Page 12 of The Forbidden Summer
And I’m terrified he’s right.
Because the truth is—Idowant him.
Not just in the abstract. Not just in the way you want something you know you’ll never have. I want him in the quiet moments. When he’s tired and soft-spoken and lets the mask slip just a little. I want to touch him, not like a secret but like a fact.
But I can’t.
Because if I let myself want this—him—then I have to admit that I’m not as in control as I pretend to be.
And if I reach for him and he steps back, I’ll never forgive myself.
Worse, if I reach for him and hedoesn’tstep back, I don’t know who I’ll become on the other side of that.
So I say nothing, and I give him silence. I give him distance disguised as composure.
And when he looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway solved, I look away.
Because I already know the answer.
And I’m ashamed of how much I want it.
The sound of his axe splitting logs draws me out of the cabin. Sun glints off the sheen of sweat bathing his bare chest. So smooth. So soft. His refusal to wear a shirt this summer is driving me out of my mind.
I have a feeling that was his intention.
I busy myself wiping down the rocking chairs on the porch, sweeping the front steps, and brushing cobwebs from the corners of the overhang, but my gaze constantly strays to Van.
He’s working so hard to prove himself, chasing his dream. Carving stumps isn’t a future I dreamed of for him, but it’s as good as any, I guess. All that matters is that Van’s happy. No regrets. That’s the future I dreamed of for him.
Ducking inside, I pour a glass of ice-cold tea for him and bring it outside.
Van sees me approach and stops mid-swing, a grateful smile on his face.
“You’re a lifesaver, Cap.” He reaches for the glass and downs it in three gulps. I can’t stop watching his throat slide as heswallows. The images in my head come fast and uninvited. My gut twists.
I look away too late.
It’s not just guilt—it’s theknowing.What I want. What I can’t let myself have. What it would mean if he ever caught me looking like that again.
And still, I want to look.
God help me.
I shouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking.
I shouldn’t befeelingwhat I’m feeling.
It’s not just wrong. It’s dangerous. Not because of what anyone else might say, but because of what it pulls out of me. How easily I forget the lines I’ve drawn. HowbadlyI want to cross them.
I clench my jaw tight enough to hurt, but it doesn’t help.
I tell myself it’s nothing. That I’m tired. That he’s just... charismatic. Careless. That I’m justlonely.That it’s about proximity, not desire.
But none of that explains the heat in my face. Or the guilt crawling up my spine. Or the way my body remembers the shape of his hand against mine, like it’s a bruise I keep pressing just to feel something.
I don’t want this.
Ican’twant this.
