"Winter."
My heart lurched. I didn't turn, but I could feel him, Eric, like a shadow pressing down. My palms went clammy. The faint smells of alcohol permeated the air.
"I didn't expect you to block me everywhere," he said softly, almost wounded, but I felt the threat beneath his words. "I thought… we had something. You just… disappeared."
I shook, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm here, but I don't want anything to do with you."
He tilted his head, a cold smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "You think blocking me makes it easy? Makes me stop caring? I'm hurt, Winter. I'm really hurt."
My chest tightened, my breath catching. My hands trembled at my sides. A sudden breeze rustled through the leaves of the nearby tree, the faint rustling cutting through the tense silence between us. Somewhere behind him, a couple laughed, their footsteps slapped against the distant pavement.
"I… I don't care," I whispered. "I've told you. I don't want anything from you. You can't… manipulate me anymore. And don't come around my house again."
The smirk disappeared. His voice sharpened, hardening like steel. "You think you get to tell me what I can and can't do? You're mine. You always have been. And I won't be ignored."
A shiver ran through me. My stomach lurched as he stepped closer.
"Stay back," I whispered, panic rising. But my voice was weak, and my legs felt like they were sinking into the grass.
"No," he said, voice low and threatening. "I won't leave until you hear me. Until you see I'm the only one who ever really cared."
Fear gripped me so tight it felt like my ribs were being crushed. I wanted to run, wanted to vanish, but my feet refused to move. Then, a familiar, solid presence cut through the tension.
"Hey!" Tristan's voice rang, firm and commanding.
Eric spun toward him, eyes narrow even behind his sunglasses.
"Oh, look who decided to show up," he sneered, stepping closer, and my heart pounded like a drum in my chest.
Tristan planted himself between us, wide and steady. "If you ever come near Winter's house again, or try to control her, you'll regret it. Every second you think you can scare her… you'll regret it."
Eric's laugh was sharp, brittle, but there was anger behind it that made my knees weak. "Do you really think you can stop me?"
"I don't have to think," Tristan said, fists clenched, jaw tight. "I will. I swear to you, if you touch her again, you'll wish you hadn't."
I felt the ground tilt beneath me, my breath coming in short, trembling bursts. Eric's gaze flicked to me, and I saw it, the lingering claim he thought he had over me. I swallowed, trying to steady my shaking hands. My stomach churned, and I felt tears sting my eyes.
"This isn't over," he spat.
Eric finally started walking away, slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every second. His eyes flicked back at us over his shoulder, each glance making my stomach twist. I hugged myself tighter, trying to make myself smaller, hoping he wouldn't notice how scared I was.
Tristan's gaze followed Eric the entire way, sharp and unyielding, like a predator tracking his prey. I could feel the tension in his body, coiled and ready, but he didn't move until Eric disappeared completely around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the early evening.
Then Tristan turned toward me, his expression softening immediately. Relief and care radiated off him in waves I could feel even through my shaking. He stepped forward and pulled me into a firm, warm hug.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured against my hair, voice low and rough. "I should have been here sooner. I… I got caught up with a friend."
He paused, swallowing hard. "I should have come straight here."
I shook my head slightly, clinging to him. "It's not your fault. You didn't know."
"I still should have been here," he said, tightening his hold. "I won't let him scare you like that again."
And then, something shifted in me. Even though my hands still shook and my chest felt tight, I realized that the fear Eric used to have over me it wasn't there anymore. Not entirely. Partly because Tristan was here, steady and strong, but also because I knew, finally, that Eric had no control over me. That power he once held was gone. My fear didn't vanish completely, but it had lost its grip. I took a deep breath and straightened my spine, meeting Tristan's eyes with a newfound resolve.
For the first time since he appeared, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time: strength. Even as my body trembled, I could breathe. I could stand. I could move forward. And that, right now, was enough.
The professor's voice faded as she dismissed the class, her final words about the next reading assignment lost in the shuffle of students packing up. Notebooks snapped shut, chairs scraped against the floor, and the low hum of chatter filled the lecture hall. I lingered at my desk, my English anthology still open, my laptop still open on a poem we'd discussed. The lines of verse blurred together, my mind caught instead on the memory of Tristan's fleeting smile in the student center earlier, the way his crimson eyes had held mine a moment too long. And then, unbidden, the image came rushing back: the careless tug of his hoodie, fabric sliding up just enough to reveal the hard lines of his abs.
