CHAPTER TEN
THE FIRST CRACK
Elise
It’s eleven PM, and I’m surrounded by anatomy textbooks, highlighters in every color, and the crushing weight of medical school applications.
This is what I do. When things get complicated, I study. When my life feels out of control, I control what I can. Right now, that’s mastering the intricate pathways of the human nervous system.
Fitting, considering mine is currently short-circuiting.
I’ve built a fortress on the living room couch: laptop, notes, textbooks arranged in careful stacks. My third coffee sits within reach, gone cold an hour ago, but I keep drinking it anyway.
The house is quiet. Jordie’s at some party. Wyatt’s been in his room since dinner, lights blazing under his door.
Grant’s been gone since six. Date night, apparently. Some girl from his extensive rotation.
I’m not thinking about it.
Except I am. Obviously. Because I’m human and petty and apparently a masochist.
The front door opens.
I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on my textbook like the vagus nerve is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever read about.
Footsteps. Then silence.
I can feel him looking at me. Grant.
“You’re in my spot.” His voice is flat, carefully neutral.
Now I look up.
He’s standing in the doorway. Dark jeans, black henley that fits too well. Hair slightly messed, like someone ran their fingers through it. Cologne I can smell from here—cedar and something expensive.
My stomach does something stupid.
“Then sit somewhere else, Captain.”
I go back to my notes. Highlight a passage I’ve already highlighted. My hand is steady even though my pulse isn’t.
He could leave. Should leave. Go upstairs to his room and leave me alone with my cranial nerves and wounded pride.
He sits down across from me instead.
I can smell him properly now. I can see the way his jaw is tight. The way his ice-blue eyes are fixed on me like I’m a problem he’s trying to solve.
Two can play this game.
I keep studying. Turn a page. Make a note. Pretend he’s not there even though every nerve ending I’ve been studying is currently firing.
The silence stretches. Thick. Loaded.
I’m aware of everything: the sound of his breathing, the way he shifts in his seat, the heat radiating off him across the small space.
Neither of us speaks. Neither of us leaves.
This is insane. We’re grown adults sitting in silence like we’re in some kind of standoff. Like whoever speaks first loses.
I’m not losing.
I reach for my coffee. Take a sip. It’s disgusting now, but I don’t care. I’m making a point.
“You always study this late?” His voice cuts through the quiet. Rough, like he hasn’t used it much tonight. Maybe he and his date didn’t do much talking.
I look up. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“You always come home this early from your dates?”
The emphasis on the last word is sharp. Deliberate.
His jaw ticks. That muscle jumping like it does when he’s pissed.
“They’re not dates.”
“Right. What do you call them then?” I set my mug down. Meet his eyes head-on. “Booty calls? Hookups? Random girls you use to avoid dealing with your feelings?”
“Careful, Hart.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll leave.”
“So leave.”
He doesn’t move. Just stares at me with those eyes that see too much.
“What do you want from me?” His voice is low now. Dangerous.
“Nothing. I want nothing from you.”
“Liar.”
The word hits like a slap.
“Fuck you, Grant.”
“You want to.” He says it so quietly I almost miss it. “You still want to.”
My face goes hot. “Your ego is astounding.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t. We both know it.
He stands abruptly. The movement is predatory. Purposeful.
Then he’s on my side of the coffee table, towering over me. Looking down with an expression that’s half fury, half something else entirely.
He lifts his hand. For one terrible second, I think he’s going to touch me. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it hurts.
His phone buzzes.
He doesn’t reach for it. Just keeps looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
It buzzes again.
“Your date’s calling,” I say. My voice sounds wrong. Too breathless.
“Not my date.”
“Right. Your distraction.”
“Yeah.” His voice drops even lower. “My distraction.”
“From what?”
He leans down. One hand braces on the couch beside my head. The other on the armrest. Caging me in.
I should push him away. Should tell him to back off.
I don’t move.
“From you.”
The confession lands like a bomb.
“Grant—”
“Two years.” His eyes search my face. Desperate. Hungry. “I’ve spent two years trying to forget that kiss. Trying to convince myself it didn’t mean anything. That you didn’t mean anything.”
“Did it work?”
“What do you think?”
My breath catches. “I think you’re very good at lying to yourself.”
“Yeah. I am.” He’s so close now I can count his eyelashes. Can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. “But I’m tired of it.”
“Then stop.”
“If I stop, I’m going to do something we both regret.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.”
He kisses me.
It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s desperate and angry and two years of want crashing together.
His mouth is hard against mine. Demanding. Taking.
I should push him away. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I open for him.
He makes a sound low in his throat. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back. Angling me how he wants me.
I kiss him back just as hard. Two years of hurt pouring into it. Two years of watching him pretend I don’t exist.
His tongue touches mine, and I whimper.
The sound seems to snap something in him. He deepens the kiss. His other hand finds my waist. Grips.
This is what I wanted. What I’ve been wanting since that bonfire. Since before that, probably.
His phone buzzes again.
He ignores it.
Kisses me harder. Like he’s trying to brand himself onto me. Like he’s trying to make up for two years in two minutes.
My hands find his shirt. Fist in the fabric. Pull him closer even though there’s no space left between us.
His phone won’t stop buzzing.
Reality crashes back.
He jerks away like I burned him. Like my touch is poison.
We’re both breathing hard. His lips are swollen. His eyes wild.
“Fuck.” His voice is wrecked. “This was a mistake.”
The words hit like ice water.
“A mistake.” I repeat it. Flat. Empty.
“Yeah.”
“Like last time.”
“Elise—”
“Get out.”
“Listen—”
“Get. Out.” My voice shakes, but I keep it steady. “Go answer your phone. Go back to your distractions. Go do whatever you need to do to forget this happened.”
“That’s not—”
“I said get out, Grant.”
He stands there for one more second, looking at me like he wants to say something. Like there are words trapped behind his teeth.
Then he leaves.
Takes the stairs two at a time. His door slams hard enough to rattle the walls.
I sit there, shaking.
My lips are swollen. I can still taste him. Cedar and mint and regret.
Two years ago, he kissed me and called it a mistake.
Tonight he did it again.
I’m the common denominator. The mistake he keeps making.
My phone lights up. Text from Sarah.
Sarah: How’s the war going?
I stare at the message.
Me: I think I just lost a major battle.
Sarah: Want to talk about it?
Me: Not really. Want to get drunk and forget it happened.
Sarah: Rain check for when you’re home for break?
Me: Deal.
I set my phone down. Look at my textbooks. My careful notes. My fortress of knowledge that did nothing to protect me.
The nervous system, I read earlier, is responsible for sending signals throughout the body. For coordinating voluntary and involuntary actions.
Mine is currently screaming.
Every nerve on fire. Every synapse misfiring.
Because Grant Wilder kissed me like he was drowning.
Then ran like I was the one pulling him under.
I gather my stuff. Head upstairs. Lock my door.
Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Try to scrub away the taste of him.
It doesn’t work.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Through the wall, I can hear Grant pacing. Hear something hit the floor. Hear his frustrated groan.
Good. Let him be frustrated. Let him pace holes in his floor.
Let him regret it.
Because I’m done being his mistake.
I’m done being the girl he wants when he’s lonely and runs from when reality hits.
Tomorrow, I’ll be fine. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to ignoring him.
Tonight, I let myself feel it. The hurt. The anger. The bone-deep exhaustion of wanting someone who keeps pushing you away.
Just more questions. More confusion. More proof that Grant Wilder will always choose running over staying.
And I’ll always be the one left behind.
Wondering what I did wrong.
Wondering if I’ll ever be worth staying for.