Page 10 of Before We Were

"You're still a dick." There's affection buried in the insult, like a flower growing through concrete.

"And you're still the pain in my ass I can't shake,” I call after him.

Without turning back, Jay sticks his middle finger in the air, waves it like a victory flag, and I can't help but laugh.

I linger until he's safely inside, watching the screen door swing shut behind him. The laugh fades as quickly as it came, replaced by a familiar heaviness. Some people you can't save, no matter how much you want to. Sometimes all you can do is watch them burn and hope they rise from their own ashes.

My phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with my mother's name like an accusation. The brief moment of lightness with Jay evaporates, reality crashing back in. Time to face the music at home, where the Wells family waits like an approaching storm I can't outrun.

Pulling into my driveway, dread hits me like a physical blow. The familiar Jeep wedged between the luxury cars stands out like a wound, and my heart slams against my ribs in recognition. My breathing grows shallow, thoughts spiraling into chaos as reality crashes in. The bruises from Monty's grip throb in time with my pulse, a reminder of the violence I just walked away from. Now I'm walking into a different kind of danger altogether.

My phone lights up again with another barrage of texts, each one stoking the rage already burning in my chest.

Farrah

Why are you not answering my calls?

Less than thirty seconds later…

Farrah

Babe, I miss you.

Farrah

Come over so I can show you just how much.

I scoff and chuck my phone onto the passenger seat like it's contaminated.

Not today, Farrah.

Not when I need my head clear, or as clear as it can be with the chaos already screaming inside it. I can't deal with her manufactured drama or anyone else's bullshit until I've dulled these razor edges of anxiety and silenced the demon that's been gnawing on my brain like a starved rat.

It's nearly five, and I haven't returned any calls or texts all day. The moment I step inside, the cold war at home will resume—nothing said aloud in front of guests, all the family drama saved for behind closed doors like the good little actors we are. The Wells family's presence turns our usual dysfunction into a command performance.

Taking a deep breath, the first real one of the day, I pocket the stash and force myself toward the front door. With each step, the laughter and conversations inside amplify like a crescendo of impending doom, squeezing my chest tighter. The bruises from Monty's grip ache with every breath, but they're nothing compared to the pain I know is waiting inside.

Let's fucking do this.

Then, a familiar voice cuts through the rest, pulling tighter on my already taut nerves like a violin string about to snap. I'm almost at the door when it swings open.

"I'll be right there, just need to grab my—" Her words halt with a sharp intake of breath that mirrors my own.

Before I even process it, my body reacts on pure instinct, lunging forward to catch her as she stumbles on the step.

She's safe in my arms, and suddenly the world begins to spin when she looks up at me.

Time warps as I hold her, everything slowing to a crawl like honey dripping from a spoon. The adrenaline that was surging through my veins from Monty's threats shifts into a different kind of heat, spreading wherever our bodies connect. She's different now, changed in ways that make my throat go dry and my pulse spike.

Holding her feels like revisiting an old favorite book; the cover's altered, the pages more worn, but the words inside still grip you with the same fierce intensity. Her hair, scented like honey and summer winds and tossed into a messy knot, hints at the beautiful chaos I know defines her. Gone is the awkward girl in baggy clothes. She's... stunning.

Christ. Stop it.

The crop top she wears exposes her lower back, my arms cradling her waist, skin against skin, igniting unwanted, dangerous desires that threaten to consume what's left of my self-control. I can't pull my eyes away from hers—those emerald depths still blaze with the wild spirit I remember, promising secrets and depths I'm aching to explore but damn well know I shouldn't.

"You missed a step," I say, a slight grin managing to break through, muscle memory of catching her like this a hundred times before making my hands remember places they shouldn't.

"Wouldn't be the first time," she replies, her smile disarming every defense I've built, gripping me for a second too long. I notice her catch her breath. I hope it's from my hold and not the stumble, then immediately hate myself for hoping.

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