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“I just want to graduate so I can fucking move on,” he says. I rest my chin on the top of his head, and he steps closer, wrapping both of his arms around my waist.
“We’ll go somewhere when we graduate,” I promise, my voice soft. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“You’ll never leave your mom,” he says, and I tighten my hold on him.
“She’ll have Ezra. She won’t need me. Not as much as you.” Finally, a small sob breaks from him, and I press my lips to the top of his head. “It’s okay.” I don’t know what else to say. “It’ll be okay.”
He bunches my shirt in his fists as he forces himself to calm down. His body shakes as he breathes through his emotions, and I let him.
“You can cry,” I whisper, and he shakes his head. He takes another breath, deeper than before, the sound gasping, shuddering, and broken. “Cry.”
He tightens his hold, and I feel it—the moment before he lets it out. The moment right before he takes that last breath, the final breath that’s holding him together, and just…breaks.
His sob is hard and guttural and breaks my fucking heart. Tears soak into my shirt, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to take the pain in his heart away. But I can’t. IknowI can’t. And that somehow makes everything worse.
Before this thing between us grew, before we turned it into something real, the fury and hatred I felt for his parents, his father knew no bounds, but now? Now, I want to burn the world down and watch Enzo rise from the ashes.
Rage, searing hot, builds in my chest. I can’t stand this, the sounds he’s making. I can’t fucking stand the pain that’s radiating from him, the loneliness I can do nothing to fill, the abandonment, and the million other issues he has because ofthem.
I’ve known him my entire life, and this is the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen him. It shreds me apart to know that I could’ve been there for him like this for years. That if I would’ve admitted to myself that I was in love with him years ago, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe I could’ve protected him more. Maybe he would’ve let me protect him.
“I hate him,” he cries. “I fucking hate him.” He says it with so much conviction I feel it to my core. His sob is violent, and tears burn the backs of my own eyes. I squeeze them shut, trying to stay strong, but it’s hard when he’s like this. “Why would he do this? What did I do to deserve it?”
“Nothing,” I say firmly. “None of this was your fault.”
“But—”
“No,” I interrupt. He pulls his head away from my chest and stares up at me. “It was not your fault. This is all on him.” His face is red and splotchy, and a shadow of stubble coats his jaw. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive. They’re beautiful, and full of all the colors I love.
He nods, but I know he doesn’t believe me. Not really. He might never believe me.
I grip his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. He gives me a weak smile, his eyes sad. Just so fucking sad. I hesitate for only a moment before moving my hand to his chin and gently gripping it between my thumb and forefinger.
His breath hitches as he flicks his eyes between mine. I give him time to stop me, but he doesn’t. He meets me halfway, our lips crashing together in a hard kiss. It’s not awkward like it was with Amanda. This doesn’t feel forced, it never has with Enzo.
His mouth is frantic, his movements jerky as he reaches for the hem of my shirt. I hesitate, my stomach tightening with anxiety. But I let him drag my shirt off over my head. He pushes me back toward his too-small bed. My legs hit it and I roughly fall to my ass and stare up at him, both of us panting hard.
He gives me a slow grin as he slides his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the floor beside mine. His chest flushes red, and I grip my hands into tight fists to stop myself from touching him. I can see the hard outline of him through his jeans, and a part of me wants to take him out, but another part is terrified. Not only of his reaction, but mine.
What if I hate it? What if he does? What if we take that next step and it breaks whateverthisis?
But then he presses on my shoulder, and I lie back, my eyes still like saucers as he lies beside me. We turn onto our sides and stare at each other, our breath mixing in the small space between us.
“We don’t have to do anything more,” I say softly. His hand hovers over me before he lets his fingertips trail down my arm, making goosebumps ripple over my body.
“I think—” He cuts himself off when his hand gets to mine. “I think I want to try something more.” I swallow hard, and he smirks at the sound.
“What?” I rasp. His hand slides from my hand onto my hip, his fingers teasing the hem of my jeans.
“I’ve never done it,” he says, then laughs softly. “Obviously. But I’ve had it done to me a lot. I think I’ll know what to do.”
“E,” I say, drawing the word out, unsure. “It’s okay—”
“I know,” he says.
His eyes lift to mine again, and I press another kiss to his mouth. He presses his bare chest against mine, and I slide my hand onto his waist, unsure of where to touch him. All I know is that I need to touch him, to feel him, but I don’t know where, or how.
I’m still a virgin. He’s very much not.
