Chapter 7 Haunted House Dare #2
“You're doing great,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.
“Shut up.”
“I'm serious. You haven't screamed yet.”
“The night's not over.”
“True.”
Another corridor. Even narrower than the last. We had to turn sideways to fit, and suddenly we were chest to chest, pressed together in the tight space. I could feel his heart pounding—fast and erratic—and my own pulse kicked up in response.
His breath was warm against my collarbone. His body was solid against mine. Every inch of him pressed against every inch of me.
“Derek.” His voice was rough, breathless.
“Yeah?”
“If you make fun of me for this, I swear to God—”
“I'm not making fun of you.”
He looked up at me. In the flickering light, I could see the flush on his cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly as he tried to catch his breath.
We were so close. Close enough that I could count the freckles across his nose.
Close enough to see the exact moment his pupils dilated. Close enough to kiss him.
God, I wanted to kiss him.
Wanted to press him back against the wall and swallow that little gasp he'd made. Wanted to feel what that sharp mouth of his tasted like. Wanted to find out if he kissed the way he argued—all fire and teeth and barely controlled chaos.
“Come on,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Let's keep moving.”
We squeezed through the corridor. Every step brought us closer together. Every breath synchronized. And by the time we reached the next room, I was half-hard and trying desperately to think about anything other than the way Miles's body felt pressed against mine.
The final chamber was decorated like a crypt.
Fake coffins lined the walls, cobwebs hung from the ceiling in thick, dusty curtains, and the only light came from flickering candles that cast dancing shadows across the stone walls.
A recording of howling wind played on a loop, and somewhere in the distance, chains rattled.
Miles stopped in the center of the room, looking around, and I stopped beside him. We were alone—the rest of the haunted house behind us—and for a moment, it was just us and the flickering candlelight and the weight of everything we hadn't said.
Then the final scare hit.
Thunder crashed—loud and sudden—and all the lights went out at once. Complete darkness. Absolute. Suffocating.
Miles yelped, stumbling forward, and I caught him. My arms wrapped around his waist as he collided with my chest. He buried his face in my shoulder, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and I held him.
Held him tight.
Felt the warmth of him. The way he fit perfectly against me, like he'd been made for this. For my arms. For me.
“You're okay,” I murmured into his hair. “I've got you.”
He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just stayed there, pressed against me, his hands fisted in my shirt. His whole body trembled. His breath came hot and uneven against my neck.
And for a long, breathless moment, neither of us spoke.
I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. Could feel the way he was trying to steady his breathing, trying to pull himself together. Could feel the exact moment he realized how tightly he was holding me.
Then the lights flickered back on—dim and orange—and Miles pulled back just enough to look up at me.
His eyes were wide. His lips parted. And there was something in his expression that made my breath catch. Something that looked like want and fear and uncertainty all tangled together.
We stood there, frozen. His hands still gripping my shirt. My arms still wrapped around his waist. The air between us felt heavy, charged, like a storm waiting to break.
I could see the conflict in his eyes. The way he was fighting against whatever this was. The way he wanted to run and stay in equal measure.
And god, I wanted to close the distance. Wanted to kiss him until that scared look in his eyes turned into something else entirely. Wanted to press him back against one of those fake coffins and show him exactly what I'd been thinking about for weeks.
“I didn't realize this haunted house came with cuddling,” I said. Trying to lighten the moment. Trying to give him an out.
He glared up at me, but there was no heat in it. “Don't flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
“You're insufferable.”
“You're the one still holding onto me.”
He glanced down. Realized his hands were still fisted in my shirt. Heat flooded his cheeks—dark and beautiful—but he didn't let go.
And I didn't step back.
“Derek.” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “We should—”
A final jump scare cut him off. A guy in a werewolf mask burst through a hidden door, howling, and Miles jerked back so fast he nearly fell. I caught him again, steadying him, and he cursed—his face flushed with embarrassment and adrenaline and something darker.
“Fuck this place,” he muttered.
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
“Come on.” I grabbed his hand. Laced our fingers together without thinking. Pulled him toward the exit. “Let's get out of here before you have a heart attack.”
He didn't pull his hand away.
And I didn't let go.
We stumbled out into the cool night air, both of us breathing hard, and the sudden quiet was jarring after the chaos of the haunted house.
