Page 49 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

By the time I collapse backward, boneless and gasping, I feel him rise to his feet.

He presses a soft kiss to the inside of my knee, then my hip, then back to my pierced nipple, sucking gently as if in apology.

Then he disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water running.

When he returns, he’s holding a warm towel. He kneels again, cleaning me carefully, tenderly. Then he lifts me from the desk and carries me to the bed.

He tucks the blanket around me and curls his body around mine.

“I’ll leave before sunrise,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my temple. “But I don’t want to.”

I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. Not yet.

Not while his arms are still around me.

18

COLE

Emily’s still asleep when I slip out.

Her fingers twitch once as I pull away, like some part of her knows I’m leaving. I pause at the door, just long enough to memorize the way her breath lifts the blanket, the way her hair fans over the pillow like a question she’s still waiting for me to answer.

Outside, the hallway is cold and dim. I coast past the other cabins in silence, careful not to wake the others. My phone buzzes in my back pocket—Dadflashing across the screen.

I don’t answer.

I step outside instead, the night air curling sharp against my skin.

Above me, the sky is a dark smear of stars. Wind moves through the trees, and for a second—just one—I think I can pretend that my dad actually gives a damn about where I’ve been.

But the quiet won’t let me.

The night feels too much like a certain night between us that I always try to forget.

The one I never talk about.

Don’t think about it, Cole.

Don’t fucking think about it.

I climb into my car, the door shutting with a heavy click. The engine hums beneath my hand as I shift into drive. I’m finally heading home—but only because Emily will be there in a few days. That’s the only part that feels solid. The only thing I trust to keep me moving.

I ease out of the retreat parking lot and turn onto the highway.

The road is empty, quiet. For a while, I let myself think about the future. About the gallery spaces I’ve been circling in Ohio and West Virginia. The commissions I’ve lined up. The possibility of a place of my own.

Piece by piece, it’s all falling into place.

And then?—

Honk! Honk! Honkkkkk!

The truck behind me blares its horn. A man shouts something from a rolled-down window, but I don’t hear it.

Because I can’t move.

I’m frozen at the green light, foot locked against the brake, pulse thudding behind my eyes.

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