TWENTY-ONE
WES
The house feltwrong the second Clara walked away.
I stood there in silence, snow melting in small, dark circles on the mat, breathing like I’d just run a mile instead of walked across the yard. Frigid air still clung to my clothes. My lungs burned in that sharp, clean way from laughing too hard in the cold.
My lower lip was tender, skin stretched tight, like it remembered the exact shape of hers and was insulted we’d stopped. Every time I swallowed, I tasted winter air and Clara Darling, the faint ghost of her breath and the mint on her tongue.
My dick hadn’t gotten the memo that we werefriendsnow either. It sat there at half-mast in my pants, heavy and stubborn, throbbing in time with the mental highlight reel my brain insisted on playing.
Her weight settling on top of me.
Her fingers in my coat.
The way she’d whimpered when I dragged her closer, like she’d been waiting for me to lose control.
It was adrenaline. A one-off. Roommates. Friends.
I repeated the words in my head like a script I’d been handed and told to memorize.
Terrible idea. Adrenaline. Roommates. Friends.
My body’s answer was simple and obscene.
Let’s do it again.
I huffed out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand over my face, and turned toward the kitchen like movement alone could burn it off.
Evidence of her was everywhere.
Her wet boot prints tracked across the tile—small, messy, toes pointed a little inward at the doorway where she’d paused. A single wavy hair clung to the shoulder of my coat, catching the light when I shifted. Her knitting shit still occupied the armchair—yarn a tangled, angry ball, needles stabbed through it like she’d tried to pin it into submission and walked away mid-fight.
I checked the clock on the stove—PT in forty minutes.
For weeks, maybe months now, the idea of leaving the house at all had been a fight. Today, the thought of staying in it—with Clara upstairs, flushed from sledding and still tasting like the best part of my life—felt like the real danger.
I needed some distance. Neutral ground. Fluorescent lights and ugly rubber flooring and someone telling me what to do with my traitorous body.
I shrugged the rest of the way into my coat, fingers clumsy on the zipper. I was tired, but my leg felt good—too good. The residual ache was low, manageable, more of a hum than a scream. My balance still buzzed with the memory of the hill, the way the sled had carried me and my body had remembered how to trust movement instead of bracing for impact.
She’d done that. Clara had shoved me down a hill and kissed me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The thought made my chest tighten and my cock twitch, which was exactly why I needed to get the hell out of here.
I jammed my keys into my pocket and moved toward the stairs, my prosthetic ticking faintly against the hardwood. Halfway there I hesitated, my hand braced on the newel post.
I could just leave.
She’d figure it out when she heard the truck. Less conversation. Less room to say something I couldn’t take back. I shook my head. That was a coward’s move and exactly the kind of thing that would put that kicked-puppy look in her eyes the next time she saw me.
Adrenaline. One-off. Roommates. Friends.
Friends didn’t sneak out like teenagers after getting caught.
My jaw flexed. I tilted my head up toward the second floor.
“Clara?” My voice boomed up the staircase.