Kiara （Age 17）
Kiara
He’s slowly loosening his grip on my body, and I can’t fight the smile on my face. His hair is all messed up from my fingers, black waves everywhere, falling into his eyes that are now soft. Softer than ever before.
He’s the kind of beautiful that’s ruining every rational thought in my brain right now. Heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks. I feel dizzy. Actually dizzy. My whole body feels warm and tight and restless, like one more look from him might melt every bone inside me.
I want to do it again so badly I almost reach out without thinking. I want him to kiss me—the same way he just did, deep and messy and desperate, like he couldn’t hold himself back.
He stops holding me, and suddenly my body feels so empty. He just stares at me, shifting himself against the door and catching his breath. He looks like he’s fighting the urge to do it again. I wish he wouldn’t fight it.
But I think someone knocked on the door at least five times. We’ve been here for too long.
“We need to go,” I whisper, my lips still swollen and my breath refusing to steady.
“Do we?” His voice is so innocent but deep at the same time.
“We’re blocking the bathroom,” I finally exhale and laugh.
He laughs back and moves away from the door, stepping behind me as I grab the lock and twist it, but his hand lands on the handle once again. I turn my head subtly, his mouth right next to my ear.
“Don’t you dare play that game.”
A shiver runs down my spine and I have to close my eyes for a millisecond to process that command.
His other hand is suddenly on the back of my neck, sliding under my hair and turning my head a little, the butterflies in my belly flying right into my core when he lands another soft kiss on my lips before opening the door finally.
I stumble out, entirely flushed, my legs not working properly. He keeps looking at me while I go back to the girls, one of them immediately circling one hand around my shoulders and handing me another jello shot.
I take a deep breath to snap out of what just happened. Lana is telling me something, but I just take the shot and down it to suppress the smile creeping on my lips again.
?
The music is blaring from the speakers while I sit with Nat and the others, my eyes flickering around the space, looking for him. He’s always just standing somewhere, usually alone or talking to the same guy as before.
But after playing beer pong for almost an hour, my head is getting so dizzy I might need to stop drinking. The LED lights are blending together and I feel like doing something stupid.
I need some water.
I get up from the couch when Lana grabs my hand and takes me dancing in the crowd outside in the garden.
We stumble outside, laughing and the music starts to move my body without me even controlling it.
I finish the drink in my hand and throw the empty cup on one of the tables so I can dance more, but my head sways in all directions and I feel like if I try to dance, I’ll pass out.
I need the water, desperately.
My legs feel like jello. Wow. This is bad. It’s worse than I thought.
I push through the dancing crowd, heading back toward the pool house when he’s suddenly in front of me, a bottle of water in his hand.
Oh wow.
Okay. Relax.
He’s just standing there. With water. Like a normal person.
Jesus, those arms. And hair that looks like someone definitely made out with him in a bathroom—Oh, wait, that was me.
I giggle.
Wait, did he hear that?
Jesus Christ, I need to sit down. No, actually, stand. Standing is safer. Is it? Why am I thinking this out loud in my head? Shut up, brain.
He’s looking at me like I’m not five jello shots deep.
I am.
I definitely am.
My legs are noodles. My dignity is gone. My soul left my body somewhere between the kitchen and the pool table.
Focus. Water. Sip. Don’t spill it. Don’t stare at him like a creep.
God, his hands.
No, stop.
Is that a vein, or a roadmap to my bad decisions?
He’s waiting for me to say something. Anything.
Okay mouth—do something.
No, not that. Not that.
Something intelligent. Something cute. Something—why is he so tall? Was he this tall before?
Oh wait, I took off my shoes. Where are they? If he doesn’t stop staring at me like that, I’m going to kiss him again right here next to the hydrangeas.
Bad Kiara. Focus. Hydrate. Behave.
I gulp half of the water bottle while he’s staring at me.
Hold on, is he fighting a laugh? Is he laughing at me? Okay, nobody’s laughing at Kiara.
“Is there something funny?”
Wow, my words are actually clearer than I thought. Good.
“Definitely not.”
His hand is suddenly on my face, taking a strand of hair away from my face. This move again. I already know this move. It’s not going to get me this time.
Or maybe it will.
It might.
“Are you still having fun?” he asks, his voice so caring.
Well, I had more fun in that bathroom, to be honest, but this is also fine.
