Wednesday after school, I stand on Caleb's cracked porch, my history textbook clutched against my chest like armor that's already failing.
The house is small, paint peeling like dead skin, lawn brown and surrendered. Nothing like the suburban perfection I know, where sprinklers run on timers and HOAs issue warnings for grass over three inches.
My fist rises to knock but the door yanks open before I can, and Caleb's hand wraps around my wrist. The touch burns through my skin as he pulls me inside without a word.
The house hits me like a physical force. Clothes thrown over furniture like flags of surrender. Dishes piled so high in the sink they've colonized the counters, growing their own ecosystem. The floor sticks to my shoes with each step, pulling at me like it wants to keep me here.
Empty beer bottles line the coffee table in perfect formation, soldiers of loneliness. A broken TV sits in the corner, screen shattered into a spider web of cracks that reflects my fractured reflection.
It smells like cigarettes and something else I can't identify. Maybe desperation. Maybe loneliness. Maybe just him.
"Not what you expected, bunny?" His voice carries an edge, defensive and raw, watching me catalog his reality.
I set my textbook down carefully on the one clear spot on the table, movements deliberate and slow.
"Where are your parents?" The question comes out soft, no judgment, just needing to know if we're alone.
"Mom drives a bus. Twelve-hour shifts. Haven't seen her in three days." His smile could cut glass. "Dad? Never met him. Took off before I was born."
My heart does this stupid aching thing. I want to comfort him, to touch him, to say something that matters, but I'm probably not in a position yet to pry into his soul.
"Should we start with the Civil War chapter? That's what Mr. Brennan focuses on—"
His laugh is dark, rich, amused. "You really think I give a shit about the history test?"
The words hit me like cold water. "But you said you needed tutoring. The test is tomorrow. Your basketball scholarship—"
"That was just an excuse." He moves closer, and suddenly the small room feels microscopic. "I don't care about grades, Evie. Never have."
My back hits the closed door as he cages me in, hands bracketing my face, his body so close I can feel the heat radiating from him.
"I thought maybe you'd want to use this excuse. Away from school, away from everyone watching." His breath is hot against my neck, making me shiver. "But you didn't really come here to fix my history grades, did you?"
His voice drops to that register that makes my thighs clench involuntarily, that makes wetness pool instantly between my legs.
"I brought my textbook—" The protest sounds weak even to me.
"Liar." His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I have to fight not to open my mouth, not to suck it in. "Tell me why you're really here. The truth this time."
"To tutor you." My voice shakes, betrays me. "That was the deal."
He presses closer, and I can feel every hard line of his body against mine. His thigh pushes between my legs, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinding against it.
"You're here to kill that nickname once and for all, aren't you? Tired of being Virgin for Life?"
His mouth is at my ear now, words vibrating through me. "Thought maybe if we're alone, if no one's watching, you could finally let yourself want it? Finally let yourself feel what you've been dying for since you watched me on that roof?"
"No." The lie cracks on my tongue.
His hand tilts my chin up, forcing our eyes to lock. His are so dark they're almost black, pupils blown wide with something that makes my stomach flip. "Try again."
The word slips out in a whisper that sounds like surrender. "Yes."
He crashes into me like a storm breaking. His mouth is brutal on mine, nothing like the kiss at the party. This is private, desperate, real. This is him claiming me when no one's watching, when there's no audience to perform for.
His tongue invades my mouth and I open for him instantly, shamefully eager. His hands are everywhere at once—squeezing my breasts through my blouse, thumbs finding my nipples through the fabric and making me gasp.
His hands grip my ass hard enough that I know I'll have fingerprints tomorrow, pulling me against him so I can feel how hard he is through his jeans.
One hand slides between my thighs over my skirt, pressing against where I'm already soaked through my underwear. The pressure makes me moan into his mouth, my hips bucking against his hand without permission.
"So fucking wet," he growls against my lips. "You've been dripping for me since that first day, haven't you?"
I'm gasping when he bites my lip, not gentle, marking me. My body responds like it's been waiting for this my whole sheltered life. Every nerve ending is on fire, every cell screaming for more. I'm ready for him to tear the clothes from my body, to take me right here against this door, to finally end this torture.
My hands clutch his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. I can feel myself trembling, can feel how close I am just from this, just from his hands and mouth owning me.
Then he stops.
Suddenly. Completely. Like turning off a switch.
Cold air hits my overheated skin as he steps back, taking all his warmth with him. I'm panting, chest heaving, lips swollen and bruised.
My legs shake so hard I have to lean against the door to stay upright. My underwear is soaked, uncomfortably so, and I can feel the wetness on my thighs.
"Are you ready to beg me?"
His voice is rough, affected, but controlled. His eyes are dark with something dangerous, something that makes me want to run and crawl to him at the same time.
"Ready to get on your knees and beg for my cock like you actually need it?"
My hands still clutch his shirt, stretching the fabric between us. The word comes out broken, desperate. "P-please..."
"On your knees, Evie."
He takes three steps back, giving me space, watching me with predator eyes. Waiting. The air between us crackles with tension so thick I can taste it.
"You're not serious, are you?" I try to smile, to make it a joke, but my voice sounds strangled.
We both know I'm already lost.
He stands silent, patient, knowing I'll break. The silence stretches until it feels like drowning, until I can't breathe through the wanting.
My body moves without permission, responding to some primitive command in his eyes. Slowly, shakily, I lower myself down.
My knees hit the sticky floor—God knows what I'm kneeling in—but I don't care. All I care about is the way he's looking at me, like I'm something he wants to devour and destroy in equal measure.
I look up at him from my position, and the angle makes him look like a dark god. My voice comes out barely a whisper, raw with need I didn't know existed. "Please."
He stares down at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. I see his hands clench into fists, see the muscle in his jaw tick. For a second, I think he's going to give in, going to finally end this torture.
Then his mouth curves in that cruel smile that haunts my dreams. "No."
The word hangs between us like a slap. I'm on my knees on his filthy floor, begging, shaking with want, and he's refusing me. Denying me. Keeping me desperate.
"Get up," he says, turning away like I'm not kneeling here, destroyed. "We have history to study after all."
He walks to the couch, casual as anything, leaving me on my knees trying to remember how to breathe. My body is screaming, aching, needing. The space between my thighs throbs with frustrated desire.
I stay there for a moment longer than I should, trying to gather pieces of dignity that no longer exist. When I finally stand, my legs barely hold me. The wetness between my thighs is uncomfortable, embarrassing, undeniable.
And he knows. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
This is his game, and I'm losing spectacularly.