CHAPTER TWO
THE KISS THAT brOKE EVERYTHING
Elise
Two years ago. December.
The bonfire throws sparks into the winter sky like tiny dying stars.
I’m nineteen and consumed by desire. I have been for three years, if I’m being honest with myself. Which I try not to be.
Grant Wilder has been a constant in my life since I was sixteen. Teddy’s best friend. The guy who slept over on weekends and played video games with my brother.
He’s been a lot of things.
The guy I’m in love with wasn’t supposed to be one of them.
“You’re staring.” His voice cuts through my thoughts.
I’m sitting on a log at the edge of Teddy’s Christmas party, nursing a beer that’s gone warm in my hands. Grant drops down next to me, close enough that I can smell him—cedar and some woodsy cologne.
“I’m observing,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Sure there is.” He takes a drink from the bottle of bourbon he’s carrying but doesn’t offer it to me. He just stares at the fire like it holds answers.
He’s different tonight. He has been different for months, actually. Since Mason died.
I don’t know what to say about that. About the fact that his identical twin is gone while Grant walks around like a ghost of himself. So I don’t say anything.
We sit in silence. The party noise fades behind us—Teddy’s drunken laugh, someone’s terrible playlist, the sounds of people who aren’t carrying the weight of dead brothers and unspoken feelings.
“You ever think about running away?” Grant’s voice is rough. He still hasn’t looked at me.
“From what?”
“Everything.” He takes another drink. “Just… getting in a car and driving until you run out of gas.”
My heart clenches painfully in my chest. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
He finally turns to look at me. His eyes are ice-blue even in the firelight, red-rimmed and exhausted.
“You’re too smart for that, though.” He says it like an accusation. “You’ve got your whole life mapped out. Pre-med. Then medical school. Saving the world one patient at a time.”
“Someone’s gotta do it.”
“Why you?”
“Why not me?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost forming a smile. “Stubborn.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
This time he does smile. It’s small and broken, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Then he hands me the bourbon.
I take a drink. It burns going down, warm and reckless. I hand it back, and our fingers brush. The contact lasts half a second, but my skin lights up where we touched.
He notices. I see it in the way his eyes drop to my hand, then back to my face.
“Elise—”
“Don’t.” I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I know I can’t hear it. I can’t hear another person tell me I’m too young, too naive, or too much.
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” He shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. “It matters.”
My pulse is hammering. “Grant—”
“I think about you.” The words come out quiet. Raw. “More than I should.”
The world tilts.
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s longer than usual, like he’s been too tired to cut it. “I shouldn’t. You’re Teddy’s little sister. You’re nineteen. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and I’m—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I’m a fucking mess.”
“You’re grieving.”
“I’m broken.”
“You’re human.”
He looks at me then. Really looks, as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
“When did you get so smart?”
“I’ve always been smart. You just never paid attention.”
“That’s not true.” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “I’ve been paying attention.”
My breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The air between us is electric, charged with two years of unspoken want and tonight’s bourbon-soaked honesty.
“I’ve wanted to do something for three years,” I hear myself say—brave or stupid, or both.
“What’s that?”
Instead of answering, I lean in and kiss him.
For one terrible second, he doesn’t move. He just sits there frozen while my heart tries to climb out of my chest.
Then his hand slides into my hair, and he kisses me back.
It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s desperate and hungry, tasting like bourbon, recklessness, and hope. His other hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up, and I open for him with a sound that’s embarrassingly needy.
He makes a noise low in his throat and pulls me closer. I end up half in his lap, my hands fisted in his jacket, kissing him like he’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and his eyes are closed.
“I’ve wanted to do that for three years,” I whisper against his mouth.
His eyes open. They’re no longer ice; they’re molten.
“Three years?”
“Give or take.”
“Elise—”
I kiss him again before he can overthink it, before he can talk himself out of this, before reality comes crashing back.
This time, when we pull apart, he’s smiling. Really smiling. It transforms his face, making him look younger, lighter.
“We should probably go back.” But he doesn’t move. Neither do I.
“Probably.”
“Teddy’s going to wonder where we went.”
