Chapter 8 #2
“She hasn’t stopped talking about the festival,” he says, his voice lower now, pitched for just me to hear.
“The go-karts, the funnel cake, meeting Calvin and Maren. I think it ranks as one of the best days she’s had this year.
” He pauses, and when he looks at me there’s something unguarded in his expression.
“Maybe one of mine, too. Thanks for getting me out there. I get too locked into work sometimes.”
My pulse kicks up, but I summon the cool and casual version of myself.
The one who knows how to flirt without combusting.
“Good. I’m glad you both had fun. I did too.
” I hold his gaze. “And you’re welcome for dragging you out of your restaurant.
Luckily for you, I’m not shy about making things happen. ”
Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of intensity that makes my knees feel less solid than they should.
“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not.”
I swallow, then my mouth opens just a touch. His eyes, brown and flecked with gold, feel like they could burn me.
“Goodnight, Miss Hayes!” The voice from the doorway startles me out of whatever trance I’m in and I look past Theo to see Mrs. Wently waving cheerfully, completely oblivious to whatever just passed between us.
“Uh, good night! Thanks for coming.” I manage to sound almost normal, which feels like an achievement given the circumstances.
I turn back to Theo, whose expression has smoothed back into polite friendliness.
The moment, whatever it was, has passed.
“Well,” I say. “I should probably head out since everyone’s leaving.
” What I want to say is entirely different, but thankfully my brain-to-mouth filter is still operational.
“It’s supposed to start raining soon and I want to beat it home. I don’t have my raincoat.”
He frowns slightly. “Did you walk here?”
“Yeah, the school’s only like fifteen minutes away. I like the fresh air, and it counts as exercise, which is great since I spend most of my time hunched over my desk like a shrimp grading papers.”
“Listen,” he says, and looks like he’s briefly weighing whatever he’s about to say next, “why don’t I give you a ride? It’s on my way and the least I can do.”
Oh my god. I should start manifesting more often.
“Um, yeah, if you’re sure?” Usually I’m nothing but confident around men. Sophie once joked I could flirt my way out of a prison sentence. So why does everything come out sounding uncertain when there’s actually someone I want to impress?
“Definitely,” he says, gesturing toward the door.
I grab my bag and jacket from my desk, fumbling with the zipper before following him into the hallway.
A few parents and teachers are still lingering near the main entrance, chatting in small clusters.
I wave to Mrs. Henderson and Principal Erickson, trying to look casual.
Professional. Like I’m absolutely not leaving with Theo Midnight after curriculum night and my heart isn’t beating twice as fast as it should be.
We walk through the school without speaking, though it feels as though we could be communicating through proximity alone, through the careful distance we’re maintaining between us.
The chilly air hits the second we step outside.
It’s gotten colder while we were in there, a Pacific Northwest chill that smells like rain even though none is falling.
The parking lot is mostly empty now, just a handful of cars under the yellow glow of the streetlights.
I follow him to his Subaru, my flats making soft sounds against the pavement, and try to calm my racing thoughts.
He unlocks the car with a beep and I climb into the passenger seat.
The interior smells familiar. Maybe his detergent, maybe just him, but the scent takes me right back to driving home from the festival, Chloe asleep in the backseat, the dashboard lights casting shadows across his face.
It had felt so natural to be sitting here beside him then.
Theo gets in and starts the engine. The radio comes on low, some acoustic guitar song I vaguely recognize. He adjusts the heat and backs out of the parking spot without looking at me.
We pull onto the main road and drive in silence for a moment. I fiddle with the strap of my bag, sneaking glances at him. He looks completely at ease behind the wheel while I’m practically vibrating with nervous energy.
I clear my throat. “When you get to the top of the hill, it’ll just be a left up at the—“ I start, then immediately want to sink through the floor. “Oh, well I guess you already know that since it’s your apartment.”
He glances over, clearly amused. Maybe even charmed, if I’m lucky. “It’s alright. I appreciate the navigation.”
“Right. Good.” I nod, trying to salvage some dignity. “So, thanks again for the ride. I promise I’m not usually this unprepared for weather.”
“It’s no problem,” he says. “Really.”
The drive is over too soon. We turn onto the main street, then onto my side road, and before I’m ready he’s pulling into the small lot behind the building. The headlights sweep across the wooden stairs leading up to my door before he cuts the engine.