“Yeah!” I squeal.
That didn’t sound very convincing.
“Tell me when you want to go.”
Wow, okay. The commanding Kasien. I like that. I can’t hold a giggle and he laughs back.
“Hey. What’s so funny?” I ask, kind of offended.
God forbid a girl enjoys some jello shots from time to time.
“The sound you make. I like it.”
What sound? I look around, appreciating the beautiful hydrangeas when my stomach rolls over.
Okay. I need to go home.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna go,” I mumble, finishing the water and heading toward the pool house to find my shoes.
“I’m taking you,” he tells me.
“My shoes.”
“Got them.”
I turn around, my strap heels dangling on his finger. His other hand finds mine and laces our fingers, leading me out of the garden and away from the noise.
“Stop giggling,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I’m not giggling,” I say and giggle.
“There. That.” He laughs.
I roll my eyes dramatically, but then my mind focuses on how soft the grass is under my bare feet.
“Wow,” I mumble and slow down.
“What now?” That cocky voice again.
“Your grass is really soft.”
He breaks into laughter. Okay, that sounded weird.
We walk a few more steps—well, he walks, I wobble—until the grass ends at the gravel driveway.
“Oh no,” I breathe out innocently, but before I even register the sting, he moves.
“Arm,” he says and takes my hand, lifts it, and places my arm around his neck. My fingers curl against the warm skin there before I can stop them. Then he slides an arm under my knees and lifts me up.
“Show-off,” I mutter into his shoulder.
He snorts. “You’re the dramatic one.”
His chest is firm and warm under my hands and my head spins for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.
I feel safe.
And very aware of him.
We walk just a couple of steps before reaching his car. He opens the passenger door with his free hand and puts me down on the seat, placing my heels on the car floor.
“Wait a second,” he says and closes the door behind me, disappearing in the garden. The scent of his car swallows me once again.
Cardamom, leather, hint of cigarettes.
I think this is my favorite scent. It’s his scent. And it’s addictive.
He’s quickly back by the car and sits next to me, handing me another water, then leans in, reaching across me to fasten my seatbelt.
“Oh, thanks.” I take the water and drink as much as I can.
I think I’m slowly sobering up. Or maybe it’s just because I’m sitting. It’s probably that.
He starts the engine and the soft rumble fills the quiet night.
The lights of the driveway spill across his face, carving out every line of his jaw, the cheekbones, the little shadow under his bottom lip.
He looks unfair in the yellow glow, like he was manufactured in some lab specifically to destroy my self-control.
He rests one hand on the wheel and the other drapes over the gearshift, fingers tapping once, twice, like he’s thinking.
He focuses on the road instead of me, and somehow that makes it worse.
The way the light catches in his eyes, the way his lashes flick down and up when he checks the mirrors, the way his hair falls over his forehead.
I’m going to die in this car. My soul will exit through the air vents.
I try to look out of the window, but my eyes slide right back to him. Totally subtle. His veins shift on his forearm when he changes gears. Jesus. Why is that hot? Why is everything here so hot? His hands look like they could rebuild a house and ruin my entire moral compass at the same time.
My seatbelt suddenly feels too tight across my chest. My heart keeps doing that stupid fluttering thing whenever he inhales.
How is breathing attractive? This should be illegal.
He should need a license to exist in my proximity.
He glances at me for a split second, but it’s enough for his eyes to soften again, the exact same way they did in the bathroom before he kissed me like I was all he could think about.
“Still okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod. Too fast.
He hides a tiny smile, the kind that tugs at one corner of his mouth before he forces it away. Why does he do that? Why does he try so hard not to smile? Does he even realize how pretty he looks when he does?
Probably not. Boys never know these things. My investigative brain identified at least two girls at the party orbiting him like sirens, and I could swear he didn’t even notice.
The trees blur past us and the car’s warm interior wraps around me like a blanket.
It’s so peaceful.
His jaw flexes slightly when he turns into my street, his hand tightening on the wheel just for a second. The light from passing streetlamps flashes over his profile, each one catching a different angle.
The car stops and quiet settles between us—heavy but nice, full of everything that happened. He clears his throat gently.
“Can I walk you to the door?” His voice is soft. Careful.
I should say yes. But I don’t want this to end yet.
“Can you stay here a little longer?” It comes out quiet and too honest.