My stomach clenched at the memory as it replayed, sharp and unshakable, a flush of heat climbing my face until I had to glance down, ashamed of how easily he unsettled me.
I glanced up, and there he was, Tristan, leaning against the door frame, his black hoodie slung carelessly over one shoulder, his bag dangling from his hand. His eyes found mine through the chaos, steady and warm, like a beacon in the fog. My heart gave a little jolt, and I pressed my lips together to hide the smile tugging at them.
How does he do that? Just stand there and make the whole room feel quieter?
He pushed off the frame and walked toward me, his steps unhurried but deliberate, weaving through the stream of students without breaking eye contact. The fluorescent lights overhead caught the silver hoops in his ear, glinting faintly, and his hair fell in soft, messy waves across his forehead. I shoved my anthology into my bag, suddenly hyper-aware of my slightly smudged eyeliner and the way my sweater clung to my shoulders.
"Hey," he said, stopping just close enough that I could smell the faint cedar and black tea scent of him, grounding and warm. "You survived English."
"Barely," I said, rolling my eyes but unable to keep the grin off my face. "I think my brain's still tangled in metaphors."
He chuckled, low and soft, the sound settling into my chest like a warm ember.
"Wanna get out of here? I was thinking…" He paused, his fingers brushing the strap of his bag, a rare flicker of hesitation crossing his face. "You could come over to my place. It's not far, just a few blocks. We could hang out, maybe order some food. Gabe's gone for the night."
My stomach did a little flip, half-excitement, half-nerves.
His apartment?
The idea felt intimate, like stepping across some invisible line we'd been circling all day.
"Yeah," I said, my voice softer than I meant it to be. "That sounds nice."
His smile widened, just enough to show a hint of relief, and he tilted his head toward the door. "Come on, then."
We stepped out of the building into the late afternoon air, the city stretching before us in a haze of concrete and fading sunlight. The campus was alive with movement, as students spilled out of buildings, bikes whirred past, and the distant hum of traffic blended with the chatter of a nearby study group. The air carried a faint bite of autumn, crisp against my bare arms, and I tugged my sweater sleeves down, my boots clicking against the cracked sidewalk as we walked side by side.
Tristan's shoulder brushed mine as we navigated the crowded pathway, the contact brief but enough to send a small spark through me.
He's so close.
My heart picked up its pace.
And he invited me over. Just us.
The idea made my chest feel light, like I was floating, but there was an edge of nerves too, wondering what his place would be like, what it would mean to be in his space, away from the noise of college and the weight of Eric's shadow.
"You okay?" he asked, glancing at me, his voice cutting through the hum of the city. His eyes were soft but searching, like he could sense the tangle of thoughts in my head.
"Yeah," I said quickly, flashing a small smile. "Just… decompressing from class. English is intense."
We turned off the main campus path, the crowd thinning as we entered a narrower, more worn street. The buildings here were older, their facades weathered and crowded together like secrets kept too long. Cramped storefronts lined the way, their faded signs swinging on rusted hinges, a cracked café with chipped paint on its door, a dimly lit antique store cluttered with tarnished trinkets, and an old bookshop squeezed between them, its windows filled with yellowed pages and dusty tomes stacked haphazardly inside. The air smelled of damp pavement and old paper, with a faint undercurrent of coffee from the café. Above the bookshop, a small apartment perched precariously, its rusted black railing glinting faintly in the fading light. A single window glowed softly behind sheer curtains, like a heartbeat pulsing against the dusk.
"That's it," Tristan said, nodding toward the apartment above the bookshop. My pulse quickened as we approached, a mix of anticipation and curiosity swirling in my chest.
That's his place? It's so… him.
The thought made my lips curve, imagining a space as layered and intriguing as Tristan himself, quietly intense, a little rough around the edges, but warm in its own way.
