Chapter 2
978 Words
The morning sun filtered through the blinds, painting pale gold stripes across my chest. But I wasn't paying attention to the light.
I was watching her.
Through the open kitchen archway, Arielle stood barefoot in one of Mom's oversized T-shirts—legs bare, mug in hand, face turned toward the backyard like she belonged here.
She didn't.
She was a guest.
Temporary.
But the coffee she held should've been mine. The way she leaned against the counter like she owned the place? That should've been mine too.
She should've been mine.
"Morning," I said, walking in slowly, shirtless again. Purposefully.
Her body stiffened before she turned around. Eyes scanned me—briefly. Not as long as yesterday.
"Morning, Jace." She took a sip, clearing her throat. "Didn't know you were up."
"I never really sleep well when someone new's in the house."
She gave me a look. Half amusement, half warning. "I'm not a stranger."
"You were gone long enough to be."
Her gaze faltered. I took the opportunity to get closer. The room felt smaller. Or maybe it was just the tension she tried to ignore but couldn't quite hide.
"You always this grumpy in the morning?" she asked, trying to smile.
I shrugged. "You always this distracting?"
Her lips parted slightly. She looked away—into her mug, like it had answers. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Flirt."
I leaned against the counter, close enough to smell the vanilla in her shampoo. "Who says I'm flirting?"
She looked up, narrowed her eyes. "You're nineteen."
"Good memory."
"I'm almost forty."
"I like older women."
"That's not something to be proud of."
"Why not? You're beautiful."
She flinched, setting the mug down a little too fast. "Stop."
"No."
Her breath caught.
And for a second, she didn't move. Just stared at me like she was trying to decide whether to slap me or kiss me.
I would've welcomed either.
"Do you always say exactly what you're thinking?" she asked quietly.
"Only when it's about you."
She shook her head and backed away, grabbing her mug. "Your mom's getting groceries. Maybe you should go help."
"I'd rather stay here."
"Well, I'd rather you didn't."
That stung. A little.
But then again, she said it too quickly. Too defensively. Like she was protecting herself—not pushing me away.
I watched her walk off, hips swaying beneath that oversized shirt. Her legs bare. Skin soft.
And I knew something she didn't.
She could run.
She could lie.
She could lock her door every damn night.
But it wouldn't change the fact that I saw her.
And I wasn't going anywhere.
⸻
That evening, the storm rolled in—fast and loud.
Thunder rattled the windows. Rain poured hard against the glass like fists. The power flickered once, then again.
Mom was still out. Work dinner.
And Arielle was in the guesthouse.
Alone.
I waited until the sky cracked and went dark for a second before I knocked on her door.
She opened it slowly, bathed in candlelight, her robe drawn tight around her body. Hair loose. Face bare.
"Jace, what—"
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're scared."
She hesitated. "A little. Just... the storm."
I stepped in without asking.
She didn't stop me.
The guesthouse smelled like her. Lavender, honey, and something warm underneath. The robe shifted as she moved, revealing a sliver of thigh, a soft line of cleavage.
"You shouldn't be here," she said softly.
"I know."
I didn't leave.
She stood by the small table, hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the candle. Her fingers brushed the flame, and she flinched.
I moved before I could think—grabbing her wrist, checking for a burn. Her skin was warm, soft beneath mine.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
"You always say that."
We were close again. Too close. The air between us was thick with heat, silence, and something darker.
Want.
Need.
Hunger.
Her eyes met mine, wide and unsure. "This is wrong."
"Doesn't feel wrong."
"We can't."
"But you want to."
She didn't answer. Didn't deny it.
Instead, she stepped back, pulling her hand away.
"I need you to leave," she said. But her voice cracked.
I walked toward her.
"You don't mean that."
Her back hit the wall. The candle flickered behind me. Shadows danced between us like witnesses.
"I'm your mom's best friend, Jace."
"And I don't care."
"I'm too old for you."
"I've had girls. I've kissed girls. But no one's ever made me feel like you do."
Her breath came faster now.
"I dream about you," I whispered, voice low, heated. "I think about you in the shower. In bed. Every night."
Her eyes fluttered shut.
"And if you tell me you haven't thought about me too," I added, "I'll walk out this door and never say another word."
Silence.
Her breathing broke the air.
The rain pounding on the roof above us.
The soft click of her throat as she swallowed hard.
Then her eyes opened—and they weren't unsure anymore.
She pulled me forward by the front of my shirt, lips almost brushing mine.
"You don't know what you're doing," she whispered.
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
I kissed her.
Hard.
Hungry.
Like I'd waited years for this exact moment—and maybe I had.
Her hands fisted in my hair. Mine gripped her waist, pulled her closer until there was no space left between us. She moaned into my mouth—low, soft, desperate—and I nearly lost control.
But she pulled away first, gasping.
"I can't—"
"You already did."
She pushed me back, trembling. Her chest rising and falling. Her lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed.
"I need you to go," she whispered, broken.
I stared at her for a moment. Then nodded once. Just once.
But I said what she already knew:
"This isn't over."
- Writer
