Downstairs, I can hear Dad on the phone. Apologizing to the Ellisons. Mom's voice murmuring in the background, soothing and practiced.
Sleep is impossible. Every cell in my body hums with humiliation and rage. Grant's smirk. Mom's blank face. The way Dad said "we're leaving," like I was a child throwing a tantrum instead of someone finally telling the truth.
My chest feels too full. My hands, restless.
I need to paint.
The workshop is at the back of the house, converted from an old sunroom. Dad let me have it when I was fifteen, back when he still thought art was a harmless hobby. The scent of turpentine and sawdust hits me the moment I open the door. Grounding.
My canvases lean against the walls. Half-finished bursts of color that once felt like escape. I grab a brush, squeeze paint onto the palette. I'll throw my anger into this until it drains from my veins.
Jordan stands near the far wall, studying one of my paintings. Sleeves rolled.
"What are you doing here?"
He turns, surprised but not apologetic. "I heard you come down. The light was on."
"So you just walked in?"
"The door was open."
"That doesn't mean you're invited." My voice is sharper than I intend. "This is my space."
"I know. I'm sorry." He doesn't move. "I'll go."
"Yes. You should."
But he doesn't. He just stands there, steady and infuriating, in the middle of my storm.
"You're a guest in this house. Remember your place."
"Maya—"
"You don't even understand what it feels like, do you?" The words pour out fast and hot, and I hate how my voice shakes with barely suppressed fury. "Living in a cage built by people who smile while they lock the door." My hands clench.
Something flickers across his face—not sympathy, something darker. More dangerous.
"I might not know what you feel." His voice drops, rough and certain. "But I know what you want."
The shift is instant. Visceral. Heat blooms beneath my skin, spreading like wildfire even as fury sharpens in my chest. He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to look at me like he can see straight through every carefully constructed wall.
"You arrogant bastard." The words come out breathless, betraying me. "What is it that I want, then? Since you're so goddamn wise."
He takes one step closer. Then another. Not tentative. Not apologetic.
"You want to be taken seriously instead of handled like porcelain." His brown eyes hold mine, unflinching. "You want to make one choice—just one—that's entirely yours and watch everyone else scramble to deal with it."
The words hit like physical blows, each one exposing nerves I didn't know were raw.
"And you think you're that someone?" I force the words out even as something deep in my core twists with recognition.
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer. And yet his presence strips away another layer of pretense. Then.
"Tell me I'm wrong." His eyes are dark, intense, devouring.
I can't. God help me, I can't.
I should step back. Should tell him to leave.
I don't move.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second. My pulse jumps in response so fast it makes me dizzy.
A tear escapes before I can swallow it.
His hand lifts. Slow. Like he's giving me time to pull away. His thumb brushes my cheek and the touch burns. Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once.
This is wrong. We both know it's wrong.
I lean up and kiss him anyway.
For a split second, he goes rigid. His hand freezes on my face. I feel the moment he tells himself to stop, to pull back, to be the adult in the room.
Then something breaks.
He kisses me back with the force of everything unspoken. His hands slide to my waist and pull me against him. The wall hits my back, rough and grounding, the only solid thing in a world that's tilting sideways.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I forget how to breathe. His hands move up my sides, thumbs brushing the edge of my ribs, and I arch into him without thinking.
This is dangerous. This is so dangerous.
I don't care.
His mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. Every touch sends sparks down my spine. I tangle my hands in his hair and pull him closer, desperate for more. He makes a sound low in his throat that makes heat pool between my legs.
"Maya." My name sounds wrecked in his mouth. "We shouldn't—"
"I know." I cut him off with another kiss. Reckless. Raw.
He responds immediately, hands gripping my waist tighter, pressing me harder against the wall. I can feel him trembling. Or maybe that's me. Maybe it's both of us, caught in something we can't control and don't want to stop.
His hand traces down my side. Over my hip. Lower. The touch burns through the thin fabric of my dress. My breath comes in short gasps. Every point where his body meets mine feels electric.
Then his fingers brush the edge of the belt.
Reality snaps back like cold water.
I shove him. Hard.
He stumbles back, breathing heavy, eyes dark and confused.
My hand moves before thought catches up.
The slap echoes in the silence.
His face flashes with shock. Regret. Something else I can't read.
I don't stay to figure it out.
I bolt. Into the house. Up the stairs. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might tear through my ribs.
In my room, I lock the door. Press my palms to my burning cheeks. My whole body shakes.
What did I just do?
My phone buzzes on the desk. The light slices through the dark.
A text from an unknown number.
You called me a jerk. Fair. Can we try again? Coffee, museum, no parents. —Grant
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
Hours ago, I wanted to scream at Grant. Wanted to throw something at his smug face. But now all I can think about is Jordan. The taste of his mouth. The sound of his breathing. The way his hands felt on my waist before everything went wrong.
Grant has eclipsed into nothing. The chaos Jordan left in my chest makes me forget I was furious at someone else entirely.
I drop the phone onto the pillow beside me.
For the first time, I'm not terrified of what my parents control.
I'm terrified of what might happen next.