He led me to a narrow door beside the bookshop, its paint peeling to reveal weathered wood beneath. He held it open for me, and I stepped into a dim hallway, the air cooler and carrying the faint scent of old books and polished oak. A creaky staircase spiraled upward, and we climbed to the second floor, his boots thudding softly behind me. I felt his presence like a steady hum at my back, grounding me.
This is fine. This is good. He's not pushing me into anything.
The thought steadied me, reminding me of the way he'd lingered in the student center earlier, his quiet presence a contrast to Eric's suffocating demands.
At the top, he unlocked a door marked with a faded brass plate, the key jangling against a silver ring on his finger. The door swung open, revealing a small but cozy apartment. The living room was bathed in the soft glow of a floor lamp, its light catching on exposed brick walls and a mismatched collection of furniture, a worn leather couch, a coffee table cluttered with art supplies, and a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks and vinyl records. The window with the sheer curtains overlooked the street below, framing the faint neon glow of the café's sign. The air inside smelled faintly of charcoal pencils and the lingering warmth of takeout pizza, mingling with the musty scent of old books drifting up from the shop below.
"It's not much," Tristan said, tossing his bag onto the couch and rubbing the back of his neck, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice. "But it's home."
"It's perfect," I said, meaning it. The space felt like him.
This is where he lives, where he draws, where he exists when he's not with me.
The thought made my chest ache with something soft and unfamiliar, like I was seeing a new piece of him.
He gestured toward the couch. "Make yourself at home. Want something to drink? I have water, soda, maybe some coffee if you're feeling brave."
"Water's good," I said, settling onto the couch, the leather cool against my legs. I set my bag on the floor, my fingers brushing the frayed strap as I took in the room. A sketchpad lay open on the coffee table, its pages filled with sharp, angular lines that hinted at a cityscape, or maybe a face, I couldn't tell from here. I flipped through a few more pages, drawn in by the restless energy of his lines, until one made me stop cold.
It was a dark, feral creature, fangs bared, eyes wide and wild, its limbs twisted almost impossibly. Shadows pooled around it like ink bleeding into the page, and streaks of red, gore, or maybe paint, spattered across the edges. My stomach twisted as I traced the jagged lines, the raw, primal anger and hunger almost leaping off the page. I closed the sketchpad, the image of the creature burned into my mind.
Tristan returned with two glasses of water, handing me one before sitting beside me, not too close, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. He stretched one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the leather just behind my shoulder, and I felt that now-familiar spark at the nearness of him.
"So," he said, his voice low, a playful edge to it. "What's the verdict? Is my place as weird as you thought it'd be?"
I laughed, sipping my water to buy a moment.
"Weirder," I teased, glancing at a stack of horror movie DVDs on the shelf. "I love your horror movie collection."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "We might have to have a movie night."
Movie night. With him.
The idea sent a warm flutter through me, unspooling into something headier as I imagined us curled up here, the room dark, his toned body lit by the flicker of the TV, hovering over me, hands claiming, lips pressing, every inch of him brushing against mine.
My pulse raced, my breath catching, and I could almost feel the weight of him on me, the electric press of skin to skin, my body trembling at the thought.
Stop getting ahead of yourself. Winter. But the thought lingered, soft and tempting.
"What do you want to order?" he asked, pulling out his phone. "There's a decent Thai place nearby, or we could go classic with pizza."
"Thai sounds amazing," I said, pulling back from my thoughts. "Anything with noodles."
"Noodles it is," he said, tapping at his phone. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and for a moment, we just sat there, the quiet between us comfortable but charged, like the air before a storm.
He's so easy to be around, I thought, my fingers tightening around my glass. No pressure, no demands. Just… us.
He set his phone down and leaned back, his arm still resting behind me, his fingers now brushing the edge of my shoulder. The contact was light, almost accidental, but it sent a shiver down my spine.
Does he know what he's doing to me?
I glanced at him, and his eyes were already on me, soft but intense, like he was memorizing every detail of my face.
"You look like you're thinking too hard," he said, his voice gentle but teasing.
I laughed, a little shaky. "Maybe I am."
I'm thinking about you, about how you make me feel like I can breathe again.
But I didn't say it out loud. Instead, I set my glass on the table and turned toward him, my knee brushing his. "Thanks for inviting me over."
His expression softened, and he shifted closer, closing the small gap between us.
