CHAPTER SEVEN
WYATT’S WALL
Elise
Two AM, and I can’t sleep.
Again.
I’ve been staring at my ceiling for three hours, replaying Jordie’s kiss on loop—the way his rough hand felt against my skin, the way he looked at me after, like I’d given him something precious.
The way I sent him away anyway.
I need water. Or air. Or a lobotomy.
The house is dark when I pad downstairs, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the creak of old floorboards beneath my bare feet.
Then I see the light spilling from the kitchen.
Every single light, blazing like it’s the middle of the day.
Wyatt’s at the table, staring at nothing, a mug in front of him that’s probably gone cold.
He doesn’t look up when I walk in. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
I should leave. Go back upstairs. Let him have whatever midnight crisis he’s having in peace.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You’re up late.”
“Can’t sleep.” His voice is flat. Empty.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
He finally looks at me. His dark eyes track over my face, like he’s cataloging something—memorizing or analyzing; I can’t tell which.
“You want tea?” He gestures to the kettle on the stove, still warm, probably. “I’ve got chamomile or peppermint.”
“Chamomile’s fine.”
He stands and moves to the cabinet.
The kettle clicks on. We wait in silence for it to boil.
He pours and sets one mug in front of me before taking his seat again.
Something shifts in his expression—it’s not quite a smile, not quite approval, but close to both.
Somehow, it’s the most peaceful I’ve felt since I got here.
There’s something about Wyatt that doesn’t demand anything from me. He doesn’t need me to perform, explain, or be anything other than present.
It’s restful in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice comes out quieter than I intended.
“Yeah.”
“That night, you mentioned a fire.” I wrap my hands around my mug, the heat stinging my palms. “Is that why you don’t sleep?”
His whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking down.
I wait.
The silence stretches so long that I think he’s not going to answer, think I’ve pushed too far, crossed some invisible line.
Then his voice comes, low and rough, like it’s being dragged out of him against his will.
“I was fourteen. House fire. Electrical, they said. Started in the walls while we were sleeping.”
My chest tightens.
“I woke up to smoke. Alarms screaming. Got out through my bedroom window.” He’s staring at his mug now. “Stood in the driveway in my boxers, watching firefighters try to get inside. They were too late.”
“Wyatt—”
“My parents were in the master bedroom. Second floor. Smoke got them before the fire did, they told me after. Like that was supposed to make it better.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if there are words that could possibly be enough.
“I just stood there,” he continues, his voice flat now, empty. “Fourteen years old, watching everything burn. Couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t save them. Couldn’t even cry.”
“You were a kid.”
He finally looks at me, those dark eyes haunted. “I lived. They didn’t. And every night when I close my eyes, I’m back in that driveway, watching, waiting for someone to come out who never does.”
My throat is tight. “That’s why you need the lights.”
He takes a drink of tea. His hand is steady, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. “Stupid, I know.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It’s been seven years. I should be over it by now.”
“Trauma doesn’t have an expiration date.”
He looks at me then, really looks, like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.
“After,” he says quietly, “I went into foster care. Bounced around. Six homes in four years. Nobody wants the damaged kid with nightmares—the one who starts fights just to feel something, who skips school and stops caring…”
“Wyatt—”
“Hockey saved me. I got a scholarship and got out.” He sets his mug down. “Thought I was fine. Thought I’d moved past it.”
“But you haven’t.”
“No.” His voice drops even lower. “I haven’t.”
The weight of his words settles between us—heavy, real.
I don’t offer platitudes. I don’t tell him it’ll get better or that time heals all wounds. That’s bullshit, and we both know it.
Instead, I just say, “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry it happened.”
Something shifts in his expression, softening just slightly.
“Most people don’t know what to do with it,” he says. “The fire story. They either treat me like I’m broken or they try to fix me.”
“I’m not going to try to fix you.”
“I know.” He holds my gaze. “That’s why I told you.”
More silence, but it’s comfortable, like we’ve reached some unspoken agreement to just exist in the same space without needing to fill it.
“The parking thing was bullshit,” he says suddenly, “for what it’s worth.”
I look up at him, really look.
His face is all hard angles in the harsh light—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw—but there’s something in his eyes that’s soft,
raw. Like he’s letting me see something he doesn’t show anyone else.
“Thanks,” I say.
We’re staring at each other now, the air between us shifting, charging.
He stands abruptly, takes his mug to the sink, and rinses it with his back to me.
I watch the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter.
“I should let you get back to not sleeping,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
I stand, take my mug to the sink, and set it next to his.
Our arms brush—just barely. The contact lasts half a second.
He goes still.
I step back, head for the doorway, and get three steps before his voice stops me.
“Elise.”
I turn.
He’s facing me now, those dark eyes intense, conflicted.
“Yeah?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Whatever he was going to say, he swallows it back.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
I should leave. Should go back upstairs and let this weird middle-of-the-night truce end here.
Instead, I take a step toward him. “What were you going to say?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Wyatt—”
He crosses to me in three strides, moving so fast I barely have time to process it.
Then his hands are cupping my face, rough palms against my cheeks. He smells like tea and body wash.
He kisses me.
It’s not like Jordie’s kiss—playful, testing, sweet.
This is desperate, raw—like he’s been holding it back and finally broke.
His lips are firm against mine, demanding but not forceful, asking a question with his mouth that I answer by leaning in.
The kiss deepens for one perfect second. His thumb strokes my cheekbone, and my hands come up to grip his wrists.
Then he pulls back.
His eyes are wide, shocked, like he can’t believe what he just did.
“Fuck.” His voice is rough, wrecked. “I shouldn’t have—”
“But you did.”
My heart is trying to break out of my chest, galloping like it’s running a race it can’t win.
He drops his hands, steps back, and puts distance between us like I’m dangerous.
Maybe I am.
“That was—” He runs a hand over his face. “That was a mistake.”
The words should hurt. After Grant, after Jordie, I should be used to being called a mistake.
But coming from Wyatt, they hit differently.
“Was it?” I keep my voice steady, even though I’m shaking.
“Because you’re my roommate. Because I don’t do this. Because—” He stops, won’t look at me. “Because I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
He moves toward the stairs, fast, like he’s escaping.
I watch him go, not trying to stop him.
His footsteps fade, and his door closes.
I stand in the too-bright kitchen alone.
My lips still burn from the contact. My heart still races. My brain tries to catch up with what just happened.
Two kisses in two days.
Both ending with the guy running away like I’m contagious.
I touch my mouth, can still feel the press of Wyatt’s lips, the desperation in the way he kissed
me—like he was testing whether I was real.
Or maybe testing whether he was still capable of feeling anything at all.
I turn off the kitchen lights, one by one, plunging the space into darkness.
Upstairs, I can see light blazing under Wyatt’s door.
He’s awake, probably hating himself, wishing he could take it back.
I climb into bed, pull the covers up, and stare at my own ceiling.
Three roommates, and I’ve kissed all of them—one very complicated situation.
And I still have no idea what I’m doing.
Tomorrow, we’ll pretend it didn’t happen.
We’ll go back to being polite strangers who share a bathroom.
But tonight, in the dark, I let myself feel
it—the weight of his hands on my face, the rawness in his kiss, the way he looked at me after, like I’d just destroyed something he’d spent years building.
Maybe I had.
Maybe we’re all just destroying each other, one kiss at a time.
I close my eyes.
Try to sleep.
Fail.
Because now I can’t stop thinking about Wyatt’s fire—the one he sees when the lights go
out—and the one I think I just started in the kitchen.
Neither of us is going to walk away from this unburned.