Chapter Ten Dylan
It happens at 2:17 a.m.
I know the exact minute because I’m still awake—sitting in the dark, staring at the ceiling like the answers to every problem I’ve ever had might be spelled in the plaster. Connor would say I’m losing my edge. Olivia would say I’m finally getting soft.
I don’t know what Sunny would say.
Maybe that I’m a coward.
The hallway is silent, but then—a sound slices through it.
A whimper. Short. Sharp. Choked.
I’m already on my feet before thought catches up. Before I remember boundaries. Before I remember rules.
Her door is cracked open. Moonlight spills across rumpled sheets—and Sunny is curled in the center of the bed, trembling. Breath caught in her throat. Hands fisted at her chest like she’s holding invisible shards.
“Sunny.” I say her name low, rough.
She doesn’t wake.
Whatever she’s seeing—she’s trapped in it.
I move closer. Sit on the edge of the bed. My hand hovers—hesitating. Touch matters. Touch changes things.
But she’s shaking.
I press my palm to her shoulder.
Her body jerks—and her eyes fly open.
Terror. Raw. Immediate. Directed at whatever monster her mind still believes is in the room.
“Hey,” I murmur. “It’s me.”
Her gaze finds me—and relief hits her so hard she folds forward, forehead brushing my chest. Not a hug. Not even a choice. Just instinct—seeking safety like oxygen.
My hand lifts to her hair before I can stop myself.
“You’re safe,” I say—and for once, I mean it like a vow, not a promise.
She exhales slow, shaky. “I—I heard him.”
Trevor. His ghost. His voice, embedded in her bones.
Anger rips through me—violent, cold.
“You’re not there anymore,” I say. “You’re here. With me.”
Her hand twists gently in my shirt—like she’s testing the fabric just to be sure it’s real.
“Why do you care this much?” she whispers.
Because I can’t stop. Because I’ve never cared about anyone like this. Because the thought of losing you feels like a loaded gun pointed at my ribs.
Instead—I say:
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
A long silence stretches, thin and breakable.
Then—soft, like a dare:
“Stay.”
I freeze.
She looks up at me—eyes wide, vulnerable, pleading without words.
A storm brews low in my stomach.
“Sunny…” I try to warn.
But she shakes her head. “I’m not asking for anything. I just—can you sit here until I fall asleep?”
That should be easy. Non-threatening. But nothing about this is easy.
I stay.
Minutes pass. Her breathing slows. Her shoulders loosen.
But she doesn’t fall asleep.
Instead—she whispers:
“Do you ever think about that moment?”
I blink. “What moment.”
She looks at me—really looks—and I know.
The almost-kiss. Her brother’s graduation party. Her little black dress. The night I almost lost control.
“Yes,” I admit.
She inhales sharply. “I think about it too.”
The room tilts. Time bends. I’m inches from the one thing I’ve been trying not to want.
“Sunny,” I say softly. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
Her reply is a wildfire in four words:
“Maybe I do now.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her hand sliding up my arm. Maybe it’s my breath catching. Maybe it’s gravity.
But suddenly—we are not two people. We are one breath.
Her lips part. My body answers.
Our mouths meet—slow at first, then not slow at all.
It’s not a kiss—It’s a collision. Years of restraint breaking like glass.
Her fingers tangle in my hair. I pull her closer—too close—close enough that the world falls away.
When I press her back into the mattress—her sigh wrecks me.
The need—the hunger—the pulse—
It’s all consuming.
Her palm glided up the bare skin of my forearm—feather-light, exploratory, nails grazing faintly.
I inhaled loud enough to fill the hush.
My knees hit the mattress; her breath fanned across my lips tasting faintly of the peppermint tea she loved.
Then I kissed her and I dove headfirst into heat, mint, and the small, surprised sound she made when my tongue swept against hers.
I tasted the gasp she couldn’t contain and needed more.
My hand slid to the small of her back, fingers spreading across the thin cotton barrier, hauling her flush to my chest.
She exhaled—a fragile, trembling sigh.
Everything male, starving, and reckless in me roared to life.
I wanted to consume that sound, own it, learn every pitch her throat could make.
Her thighs parted instinctively, cradling me, and even through layers of fabric the heat of her threatened the last tether I had on sanity.
We moved together—testing, rolling—our heartbeats hammering in sync.
An involuntary growl vibrated from me into her mouth. Need twisted, coiling hot and heavy in my gut, urging me to grind closer, harder. I felt her answering arch, the soft give of her body molding to mine, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe.
I tear myself away like ripping skin.
Breathless. Shaking. Cursing myself.
“We can’t,” I rasp.
Sunny sits up—hair wild, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wounded.
“Why?” she whispers.
Because you’re too good. Because I’ll ruin you. Because I’ve already crossed a line I can’t uncross.
But all I say is:
“Because once I start—there won’t be a way back.”
Her breath stutters.
Silence. Thick. Cut with everything we didn’t say.
Then she nods—small. Slow. Like she understands and also like I just broke her.
I stand. Every instinct screaming to return to her. To finish. To claim.
But instead—I walk to the door.
Just before I leave—
Her voice, soft, gutting:
“Does this end tomorrow? When the world stops watching?”
I turn. Meet her eyes. Let her see the truth—even if it destroys us both.
“No,” I say quietly. “It ends when I say it ends.”
Morning light filters through curtains as my phone vibrates—an alert flashing across the lock screen.
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And just like that—the world tries to take her apart.