"I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice low, like a secret meant just for me.
His hand moved from the couch to my arm, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path along my sleeve, sending a spark of warmth through me.
The words carried a weight that made my heart race, but not with fear, with something brighter, something that felt like possibility. I leaned into his touch, my eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the world outside his apartment didn't exist. No Eric, no texts, no shadows. Just us, in this quiet, warm space that felt like it belonged to us alone.
My breath caught, and I felt my cheeks flush.
Alone. With him.
The doorbell rang, jolting me out of my thoughts. Tristan jumped up, pulling it open to reveal a steaming pile of Thai takeout, the smell instantly making my stomach rumble. He set the containers on the coffee table, chopsticks at the ready, and dug in—curry, noodles, and dumplings, all warm and fragrant, filling the room with comfort.
Tristan slid a DVD into the player, the screen flashing to life with the grainy menu of some low-budget slasher classic. The opening chords of an eerie synth score filled the room, all shrill strings and creeping bass. He dimmed the lamp until only the glow of the TV lit the apartment, the room shrinking into shadows and flickering light.
"Warning," he said as he flopped back onto the couch beside me, his arm stretching lazily across the back cushions. "I heckle during kills. It's part of the ritual."
"Good," I teased, curling one leg beneath me. "Half the fun is roasting the dumb decisions."
"Exactly." He pressed play. "You survive a horror movie by doing the opposite of what they do."
The first chase scene lit the screen, screaming, heavy footsteps, the inevitable stumble in the woods. Tristan made a low, mocking gasp and muttered, "Oh no, Karen, maybe don't run toward the shed full of knives."
I laughed, the sound breaking easily into the room. My head tipped back against the couch, closer to his arm. His fingers brushed my shoulder, just lightly, like he was testing the space between us.
The movie droned on, blood splattering in unrealistic fountains, but my focus had shifted entirely. His thumb traced the seam of my sweater, slow and absentminded, but it made my pulse spike. I shifted slightly, closer. The distance between us shrank to nothing. When the killer jumped out on-screen, I startled with a laugh. His arm slipped all the way around me. The movement was natural, instinctive, like that's where I'd been meant to fit all along.
I swallowed hard, pulse skipping.
I want him. God, I want him—more than I've ever wanted anything.
The thought hit me like a jolt of lightning. Not just a crush. Not just a flutter. Something heavier, needier, terrifying in its intensity. I'd never felt like this before, not with Eric, not with anyone. This was different. Raw.
Stop overthinking. Just do it.
I set my glass down and leaned in before I could lose my nerve. My lips pressed to his, tentative at first, but the second he responded, it was like a dam breaking.
Tristan froze for half a breath, startled, then kissed me back like he'd been waiting for me to make the move all along. His hand slid to my waist, pulling me closer until my body molded against his. The kiss turned sharp, urgent, and I climbed into his lap without thinking, my thighs straddling him.
Heat surged through me, wild and unfamiliar, but I didn't want to slow down. His hands skimmed beneath my sweater, finding bare skin, and I gasped into his mouth. The sound only made him kiss me harder.
My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and he groaned, a low, desperate sound that made my stomach twist in want. His mouth found my neck, hot and biting, and I arched into him, my breath breaking apart.
He's everywhere—hands, lips, heat. And I've never wanted someone this badly. It scared me how natural it felt to lose myself in him, how much I wanted to keep going.
"Tristan," I whispered, breathless, and my hands tangled in his shirt, tugging at it.
He looked up at me, a slow, wicked smile tugging at his lips, and then, effortlessly, he lifted it over his head. My eyes traced the hard planes of his chest and abs, lingering on the jagged scar along his ribs, another across his shoulder. Each scar was like a lightning bolt of past battles, hinting at stories untold and mysteries unresolved, a history written in his skin that only made him more magnetic. My fingers itched to touch; I could feel every taut line of muscle beneath me, the heat of him pressing up against my thighs.
A shiver tore through me from scalp to toes. My heart hammered so fiercely I thought it might burst, my body trembling as I ground down against him, feeling the friction, the weight, every inch of him alive beneath me.
He froze for a fraction of a second, crimson eyes burning into mine. "Tell me if I need to stop."