“Let him wonder.”
He laughs. The sound is rusty, as if he hasn’t used it in months. “You’re trouble, Hart.”
“You have no idea, Wilder.”
He kisses me one more time—soft, almost tender.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
Tomorrow feels like a promise, like the beginning of everything.
Present day. September.
Tomorrow never came.
I’m unpacking in my new room, trying not to think about that night—and failing spectacularly.
My hands shake as I hang my grandmother’s photo on the wall. She was the only family member who never looked at me like I was a disappointment, the only one who believed I could be more than my mother’s resentment and my father’s absence.
She died last year. I didn’t tell Grant. Didn’t tell him anything.
Because Grant Wilder went back to Crestmont after that Christmas break and proceeded to act like that kiss never happened. No texts. No calls. Radio silence for two years while I watched him date half the eastern seaboard through Instagram posts I told myself I didn’t look at.
Spoiler: I looked.
A knock on my doorframe makes me jump.
Grant leans against it, arms crossed, still shirtless. Apparently, that’s just how he lives now.
“Settling in?” His tone is carefully neutral.
“What do you want?” I don’t turn around. I just keep unpacking as my heart tries to break my ribs.
“We should establish some ground rules,” he says.
“The university already did that.”
“I mean between us.”
Now I turn and look at him dead-on. “What’s there to establish? We’re roommates. That’s it.”
His jaw ticks. “Right.”
“Unless you have some other interpretation of our relationship I’m not aware of.”
The words land as I intend. I see him flinch. It’s small, but I catch it.
“This doesn’t have to be awkward,” he says.
I laugh, unable to help it. The sound is sharp and bitter, and I watch it hit him.
“Awkward? You think this is awkward?” I grab a stack of textbooks and slam them onto my desk harder than necessary.
“You kissed me two years ago, Grant. You kissed me like I was the answer to every question you’d ever asked.
Then you ghosted me for twenty-four months.
So yeah, it’s a little fucking awkward.”
His expression shutters and goes cold. “That kiss was a mistake.”
The words shouldn’t hurt. I knew they were coming. I’ve known for two years.
They gut me anyway.
“Got it.” My voice comes out steady, and I’m proud of that. “Mistake. Noted.”
“Elise—”
“Are we done here? I have unpacking to do.”
He doesn’t move. He just stands there, looking at me with those ice-blue eyes—the same eyes that looked at me next to that bonfire like I was something precious.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says finally.
“Yeah, you made that clear.”
“This is my house.”
“And? You want me to leave? Take it up with housing.” I turn back to my boxes, dismissing him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I hear him move. For a second, I think he’s leaving. Then his voice comes from right behind me.
“You should have picked a different school.”
I spin around. He’s close—too close. I can smell him, and it’s not fair that he still smells the same.
“I picked the best program. The best opportunity for my future.” I meet his eyes and don’t back down. “I didn’t choose it to torture you, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything.”
“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second. But I catch it.
My pulse spikes.
“Stay out of my way,” he says. “I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Perfect plan.”
“Perfect.”
Neither of us moves.
The air between us is charged, electric—like two years dissolved, and we’re back at that bonfire with bourbon, hope, and terrible timing.
Then Jordie appears in my doorway, all golden energy and zero sense of timing.
“Hey, I was thinking we could order pizza—” He stops mid-sentence, looking between me and Grant. “Uh. Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Grant and I say at the same time.
Jordie grins. “Are you sure?”
He steps into my room, and that’s when I see it—hanging from his finger: a pair of my underwear—black lace, one of the nicer pairs I own—that must have fallen out of my suitcase.
My face goes hot.
“These were in the hallway.” Jordie holds them up like a trophy, his grin widening. “Cute.”
“Give me those.” I lunge for them, but he’s an athlete and holds them out of reach, laughing.
Grant’s expression darkens—dangerous.
“Dickson.” His voice is low, lethal. “Put them down.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful—”
“Now.”
Something in Grant’s tone makes Jordie’s smile falter. He tosses the underwear to me. I catch them and shove them into my suitcase with as much dignity as I can
manage, which is none.