The festival grounds were still buzzing with activity—families wandering between booths, kids shrieking with laughter, the smell of kettle corn and cider heavy in the air.
But it all felt distant. Muted. Like we were in our own little bubble.
Miles's hand was still in mine.
Warm. Solid. Real.
I looked down at our joined hands, then up at him, and found him staring at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and for a moment I thought he might say something. Acknowledge this thing between us. Stop pretending it didn't exist.
But then he pulled his hand away. Shoved it into his pocket. And the moment shattered.
“That was ridiculous,” he said, his voice rough.
“You screamed at least three times.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was startled. There's a difference.”
“Sure there is.”
He glared at me, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips—small and reluctant and fucking beautiful. My chest tightened. God, I was in trouble. Deep, messy, inconvenient trouble.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For . . . you know.”
“Keeping you safe from the big bad skeletons?”
“Shut up.”
“Anytime.”
We stood there for a moment—the noise of the festival swirling around us—and I wanted to say something. Wanted to ask him what the hell was happening between us. Wanted to pull him close and finish what we'd almost started in that final chamber.
Wanted to kiss him until he stopped running.
But before I could, Lila appeared, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“So?” she asked, looking between us. “How was it?”
“Fine,” Miles muttered.
“He screamed,” I said at the same time.
“I did not!”
“Three times.”
“Once! And it was because someone jumped out at me!”
Lila laughed, looping her arm through Miles's. “Sounds like you lost the bet. Hope you like glitter.”
Miles groaned, and I couldn't stop grinning. But as Lila dragged him away, he glanced back at me, and for just a second, our eyes met.
And I saw it again.
That same want. That same fear. That same impossible pull.
I watched him disappear into the crowd, my hand still tingling from where he'd held it, and I knew with absolute certainty that I was falling for him.
And there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it.
The festival was winding down by the time I made my way back to my booth.
The crowds had thinned—families heading home, vendors starting to pack up. The string lights overhead cast everything in a warm, golden glow, and the air smelled like cider and woodsmoke and the faint, earthy scent of autumn.
I should have been tired. Should have been ready to call it a night.
But all I could think about was the way Miles had felt pressed against me in that haunted house. The way his hands had gripped my shirt. The way he'd looked at me in the flickering candlelight—like he was on the verge of saying something that would change everything.
I was so lost in thought that I didn't notice Jenna until she was standing right in front of me, arms crossed, grinning.
“You've got it bad,” she said.
I blinked. Refocused. “What?”
“Miles. You've got it bad for him.”
“I don't—”
“Derek.” She gave me a look. “I've known you for three years. I've seen you flirt with half the town. But I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him.”
I didn't know what to say to that.
Mostly because she was right.
“It's complicated,” I said finally.
“It always is.” She leaned against the booth, her expression softening. “But for what it's worth? I think he feels the same way.”
“You think?”
“I know. I saw the way he looked at you when you were walking out of that haunted house. Like you'd just saved his life or something.”
I laughed—the sound rough, disbelieving. “I didn't save his life. I just held his hand.”
“Same thing to someone who's scared.”
I thought about that. About the way Miles had admitted he didn't like the dark. About the way he'd trusted me enough to let me see that vulnerability. About the way he'd stayed close, even when he was terrified.
About the way his body had felt against mine—warm and solid and right.
“What do I do?” I asked quietly.
“Tell him how you feel.”
“And if he doesn't feel the same way?”
“Then at least you'll know.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But Derek? I really don't think that's going to be a problem.”
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her.
But every time I thought about telling Miles how I felt, I remembered the way he pulled away. The way he shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended nothing had happened. The way he kept running from this thing between us.
Maybe he wasn't ready.
Or maybe I wasn't.
I finished packing up the booth, my mind still racing, and by the time I locked up and headed home, the festival grounds were nearly empty. Just a few stragglers. The cleanup crew. The soft glow of jack-o'-lanterns still flickering in the darkness.
I walked slowly, savoring the cool night air, trying to clear my head.
But all I could think about was Miles.
The way he'd felt in my arms. The way his voice had sounded when he said my name. The way I was falling for him—fast and hard and completely out of control.
And I had no idea what to do about it.