"Don't stop," I breathed, leaning down, pressing my lips to his.
He didn't. His hands gripped my hips, holding me tight as I moved, riding the press of him, our mouths colliding in a kiss that was both fire and pull, sharp and urgent. Every brush of skin, every press of muscle, every groan escaping our lips sent sparks through me, igniting a dizzy, all-consuming heat I'd never known before.
God, he wants me too.
And I've never wanted anything more.
Then,
There was a rattle of keys behind the locked door.
Tristan went rigid, his lips freezing against mine. My heart lurched. He fumbled with his shirt, yanking it on in a blur, muttering a curse under his breath. Then, grabbing the nearest pillow, he shoved it into his lap, pressing it down to hide what was painfully obvious.
I scrambled back onto my side of the couch, cheeks blazing, tugging at my sweater and trying to slow my racing breath.
The click of the lock sounded impossibly loud, drowning out even the gory kills playing on the TV.
Gabriel stepped into the living room a second later, tossing his keys on the table. His eyes flicked from me, hair mussed, lips swollen, to Tristan, looking guilty as hell with a pillow clutched to his lap. His mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a laugh.
"Oh," he said flatly. "Didn't know you'd have company."
Tristan's glare could've set him on fire. "We're watching a movie."
"Sure you are." Gabriel snorted, grabbing a soda from the fridge before heading toward the hall. "Try to keep it down. Walls are thin."
The door to his room clicked shut, leaving silence behind.
Tristan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm gonna kill him."
I pressed my lips together, still flushed, still burning with want, my body buzzing from how close we'd come.
Tristan turned toward me, the pillow still wedged firmly in place, frustration in his eyes, but heat still smoldering there too. He leaned in close, brushing his lips over mine in a quick, almost punishing kiss before pulling back with a sigh.
The silence after Gabriel's door shut was deafening. My pulse was still hammering, my lips swollen, my skin buzzing everywhere Tristan had touched me. I sank back against the couch, clutching a throw pillow to my chest like it might ground me.
Tristan ran both hands through his hair, then dropped his head back against the couch with a low groan. "I swear, he has the worst timing known to man."
A laugh bubbled out of me, shaky and breathless. "Maybe it's the universe's way of keeping us from doing something… reckless."
He turned his head toward me, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. "Reckless isn't the word I'd use."
Heat curled low in my stomach. "What word would you use, then?"
His mouth curved slowly, dangerously. "Right."
The word landed heavily between us, my breath catching. My fingers twisted in the pillow, nails digging into the fabric. I wanted to throw it aside and climb back on top of him. Wanted his mouth on me again, his hands everywhere, no interruptions this time.
"I've never…" I started, then stopped, my voice faltering.
He pushed up on one elbow, turning to face me fully. "Never what?"
My cheeks burned, but I forced the words out anyway. "Never felt like this before. With anyone. Not so fast. Not like… that."
Tristan's expression softened instantly, the teasing edge fading. He reached over, prying the pillow gently from my arms and setting it aside. Then he took my hand, threading his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You think I have?" he said quietly. "Winter, you're the only one who's ever made me feel like I'm coming undone and holding it together at the same time. I don't… I don't usually let myself want like this. But you, " His jaw tightened, like the words cost him something.
"You make me want everything."
My chest flipped, blood rushing hot and fast.
God, he meant it. I could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he was looking at me, hungry, yes, but also something deeper. Raw. Unsteady.
I squeezed his hand, my voice barely a whisper. "I feel the same."
His gaze flicked to my lips, then back to my eyes, and I knew, if Gabriel hadn't been down the hall, if there hadn't been paper-thin walls and the threat of interruption, we wouldn't have stopped.
Tristan leaned closer, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my lips. He kissed me one last time, slow, lingering, careful in a way that made my heart ache even more, and then leaned back with a sigh, dragging the pillow off of his lap.
"Movie?" he asked, voice rough but playful, trying to pretend like we could just go back.
I laughed, curling into his side, still flushed, still wanting, but letting the quiet settle over us again. "Movie."
But my thoughts didn't linger on the screen. They stayed on the warmth of his hand in mine, the memory of his body against me, and the truth we'd both admitted without saying it outright: We wanted this. Each other. Badly.