Page 14 of Always Meant for You
I lean in, the space narrowing, breath suspended in anticipation.
I’ve pictured this a thousand times, but nothing compares to this moment.
Her skin is flushed. Lashes long and heavy. Sky-blue eyes drawing me in. They hold something I’ve never let myself hope for—invitation, trust, wanting, desire.
And God, she’s beautiful.
She lifts her hands and places them gently against my chest. Her palm settles above my heart.
And I swear it stutters beneath her touch.
Can she feel it?
Does she know that it beats for her?
I gaze at her mouth. Before I can stop myself, I cup her face in my hands and trace the curve of her bottom lip with the pad of my thumb.
“Mabel.”
Her name scrapes from my throat, rough and aching.
Her fingers curl against my chest, clutching the fabric of my shirt.
The urge to close the last sliver of space between us beats louder than reason.
She tilts her head into my touch, and that tiny shift sends a crack through whatever willpower I have left.
My forehead brushes hers, a whisper of contact, and my world narrows to the sound of her breath.
And then?—
“Mabel Ruth!”
Her father’s voice slices through the stillness.
The second stair groans under his weight.
She gasps.
Her hand still rests against my chest, but her eyes shift—not toward the sound, but back to me. And in that breathless pause, I see it. That pain she never lets anyone see. Her walls don’t fall, but they crack. There’s something raw in her, part apology, part ache, part everything we’ve never said.
Then her fingers slip away.
She steps back, and the distance between us stretches, cold and wide.
“Mabel Ruth, are you up here?” her father calls again.
And Jesus Christ, what am I doing?
I’m standing in my best friend’s little sister’s bedroom, my hands aching for her, my head full of all the things I fantasize about doing to her.
This isn’t just bad timing. It’s a mistake waiting to detonate. Her grief is fresh. Mine isn’t buried deep enough.
What am I thinking, trying to touch something I’ve spent years pretending I didn’t want?
Guilt claws up my throat. But I can’t step back. I can’t move away from her.
Mabel presses her hand to her chest, her fingers trembling against the rose gold M. She looks at me—not with anger, notwith fear—but with this hollow, wrecked sadness that makes breathing feel impossible.
