Twisted Vows

CHAPTER 2

Leah

My throat tightened, and I had to look away before the emotion on my face betrayed me.

“Thank you,” I said, the words leaving my mouth more like a breath than a sentence.

Jacob didn’t answer right away.

He watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle, like he was trying to read something written beneath the surface. I shifted under his gaze, suddenly aware of how close we were, of how quiet the room had become. The rest of the house felt very far away.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured, though he didn’t move back.

“Why?” The word slipped out before I could stop it.

His jaw tightened. “Because you don’t need someone like me telling you who you are.”

The irony of it almost made me laugh. Instead, I lifted my hand.

I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just reached for him.

My fingers brushed his jaw, tentative, as if giving him time to pull away. He didn’t. His eyes closed briefly, and he leaned into my touch like it was something he’d been denying himself for too long. His breath left him in a slow exhale that felt heavy with meaning.

Not desire — relief.

His hand came up, warm and careful, cupping my cheek. The pad of his thumb traced the edge of my jaw, unhurried, reverent. The gentleness of it made my chest ache.

When his forehead rested against mine, the space between us vanished.

For a moment, I thought this was where it would end.

The thought that I should step back flickered through my mind. That this was dangerous. That Lizzie existed. That tomorrow would come whether I was ready for it or not.

I had always been good at stepping aside. At choosing the quieter path. At letting other people have what they wanted while I folded myself smaller.

I didn’t do that now.

Neither did he.

Jacob kissed me.

It was soft, hesitant, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to. The contact sent a rush of warmth through me that made my knees feel weak. I answered instinctively, my hands curling into his shirt, grounding myself in the feel of him.

The kiss deepened slowly, not urgent, not consuming — just unbearably intimate. Like we were both trying to memorize the moment before it slipped away.

When he pulled back, his forehead still pressed to mine, his breathing uneven.

“Leah,” he said quietly.

It sounded like a warning. Or maybe a plea.

I looked up at him, my heart pounding. Every sensible thought told me to stop. To say something. To step away while I still could.

I nodded instead.

I knew exactly what that nod meant.

The decision settled between us, heavy and final.

We didn’t speak as we moved through the house. The music faded behind us, laughter becoming distant echoes as we walked down dim hallways lit only by soft sconces. Jacob stayed close without touching me, as if giving me space to change my mind.

He was careful like someone who knew restraint mattered — at least tonight.

I didn’t.

When the door to my bedroom closed behind us, the sound felt impossibly loud.

Jacob stopped just inside the room. He looked at me like he was searching for something — hesitation, doubt, regret. Whatever he found there seemed to steady him.

“I mean it,” he said quietly. “What I said earlier.”

“You’re stronger than you think.”

The words lodged in my chest, breaking something open.

No one had ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not with belief.

For the first time, I almost believed it myself.

When he touched me again, it was slow. Careful. As if he understood exactly how fragile this moment was. There was no rush, no sense of taking. Every movement felt deliberate, chosen.

This wasn’t escape.

It wasn’t impulse.

It was connection — and that was what made it dangerous.

Later, the house fell silent. The party became a memory, distant and unreal. The world narrowed to the quiet room, the warmth between us.

Jacob lay beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, his breathing gradually evening out. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of him, trying to understand how everything in my life had shifted so quickly.

Even in sleep, there was something distant about him, like part of him had already begun to retreat.

This shouldn’t have happened.

The thought surfaced, quiet but persistent. Lizzie’s face flickered in my mind, followed by my parents’, by the weight of consequences I didn’t yet know how to name.

I told myself I would think about it later.

My heart ached with the depth of what we had just shared, but a small voice in my head warned me not to expect too much.

When I shifted slightly, Jacob tightened his hold instinctively, murmuring something I couldn’t make out. The tenderness of it made my throat ache.

I wanted to believe this meant something.

I wanted to believe it wasn’t just grief and proximity and a shared night of vulnerability.

But wanting had never been enough for me before.

Sleep eventually pulled me under.

When I woke, pale morning light filtered through the curtains. For one disoriented moment, I didn’t remember where I was.

Then I noticed the empty space beside me.

The bed was warm. The sheets rumpled. Jacob was gone.

My chest tightened as I sat up, clutching the covers around myself like armor. A sharp fear lodged beneath my ribs, followed by something far more dangerous.

Hope.

I’d learned too young how dangerous that feeling could be.

I scanned the room until I saw his jacket draped over the chair.

Relief and dread tangled together inside me.

Whatever had shifted between us hadn’t vanished with the dark. It lingered in the quiet air, in the warmth he’d left behind.

Waiting.