CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
· · ·
All this extra time I have without Cassian leaves me restless.
Like something’s building under my skin with nowhere to go.
I can’t sit still.
I can’t focus.
Everything feels too loud.
Too much.
And somehow — it all leads back to him.
· · ·
So I lay back in bed.
Unzip my shorts.
And let myself have him.
His laugh first. Always his laugh.
Then his voice — the low version, the one he only uses at night when it’s just us and he doesn’t have to perform anything for anyone.
The way he looked on the roof with his head tipped back and the stars reflected in his eyes.
The weight of his hand sliding between my fingers like it belonged there.
The I need you so much that he said to the dark like a secret he couldn’t keep anymore.
I let myself have all of it.
Every image I usually keep at a careful distance.
His mouth.
The way he’d looked at mine.
Our noses brushing and the whole world going still.
I know exactly what this means.
I stopped pretending otherwise two years ago.
I just don’t say it out loud.
Not even to myself.
Not in words.
I let myself get lost in it — in him — until everything else goes quiet.
Until it’s just this.
Just him.
Even if only in my head.
Even if this is the only way I ever get to have it.
A knock at my window.
I go still.
My heart stops.
Then starts again.
Too fast.
Cassian.
Of course.
I push myself up, adjust, run a hand through my hair like that’ll make me look like someone who wasn’t just —
“Sup,” I say, trying for casual.
The picture of composure.
A man completely in control of himself.
“Move over, weirdo.”
He climbs in like nothing’s changed.
Drops onto my bed, stretching out like he owns it.
Like he always has.
Like it’s his.
Like I am.
“You’ll never guess what happened today,” he says.
Something in my chest tightens.
I already don’t want to hear it.
“Abby kissed me.”
There it is.
I swallow.
Force a smile.
“Wow. That’s… great.”
He grins.
And just like that he’s off — replaying it in detail, like it was the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
I nod along.
Barely hearing him.
All I can think is —
I need you so much, Ro .
Three days ago.
My window. The dark. His voice going rough at the edges like it cost him something.
And now —
Abby.
I glance at myself in the mirror across the room.
Brown hair. Brown eyes.
I think about the way he described her.
Red hair. Green eyes. Laughing so hard she couldn’t run.
I think about the way he looked on the roof — open, warm, real — and whether she gets that version of him too.
Whether she gets the one I thought was mine.
I look away from the mirror.
· · ·
We end up lying next to each other.
Close.
Too close.
I’m so aware of the heat of him.
The way his arm is almost touching mine.
The way he breathes.
I stare at the ceiling, blinking hard, trying to hold it together.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer.
“Ro?”
“What?” It comes out harsher than I mean.
A pause.
And then —
I feel it.
His eyes on me.
Really looking.
Not like before.
Like he’s trying to figure something out.
And I know —
I know he sees it.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Jealousy.
Written all over my face the way everything always is.
I’ve never been able to hide anything from him.
He’s always loved that about me.
Right now I hate it.
My chest tightens.
I’m already bracing—expecting the loss of him.
He’s going to pull away.
He always does.
But he doesn’t.
He shifts closer instead.
And something in the way he moves — deliberate, unhurried — tells me he’s not pulling closer despite seeing it.
He’s pulling closer because of it.
Like my wanting him is the thing that draws him in.
Like he needs to know it’s still there.
That I’m still there.
Careful.
Like he’s testing something.
“Ro,” he murmurs. “You know what we have is… different.”
Different.
That word again.
Not better.
Not more.
Just — different.
“Cassian…” I start.
I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
Yes I do.
I’ve always known.
My eyes drop to his mouth before I can stop myself.
Then back up.
Then down again.
He’s so close.
He’s always been so close.
Close enough that I’ve memorized the exact shade of his eyes in low light.
Close enough that if I just breathe all I can smell is him.
It’s overwhelming all my senses.
I freeze.
Because if I move — if I say something —
I might ruin this.
Again.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His hand comes up.
Slow.
Gentle.
Brushing a strand of hair away from my face like we have all the time in the world.
Like this is allowed.
Like maybe it is.
My breath catches.
“Ro,” he says softly.
Longingly.
Like my name means something when he says it.
Like it always has.
And I realize —
I’m crying.
I didn’t even notice.
He wipes my cheek with his thumb.
Doesn’t pull his hand away after.
Just — keeps it there.
Cupped against my face.
Warm.
His eyes moving over mine like he’s trying to memorize something.
Like he knows this is temporary and can’t stop himself anyway.
Something shifts in his expression.
Not teasing.
Not distant.
Something open.
Something that looks almost like want.
He leans in.
Just slightly.
And I do too.
The space between us disappears by degrees.
Our foreheads touch.
His breath is warm against my mouth.
Too close.
The closest we’ve ever been.
So close I could taste him.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it where his hand cups my face.
I close my eyes.
His nose brushes mine.
His thumb moves slowly along my cheekbone.
Barely.
But deliberately.
Like a question.
Please .
I don’t say it.
But I feel it.
Everywhere.
I want this.
I want him.
I’ve wanted him since I was eight years old and didn’t have a word for it.
Just — once.
Let me have this just once.
He exhales.
Soft and unsteady.
Like he’s right there with me.
Like he’s just as gone as I am.
Our lips are almost — almost —
But then — he stops.
Pulls back just enough to break it.
Not far.
Just enough.
Enough to remind me.
There’s always something in the way.
“Ro,” he says quietly, like he’s steadying both of us. “You can’t look at me like that.”
My chest drops.
“I wasn’t,” I lie.
He huffs out a soft breath, shaking his head slightly.
But his hand lingers on my face.
A second.
Two.
Like he can’t quite make himself let go.
Then he does.
Rolls onto his back.
Stares at the ceiling.
Like nothing almost happened.
Like I imagined it.
I stare at the ceiling too.
Everything feels different now.
Worse.
Because now I know.
It’s not just me.
He felt it too.
He just chose her anyway.
And somehow — that makes it so much harder than if I’d imagined it.
· · ·
I wake up alone.
Again.
The bed cold.
The room quiet.
Like he was never here.
I stare at the ceiling.
Three days ago he said I need you so much and meant it.
I heard it in his voice.
And last night Abby kissed him and he came to tell me like I was his best friend.
Like I wasn’t — like we weren’t —
I press my fingers to my eyes.
I almost had something.
I keep almost having it.
And losing it before it starts.
Every single time.