Page 6 of Sweet Sinners
What the hell was I supposed to do with that?
I turned my head, my gaze landing on the framed photograph beside my bed. Four years ago, when things had still felt normal—a family vacation I dreaded even then. My father stood tall, his arm around my stepmother, both smiling as if their world wasn’t about to shatter. Connor was off to the side—close enough to appear included, but far enough away to make it clear he didn't belong. His expression was unreadable, the usual cocky mask muted, as if he hated every second of being there.
But now, staring at it closely, I noticed something I'd overlooked. Was that sadness in his eyes? Loneliness? Had I ever really looked at him before—actually seen him? Or had I always written him off, too quick to judge, to assume? Based on his distance, his silence, and the whispers I'd swallowed without question?
Sighing, I pushed off the bed and wandered toward the window, bare feet sinking into the plush rug with every step. The house felt still, the kind of quiet that made memories impossible to ignore. Outside, night stretched endlessly, moonlight washing the garden in soft, ghostly hues. The greenery below—part wild, part carefully manicured—felt like a reflection of everything this family pretended to be but wasn’t.
My gaze caught movement.
A figure stood on the terrace.
Connor.
His back was to the house, a cigarette dangling from his fingertips, its faint orange glow punctuating the shadows surrounding him. Moonlight traced the sharp line of his shoulders and the curve of his jaw, painting him in shades of silverand blue. He looked like something out of a painting—untouchable, distant, yet achingly real.
The garden lights flickered intermittently, highlighting clusters of roses and ivy creeping up trellises, casting fractured shadows that swayed gently with the wind. Haunting, beautiful, yet lonely. The way Connor stood so still, isolated in the moonlit darkness, felt less like a fairy tale and more like the final page of a tragic novel.
I lingered by the window, my breath fogging the cool glass as I watched him. This wasn’t the Connor I remembered—the cocky, indifferent boy who barely acknowledged my existence. This Connor felt…different. Raw. Vulnerable. Like the weight of whatever had happened to him since I'd last seen him had etched itself into his bones.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I was moving toward the door. The hallway was shadowed, quiet, but the faint glow from the garden guided me as I descended the stairs and crossed the expansive living room. Sliding the terrace doors open soundlessly, I stepped into the cool night air.
The scent of jasmine brushed my senses, mingling with the faint, acrid smoke of his cigarette. Cicadas hummed softly, their rhythmic chorus the only sound in the heavy silence.
He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tightened subtly. The cigarette paused halfway to his lips, frozen mid-motion. The quiet between us thickened, tension humming until I wasn’t sure he'd speak at all.
Finally, his voice broke the stillness. “Couldn’t sleep?”
It was rougher than I remembered, edges frayed and worn, like sandpaper scraping across raw wood. It wasn't the voice of the boy I’d known; it belonged to someone older, someone who'd seen things I couldn’t even imagine.
I hesitated, words caught in my throat, before finally forcing out, “Why are you here?”
It wasn’t what I’d meant to ask, but it was the question that escaped—one thatfelt safer, even though nothing about him, or this moment, felt safe at all.
Connor’s body went rigid, tension rippling through him like a stone dropped into still water. He took one final drag, then ground out the cigarette in the ashtray, twisting it sharply, deliberately. Silence stretched between us, the kind that begged to be broken. But I refused to be the one to shatter it. So I waited.
Finally, he exhaled, the sound heavy, tired, defeated. “I ask myself the same damn thing every day.”
The words hung between us as he turned slowly to face me. Moonlight cut across his features, harsh and unforgiving, and for the first time, I saw clearly what three years in prison had done to him. That sharp jawline was still there, but rougher now, shadowed by the scruff of a beard he hadn’t bothered to maintain. The boyish charm I remembered had vanished, replaced by something darker, sharper—dangerous in a way I couldn’t pinpoint. Faint lines marked his forehead, proof of too many nights spent awake, thinking too much, sleeping too little.
But those eyes—those piercing green eyes—hadn't changed. They still held the same troubled intensity, haunted by questions he didn't have answers to.
"It's not like I had a choice," he said, his voice low and unsteady, gaze locked hard onto mine. "I can't leave because of the house arrest. But even if I could…where would I go? I've lost three fucking years, Cali. Friends, opportunities, freedom—all because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Bitterness edged every word, raw and jagged. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or exhaustion, or maybe a harsh mix of both.
A heavy silence filled the space between us, the kind that swallowed everything whole. I should’ve felt sympathy—maybe even pity—but all I managed was unease. The boy I hardly knew hadbecome a man I couldn't begin to understand, and it left me feeling exposed and strangely vulnerable.
"Why this house?" I finally asked, voice softer than I'd intended. "Your mom owned other properties. They could’ve sent you literally anywhere else."
He sighed roughly, raking a hand through his hair, pulling his shirt tighter against the tense muscles beneath. "They thought family would help. Reintegration, adjustment, whatever bullshit they’re calling it. But being here?" A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and humorless. "It's like living in a fucking ghost story. Every room, every corner is another reminder of that night."
I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling heavy in my chest. I understood exactly what he meant, even if I refused to admit it. Every time I looked at him, I saw that night—the blood, the pain, the chaos.
The life that had crumbled around me because of it.
“I don’t want you here,” I said, my voice cold and steady despite the tightening in my chest.
His jaw hardened, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, studying me with that maddeningly calm expression. “Trust me,” he said, voice low and razor-sharp, “if I had a choice, I wouldn't be here either.”
