Hungry for you

Chapter Four – When He Kissed My Neck

Sleep doesn’t come easy anymore. Every time I close my eyes the café replays in my mind like a scene caught on repeat. Nate sliding into the seat beside me like it was his by right. His hand brushing mine too deliberately to be innocent, his voice curling into my ear with words sharpened like glass. Ian sitting across from me, unflinching, steady, his gaze on me like a current I couldn’t break free from. The air thick with their tension pressing in from both sides.

And then Ian’s voice, low and controlled, his eyes burning. You’re not the only one losing sleep over this.

Those words follow me into the night. They refuse to let me rest. They echo under my skin, humming in the silence.

When morning comes, I feel raw, as though every nerve has been pulled taut. I make coffee that tastes bitter, listen to music that only makes the stillness worse. My apartment feels smaller, more suffocating, haunted by too many ghosts. Eli’s silence. Nate’s warning. Ian’s eyes. My body remembers things I don’t want to admit—the warmth of Ian’s scarf still hanging on my chair, the way his sleeve brushed mine at the café, the way his gaze had pinned me, stripping me of every shield I thought I had.

My phone buzzes, slicing the quiet. My chest leaps as though it already knows who it is, though I almost hope for Eli’s name. I want him to claim me, to remind me I still belong somewhere.

But it isn’t him.

It’s Ian.

Come with me. I want to show you something.

I stare at the words, my stomach twisting. It could mean anything—his lens, a corner of the city, a play of light through clouds. But I can’t help reading more into it. Like he wants to pull me closer. Like he wants me to see a piece of him no one else does.

And worse, I want to.

I should ignore it. I should set the phone down, bury it beneath a pillow, let the moment pass. But my fingers move of their own will.

When?

Minutes later I am stepping outside, sweater pulled tight around me, scarf wound high at my throat as though cloth could shield me.

He’s there.

Not leaning against a car like some scene out of a movie. He stands steady instead, one hand shoved into his coat pocket, the other holding the strap of his camera bag. His hair is mussed, his jaw shadowed, his shoulders broad against the pale light. He doesn’t look like he tried, and that’s what makes him dangerous.

His eyes find mine instantly. The corner of his mouth curves just slightly, not a smirk, not a smile, but something private. Something that feels like it belongs only to me.

“Morning,” he says, his voice rough, low, unhurried.

“Morning,” I whisper back. My voice is thin, uneven.

The drive is filled with silence, but not empty silence. The hum of the tires blends with the weight of things neither of us dares to say. My fingers twist in the edge of the scarf he once draped over me, the one I never gave back. I catch myself glancing sideways—his hands on the wheel, steady and certain, the shape of his jaw in the light. Each time I force my gaze away, heat floods my skin.

I shouldn’t be here. I know it. And yet here I am.

The river greets us in stillness. Water moves in a steady rhythm against the banks, silver under a fractured sky. The scent of damp earth and leaves hangs in the air. Ian doesn’t hesitate. He is already crouching, camera in hand, chasing light like it is something that might disappear if he blinks.

I fold my arms around myself. “You ever get tired of looking at the world through glass?”

His head lifts, brows raised. “Through my camera?”

“Yeah.”

He studies me a beat before lowering the lens. His eyes pin mine. “The lens doesn’t lie. It sees what people try to hide.”

The words settle too deep, sharp as if they’ve cut into me. He isn’t just talking about photography. He’s talking about me.

Then he tilts his chin toward the bank. “Stand there.”

I frown. “Why?”

“I want to see you in this light.”

My pulse trips. My head screams no, but my body betrays me, carrying me forward until I’m at the edge of the bank, the cold air biting, the damp earth shifting under my shoes.

The shutter clicks. Again. Again. Each sound is patient, deliberate, tracing every line of me.

“Don’t pose,” he says quietly. “Just… be.”

But how can I be anything when his eyes are on me like that? Each click feels like an unveiling, each second a confession I never meant to make.

Then the clicking stops.

I turn. He isn’t behind the lens anymore. He’s looking at me directly. Eyes raw, unguarded, heavy with something dangerous.

Slowly, he lowers the camera. Then he moves closer. Step by step, deliberate, unhurried, until he is in front of me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him in the sharp air.

His sleeve brushes mine. My breath stutters. His hand lifts. Hesitates only a heartbeat. Then his fingers slide into my hair, curling there, gentle but firm, as if memorizing the strands. The tenderness of it shatters me.

Then his lips graze the side of my neck.

Soft. Barely there. But enough to unravel me.

Heat rushes through me so fierce I can barely stay upright. My body leans before my mind can catch up. I turn, lips parting, desperate for what I know I shouldn’t want.

But he pulls back.

The space he leaves feels unbearable. His eyes lock on mine, stormy, tortured, burning with hunger and restraint.

Shame claws at me, but desire swallows it whole.

The gulls cry overhead, pulling the world back into motion. Ian steps away, his jaw tight, gaze averted.

I wrap my arms around myself, trembling, trying to hold in the electricity still buzzing in my veins.

The drive back is suffocating. Neither of us speaks. The silence is heavy, alive with everything that almost happened.

At my door, he doesn’t ask to come in. He just lingers, staring as though carving me into memory.

Then he leaves.

I stand frozen, fingers tangled in my hair where his hand had been, skin burning where his lips touched.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. My chest leaps, stupid hope flaring as though it will be him.

It isn’t Ian.

It’s Eli.

Miss you today. Been crazy busy. Call you later?

The words should soothe me, should remind me I belong to him. He reached out. He remembered. He’s still here.

But all I can think of is the ghost of Ian’s mouth on my skin, the ache of restraint in his eyes, the way my body leaned without hesitation.

And the scariest part isn’t that I wanted him.

It’s how badly I still do.