Silence settles over us, broken only by the tick of the cooling engine and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. I should get out. Thank him again and go inside like a normal person. Instead I’m moving slower than necessary, gathering my bag, not quite ready for this to end.
“I’ll walk you up,” he says, and it’s not a question.
My pulse spikes. “You don’t have to—“
“I know.” He’s already opening his door.
We walk to the stairs without speaking, close enough that our shoulders almost brush.
I’m acutely aware of every inch of space between us, of the way the cool air carries his scent, of how easy it would be to reach over and take his hand.
The motion-sensor light flicks on when we’re halfway up, casting everything in harsh white that makes the moment feel both more real and somehow dreamlike.
At the landing, I dig into my bag for my keys. My fingers find them immediately but I take my time pulling them out, dragging this moment as long as I can. When I turn to face him, he’s standing closer than I expected.
“Well, thanks for...” I start, giving him an opening. Trying to convey in body language alone what I’ve wanted for weeks now.
He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read—want, maybe, or intent—before hesitation takes over. He takes a small step back.
He wants to kiss me. I can see it written all over him, the war between desire and restraint. Whatever’s holding him back, it’s there in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his hands are shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t trust what they might do otherwise.
I’ve never been patient about waiting for what I want.
I close the distance between us and kiss him.
For half a heartbeat he doesn’t respond, and I have just enough time to think I’ve completely misread this—
Then his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair, and his other hand grips my waist hard enough that I feel the pressure through my dress. He pulls me flush against him and walks me backward until my shoulders hit the door.
The kiss turns into something else entirely.
His mouth slants over mine with an intensity that steals my breath, demanding in a way that lights up every nerve ending I have.
I may have started this but he’s completely taken over, one hand fisted in my hair to angle my head exactly how he wants it, the other splayed across my lower back pressing me so close there’s no space left between us.
The solid weight of him pins me to the door and I am not complaining.
I grip his shirt with both hands, and when I pull him closer he makes this low sound in his chest that vibrates through my whole body, and everything inside me tightens in response.
His thumb strokes along my jaw while his other hand slides lower, possessive and sure, and I can barely keep up with the sensations flooding through me.
He kisses like he’s been holding himself back for weeks and finally snapped.
Like every polite conversation in the school parking lot was just him restraining this exact moment.
His teeth catch my bottom lip and I make a sound that should probably embarrass me but I can’t bring myself to care because his hand has tightened in my hair and the pressure sends sparks down my spine.
My pulse is pounding everywhere, and I’m completely along for whatever this is, hoping desperately that he doesn’t stop.
Then he does.
He pulls back abruptly, taking a full step away. His breathing is harsh, uneven, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s forcing them to stay there. The sudden absence of him leaves me dizzy, cold air rushing into the space where his body was.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words come out strained. “I shouldn’t have—“
“What are you sorry for?” I’m still pressed against my door, pulse racing. “I’ve been wanting you to do that since about five minutes after I walked out of the post office that day.”
“Emma.” He rubs a hand down his face, and I watch him physically rebuild whatever control just shattered. “This is too complicated. I shouldn’t have let that happen, and it was wrong of me.”
“It’s not wrong when I want it. And you didn’t let anything happen. I kissed you first.”
“It doesn’t matter who started it.” He takes another step back, putting more distance between us like he doesn’t trust himself. “We can’t do this. You’re Chloe’s teacher. I’m ten years older than you. I’m your landlord. It’s...”
“Complicated?” I finish for him.
He lets out a sharp breath. “Yes.”
“You keep saying that word.”
“Because it’s true.” His jaw clenches, conflict written across every line of his face. He looks toward the parking lot, toward his car, anywhere but at me. “I need to go.”
And just like that, he’s taking the stairs two at a time, his footsteps heavy on the wood.
The car door slams. The engine starts. Headlights sweep across the landing where I’m still standing frozen.
Then he’s pulling away, taillights disappearing around the corner, and I’m alone with the October cold and the ghost of his mouth on mine.
I stay there another moment, body still thrumming, trying to process what just happened.
That wasn’t some sweet first kiss. That was the kind of kiss that ruins you for anything less, that makes every previous kiss feel like a disappointing preview. The kind where a man kisses you like he’s been thinking about it obsessively and finally gave in.
And that definitely wasn’t “not interested.” He wants it. He just won’t let himself have it.
I unlock my door with slightly shaking hands, step inside, close it behind me and lean against it in the dark, touching my fingers to my mouth where I can still feel the pressure of his lips.