Page 25 of Picture Perfect

"Hey," Chess chimes in, his voice smooth as silk but with an edge that cuts through my anxiety, "we're not here to cause trouble for you."

"Could've fooled me," I reply, attempting to slide a bit further away, only to find the couch offers no more room. Their laughter at my feeble attempt to distance myself fills the air, disarmingly genuine.

"Come on, we're not the plague," Saint says. "Just friends hanging out."

"Friends?" I ask incredulously. But there’s no malice in my words, just a thread of worry that I fight to keep from unraveling. Wesley's gaze seems to burn hotter now, as if he can sense my inner turmoil from across the room.

"Or more," Dre suggests, his eyes twinkling with mischief. I can't tell if he's joking or if he truly doesn't grasp the gravity of my situation.

"Friends," Saint confirms. He reaches down to snatch up my bag, opening it and rifling through like he has the right. "What else are you working on?" His voice implies a question, but I can hear the demand hidden beneath.

"Stop," I plead again, my voice a notch louder this time. "You don't understand."

"Try us," Chess counters, leaning in so our foreheads are almost touching. His insistence is meant to be comforting, I realize, but it only serves to remind me how tangled I'm becoming in a web I'm not sure I'm capable of navigating.

"I need to go," I tell them as I snatch my bag back from Saint's curious clutches.

Their collective chuckle is a warm sound, wrapping around me. But I can't let my guard down. I can't. The chill of Wesley's scrutiny remains—ever-watchful, ever-judging.

Dre's fingers are a cool contrast to the warmth of my skin as they brush stray strands of hair away from my temple. His touch is gentle, yet it sends a shiver down my spine—not entirely from the chill. He leans closer, and I can feel his breath on my neck, sending another ripple of unease through me.

"Ice Princess," he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive hum that makes my heart stutter. "You know you're too captivating to ignore, right?"

I stiffen, acutely aware of his proximity and the weight of scrutiny from across the room. My thoughts race with images of my parents' disapproval, their disappointment a tangible thing, heavy and suffocating.

What will they do if they find out about this? What's even left for them to take from me?

"Easy, Dre," Saint's terse voice breaks through the haze of my panic. There's an edge to his tone that I haven't heard before—a flicker of protectiveness?

That can't be right.

I turn slightly to face him. Saint sits rigid, his dark eyes hard, calculating.

Dre takes the movement as an invitation. He leans in and nips at my neck with sharp teeth against my soft skin. I jump, nearly yelping in surprise.

"Back off, man," Chess adds sharply, his hand landing on Dre's shoulder with enough force to make Dre turn his ice blue gaze away from me. "She's clearly not into your Dracula act."

"Dracula act?" Dre echoes with a scoff, but he moves back, giving me space—space to breathe, to think, to steady the tremble in my fingers.

The charged silence teeters on the brink of shattering as Saint's jaw clenches, his stance radiating the barely contained fury of a storm cloud about to burst. Dre's smirk has fades, the icy blue of his eyes now sharp like shards of glass as he faces off with Chess.

"Look, I don't give a—" Dre begins hotly, the tension coiling tighter around us.

"Hey, make some room, would you?" The voice cuts through the brewing tempest, cool and unbothered. Gen, with her raven-black hair and an air of command that seems too large for her petite frame, slides into the fray before anyone can respond.

She nudges Dre with her shoulder, a slight figure moving an immovable object, and he shifts, more out of surprise than compliance. With a fluid motion, she plops down between him and me, her mere presence diffusing the rising hostility.

"Hi," she says, turning to me with a wry smile as if we're meeting in a café rather than amidst a near-altercation. "I'm Gen. You're Addy, right?"

"Uh, yeah." My voice comes out just above a whisper, my brain struggling to keep pace with the sudden shift in dynamics. Gen is an enigma, her easy demeanor belying the authority that simmers beneath.

She's more of a force than she lets on. The boys part for her like water and all she offered was a glance.

"Nice to meet you, Addy." Her tone is casual, but her dark eyes hold mine with an intensity that feels both invasive and oddly comforting.

"Likewise," I manage, my heart still playing a staccato rhythm against my ribs. A part of me wants to bolt—to flee this impossible situation—but another, quieter part is curious about this girl who could so effortlessly dissolve conflict.

Dre recovers from his surprise, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. "Jealous, Genny?"

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