chemistry
960 Words
Cruz:
She tilted the bottle back and drank like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
I leaned back against the bar, arms crossed over my chest, watching her.
Studying her.
The way her throat worked as she swallowed.
The slight tremble in her hand, masked by bravado.
The way her blonde hair caught the neon lights, glowing like a goddamn halo.
Most girls that walked into The Pit either wanted attention or protection. They knew what it meant to be here — in my world, in my territory.
Avery didn’t.
She stuck out like a siren among snakes — clean, bright, alive. And yet she walked into the pit like she was just grabbing a beer on her way home from work.
No fear.
No understanding either.
Just exhaustion and stubbornness and a fire in her that called to every broken part of me.
I watched her set the bottle down, swipe the back of her hand across her mouth, and head for the door without a backward glance.
Bold.
Careless.
Perfect.
Beside me, Riot leaned one hip against the bar, nursing a whiskey and shooting me a look.
"Who the hell was that?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the exit as it slammed shut behind her.
I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the door like I could still see her — could still smell the faint trace of hospital soap and roses she left in the air.
Riot chuckled low under his breath. "You finally lose your touch, Cruz? You dragged a pretty thing all the way out here and let her just walk away?"
I turned my head slowly and looked at him.
Not mad.
Not annoyed.
Just calm.
Patient.
He didn’t get it. Most people wouldn’t.
"You don’t snare every creature you find," I said, voice low and steady. "Some of them, you let believe they’re free."
Riot blinked, frowning like he was trying to work out if that was supposed to be poetic or f*****g crazy.
"You let them think they’ve still got a choice," I went on, my gaze drifting back to the door. "You let them run. Struggle. Pretend."
"And?" Riot asked.
"And by the time they realize they’re caught..." I smiled — a slow, dangerous curl of my lips. "It’s too late to run."
I picked up her empty beer bottle, turning it slowly in my hand.
The glass was still warm where her fingers had been.
That girl, I thought, feeling a slow pulse of certainty in my chest, is the second kind.
The rare kind.
The ones you don’t drag by the hair.
You lure them, gently, slowly, until they don’t even realize they’ve wandered straight into your cage.
And by the time they notice the door swinging shut behind them —
They’ll beg you to lock it.
I looked Riot dead in the eye and pointed at the door.
"That girl," I said quietly, "is coming back."
He snorted into his drink. "Yeah, good luck with that, brother. She looked about ready to sprint for her life."
"She'll be back," I said again, unfazed. "Because she wants to know why."
"Why what?"
"Why she feels it," I said simply.
He looked at me like I was speaking another language.
I didn’t explain. Didn’t need to.
I felt it the second she touched me — that quicksilver flash of recognition, hot and wild under the surface.
Like a thread had snapped taut between us, invisible but unbreakable.
She felt it too. She could lie to herself all she wanted. Pretend it was just exhaustion, adrenaline, bad choices.
Didn’t matter.
It was already done.
I didn’t need to chase Avery.
I just needed to wait.
She'd circle back.
Curious. Restless. Drawn like a moth to a flame she didn’t understand.
And when she did — when she finally stepped close enough —
I’d close the trap.
Gently.
Sweetly.
Without a single drop of mercy.
I turned the bottle in my hand again, thinking about her.
Her hands — steady, skilled, unafraid, even when digging a bullet out of my flesh.
Her mouth — quick with sarcasm, sharp enough to cut.
Her body — soft curves hidden under those blue scrubs, like a secret she didn’t even know she was telling.
Most women in my world either tried too hard or didn’t try at all.
Avery didn’t even know she was playing the game.
That was the most dangerous thing about her.
Behind me, the music in the bar shifted — some old rock song, heavy and low — and the door creaked open again.
I lifted my head automatically, pulse kicking up.
Not her.
Not yet.
Patience, Cruz.
I could be patient when it mattered.
I could wait a lifetime if it meant watching her fall, step by step, deeper into me.
Riot clapped a hand on my shoulder, rough and easy. "You’re f*****g gone, man. One beer and you’re writing poetry."
I smiled again — sharp, humorless.
"Some things are worth the hunt," I said.
He laughed and wandered off, leaving me alone at the bar.
I sat there for a long time, the weight of the night pressing down around me, the taste of her still lingering in the air.
I thought about her driving home, probably cursing herself for being stupid enough to even talk to me.
Thought about her trying to shake me off like a bad dream.
Trying to forget the pull between us.
She couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
I knew that kind of chemistry.
Knew what it did to you when you tried to fight it.
I was already under her skin.
And when the time came, when she finally stopped fighting herself and came back to me —
I’d be ready.
- Writer