“Listen up.” Grant’s voice cuts through the room. “Both of you. We’re not fucking our roommates. This isn’t that house. We’re not doing this.”
The words hit like a slap.
Jordie raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, Dad. I was just returning her—”
“I don’t care.” Grant’s eyes are ice. “Stay out of her room. Stay out of her business. We live together. That’s it.”
My temper flares—hot and fast.
“Excuse me?” I step closer to Grant. “You don’t get to make rules about who I do or don’t fuck.”
His jaw ticks. “That’s not what I—”
“No, I heard you pretty clearly.” I cross my arms. “You’re not interested? Great. Noted. But that doesn’t mean you get to cockblock the rest of the house.”
Jordie makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh.
Grant’s eyes flash. “I’m trying to keep things from getting complicated.”
“Too late.” I don’t back down, don’t look away. “You made this complicated two years ago.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
Jordie clears his throat. “So, uh, pizza? Or the aforementioned fucking? I’m really down for either.” He grins, those dimples cute and completely dangerous.
“I can fuck whoever I want,” I say, still looking at Grant. “Whenever I want. You don’t get a vote.”
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes. His voice drops lower. “You want to fuck Jordie? Go ahead. But don’t come crying to me when it gets messy.”
“Wasn’t planning on coming to you for anything.”
The words land exactly how I want them to. I watch Grant’s composure crack—just for a second.
Jordie is watching us like it’s a tennis match, and then that golden retriever smile comes back full force.
“I like her.” He looks at Grant. “Sorry, man. I really like her.”
“Jordie—” Grant’s voice sounds like a warning.
“What? You just said you’re not interested.” Jordie shrugs. “So that means she’s fair game, right?”
Grant’s hand curls into a fist. “Get out.”
“Both of us, or—?”
“Out.”
Jordie winks at me before he leaves. An actual wink. Like this is all some game and he’s already winning.
Then it’s just me and Grant again.
“You don’t get to do this,” I say quietly. “You don’t get to ghost me for two years and then show up acting like you have any say in my life.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He moves before I can react, closing the distance between us in two strides. He’s so close now that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
“You want to know why I left?” His voice is rough. Raw. “Why I never called?”
“I’m not sure I care anymore.”
“Liar.”
My breath catches. “Fuck you.”
“You want to.” He says it so quietly I almost miss it. “You still want to.”
“Your ego is astounding.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t. We both know it.
His eyes drop to my mouth again, and this time he doesn’t look away.
“This is a bad idea,” he says.
“What is?”
“You. Me. Living three feet away from each other.”
“Then move out.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I guess we’re both stuck.”
He lifts his hand. For one terrible second, I think he’s going to touch me. My heart hammers against my ribs.
Then he drops it and steps back.
“Stay away from Jordie,” he says.
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll make his life hell.”
“That’s not very captain-like of you.”
His smile is sharp, bitter. “Never said I was a good captain.”
Then he’s gone. Really gone this time.
I sink onto my bed, my entire body shaking.
What the hell just happened?
I spent two years wondering what I did wrong—what I said, what I felt, why I wasn’t enough.
Turns out it was simpler than that.
I was just a mistake.
My phone buzzes. A text from my lab partner at my old school.
Sarah: Missing you already. Crestmont better be worth it.
I stare at the message.
Worth it.
Worth leaving behind friends, familiarity, and a life that made sense.
Worth living next to a guy who kissed me like salvation and then spent two years pretending I didn’t exist.
I type back a lie.
Me: Already love it here. Best decision ever.
The thing about lies is that they’re easier when no one can see your face.
I set my phone down and look at the wall separating my room from Grant’s.
Through it, I can hear him moving around, the sharp sound of something hitting the floor.
I grab my laptop and pull up my schedule for tomorrow: advanced anatomy at eight AM, followed by organic chemistry, then research lab orientation.
I came here for Johns Hopkins. For my future. For the chance to be more than the girl whose mother resents her and whose father left.
Grant Wilder can think I’m a mistake all he wants.
I’m going to prove I’m the best decision I ever made.