Never Supposed to Want You

I knew it was a mistake the second I saw Hunter Caine standing in my doorway. Not because he didn’t belong there. Because he always had. He looked the same—older, maybe, broader through the shoulders—but unmistakably him. My brother’s best friend. The boy who grew up in our house. The man who learned all the exits and still somehow found his way back to me. His eyes met mine, and something unspoken passed between us—quick and dangerous. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I said, even though my body hadn’t caught up to the words. Hunter’s gaze dropped for half a second. Not to the floor. To my mouth. Just like before. “Gabe said you’d be home,” he replied. His voice was steady, but I knew better now. “Didn’t say you’d look at me like that.” I folded my arms, more reflex than defense. “Like what?” Like I remember the night you almost kissed me. Like I remember how close we came. Like I never forgot. He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click that made my pulse jump. The house felt smaller instantly—too full of memory. “You shouldn’t look at me like this,” I said. Hunter let out a breath, slow and controlled. “You could make me leave.” I hated that he was right. The silence between us thickened, stretching tight and fragile. I could still picture it—him in the hallway years ago, drunk and wavering, eyes dark as he took me in like he hadn’t meant to. The night he leaned in and stopped himself at the last second. The night everything changed, even though nothing happened. “You stayed away,” I said quietly. “After that night.” His jaw tightened. “Because I had to.” “Or because you wanted to pretend it didn’t matter.” His eyes snapped back to mine. “It mattered.” The word landed heavy. He moved closer—not rushing, not touching—but close enough that I had to tilt my head up to look at him, just like I always did. Six-foot-two to my five-five. Too familiar. Too dangerous. “You don’t get to come back now,” I said, my voice betraying me, “and look at me like you almost did it again.” Hunter’s hand lifted, stopping just short of my waist. He didn’t touch me. That restraint was worse than any contact. “I think about that night more than I should,” he admitted, low. “About how close I came to ruining everything.” My breath hitched. “And?” His eyes dropped—again—to my mouth. “And about how stopping didn’t stop anything.” The air between us felt charged, like it might break if either of us breathed too hard. “This ends badly,” I said. He leaned in just enough that I felt his presence everywhere. “Then tell me to leave.” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Hunter’s expression shifted—recognition, regret, and something darker underneath. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Same as before.” He straightened, taking a step back, but his eyes never left mine. “Violet,” he said softly, like a warning. Like a plea. I didn’t answer. He turned away first. And I hated that some part of me still thought— Not today. But soon.