Ridge, a relic of what this part used to be. It was overlooking the city—just far enough out the lights didn’t drown the stars, close enough I could still see the red haze of downtown bleeding into the horizon.
The hill was gravel and shrub and solitude.
No one came here but me.
No one knew I did.
Except now… she did.
Her headlight cut through the dark a few minutes later.
She didn’t rev the engine like usual. No showboating. Just rolled up quiet and killed the motor beside me.
Didn’t say a word.
She climbed off the bike like the silence was permission.
"You hear to finish what we started?" I asked coldly.
"No."
I had a blanket in the back of the cruiser. Old thing. Soft from too many washings and still holding the scent of cedar and sweat.
I spread it across the dirt and sat down beside her, knees up, elbows on top, watching the city breathe beneath us.
"I want to understand why you didn't," she finished, dropped onto the ground next to me
Neither of us spoke.
Because what the f**k was there to say?
I didn’t know if I hated her or wanted to ruin her. Maybe both. Maybe it didn’t matter.
Her arm brushed mine. Barely.
I flinched.
She didn’t.
“Why’d you follow me?” I asked.
She scoffed. “Why’d you leave?”
I looked over at her. Hair wild from the wind. Dirt on her boots.
Lips still red and now slightly swollen from where I kissed them and then walked away.
“I didn’t want to be a mistake.”
She didn’t look at me. “Too late.”
That stung.
Which pissed me off.
“You don’t even like me,” I bit out. “You used me to feel something.”
She finally turned her head, eyes like slate and ice.
“No,” she said, quiet. “I used you to feel nothing.”
That shut me up.
Because yeah—I knew that feeling.
The need to go numb.
The way pain gets louder when everything else is quiet.
The way a warm body can feel like an anchor when you’re just trying not to float away.
“Do you always do that?” I asked. “Kiss people when you’re breaking?”
Her mouth curved into something cold. “Only when I’m trying to break them too.”
I laughed. Bitter. “Well congrats. I’m doomed.”
She didn’t deny it.
We sat in silence for a while.
The kind of silence that has teeth. That digs in under your ribs and pulls at all the rot you try to bury.
I’d spent years holding myself together with duct tape and duty.
Did everything right. Played by the book. Earned the badge. Cleaned the blood off the streets.
But Alex Donovan was the kind of storm you didn’t see coming until your house was already on fire.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want to put her out.
“When I was ten,” I said suddenly, “I saw a man beat his wife unconscious in the street. Broad daylight. Right in front of the bakery.”
Alex didn’t respond. Just waited.
“I called 911,” I said. “Thought I was a f*****g hero. They took him in.”
Alex’s jaw flexed.
“I became a cop because I thought I could stop that from happening again.”
She turned to me, eyes unreadable. “You still think that?”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “My mom used to hide a knife in the tank of the toilet. For emergencies.”
“Did she ever use it?”
“No,” she whispered. “But I did.”
Fuck.
There it was.
That crack in her armor.
Tiny. Jagged. Beautiful.
Not because it made her vulnerable—
but because she still sat here with steel in her spine, despite it.
She turned her face toward the stars. The moonlight kissed the scar near her jaw, the one that curved like a question mark.
I didn’t ask about it.
I didn’t need to.
“I can’t be your safe place, Alex,” I said. “I’m too f*****g wrecked myself.”
She looked at me, not soft, not angry—just real.
“Good,” she said. “Because I don’t need safe. I need honest.”
“I don’t think you know what you need.”
She smirked. “And you do?”
“No,” I said. “But I know what I want.”
That finally got her attention.
She leaned in a little, like she was daring me to say it. Daring me to mean it.
I leaned in too.
Close enough to feel her breath. To smell her skin. That mix of leather, gasoline, and danger.
“I want you,” I said. “But I want all of you. Not just the part that kisses me in the dark to feel numb.”
Her expression shifted. Almost imperceptible.
Like something fragile flickered behind her eyes—then vanished.
“You don’t want all of me,” she said softly.
“Try me.”
She didn’t kiss me.
Didn’t move.
But she didn’t leave, either.
And somehow, that felt like more than a win.
It felt like trust.
Tiny. Fractured. Dangerous.
But real.
The stars shimmered overhead. The city pulsed below.
And somewhere in between, I let go of everything I thought I was supposed to be.
Because sometimes, the line between duty and desire blurred.
And sometimes, the girl with the broken knuckles and a knife in her waistband was the only one who made you feel whole.
- Writer
