44 MADDY #2
I sit down in the bar stool beside him and gently take his hand. “How’s your hand?”
“Stings like a bitch,” he says with a tiny smile.
His skin is warm and the second the antiseptic touches his knuckles, he flinches.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay.”
I try to be careful, but my fingers are trembling, betraying me with every small movement as I clean the blood and press fresh gauze against the split skin.
Then I notice the dried blood near his eyebrow—the exact spot where his tiny scar is placed. Which makes my stomach drop even harder. There’s a darker streak trailing down from his cheek. I softly grab his chin and move his head to the side so I can see better.
“You’re bleeding here too,” I say softly.
He sighs. “Didn’t even feel that one.”
I grab another cotton pad and rise from the stool. One small step forward puts me almost between his knees and the space between us disappears.
Carefully, I brush a damp brown curl away from his forehead, my fingers barely touching his skin before I press the cotton to the cut near his brow.
His head tilts back a little more to give me access, and suddenly our faces are nearly level. I can feel the warmth of his breath. His knees part a little wider, just enough that I’m standing inside the space they make, and the realization sends heat rushing up my neck.
And then he looks at me. Our eyes lock, and for a moment neither of us moves or looks away. My fingers are still resting lightly against his cheek, the cotton pad forgotten between us.
“I’m sorry,” he says first.
I don’t answer. We just look at each other. I swallow, forcing myself to respond.
“I didn’t tell him,” I finally say quietly.
Ryan’s answer comes without hesitation. “I know you wouldn’t.”
“He must’ve just guessed,” I continue. “And used it to push buttons, but I swear I didn’t tell him it was fake.”
Ryan goes very still and then his eyes lift to mine again, something unreadable moving behind them.
“Was it?” he asks quietly.
My heart stumbles. “What?”
“All of it,” he says. His voice is low, but it lands harder than anything Jacob said. “Was it fake, Maddy?”
For a second… I don’t know how to breathe, let alone answer. Because the truth isn’t simple anymore. And the lie suddenly feels impossible to say.
We keep moving closer. His hands slide up the back of my legs, gently.
A shiver runs straight up my spine. His fingers start tracing small, absent circles against my skin.
He is not making it easier to pull away, his stupid green eyes doing some hypnotizing shit, because I’m only moving closer to him.
I’m suddenly very aware of where we are—the kitchen, the counter, the exact place where everything stopped being simple.
His gaze moves over my face, my pulse stumbles, and I’m craving for his touch. We’re close enough now that I can feel his breath against my lips.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I whisper, but even to me, it doesn’t sound convincing.
“Why?” he asks softly.
I don’t say anything. His eyes drop to my mouth for a second before lifting back to mine.
“I want you,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing over my lower lip.
Everything inside me shifts—fear and want tangling so tightly I can’t tell them apart anymore.
My eyes fall closed and then his lips touch mine, soft, like he’s asking for permission. I pull back just enough to look at him. He’s barely inches away, his gaze still fixed on my mouth like he physically needs more.
“Mads…” he whispers, voice low, unsteady.
I lean forward and kiss him.
The second his mouth finds mine, something inside me gives way completely. I feel him melt into the kiss, and he deepens it fast. His hands tighten at my legs, pulling me closer as his mouth moves against mine with a kind of urgency that makes my head spin.
I feel it everywhere. My hands fist into his hoodie, dragging him closer like close isn’t even close enough.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, Boyfriend by Dove Cameron starts playing.
He exhales softly against my mouth—something that sounds almost like a quiet fuck—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, it only pulls us deeper into it, rougher, and more desperate.
When his tongue brushes mine, a sharp warmth rushes through my chest and drops lower, stealing whatever air I had left.
His hands move—sliding from my legs to my hips, then around my waist—and suddenly he’s standing without breaking the kiss. The sudden height difference makes my head tilt back, the ground disappearing as he pulls me fully against him.
I cling to his shoulders, but he’s already guiding me backward, slow and certain, like he knows exactly where he wants me. Each step sends another pulse of heat through me until my back meets the cold surface of the fridge.
His teeth catch my lower lip for a second before he soothes it with another kiss, and then he shifts. His cups my cheek and gently moves my face to the side. His mouth trails along my jaw.
Jesus Christ, this man knows how to kiss.
He presses a kiss just beneath my ear, then lower, to the sensitive curve of my neck. My head tilts back without thinking, giving him more space, and his hand tightens slightly at my waist in response.
A soft sound slips out of me before I can stop it. His mouth curves faintly against my skin, like he’s smiling.
He drags his lips down the line of my throat, to my collarbone. My fingers tighten in his hair, and then he lifts his head again. His mouth finds mine. His breath brushes against my lips.
Wait—what am I doing?
The realization hits me like a truck.