4. The knock

A few days later:

A soft knock echoes from behind the kitchen door—three short taps, a pause, then two more.

I freeze, my hands tightening around the edge of the counter. That knock. I haven’t heard it in years, but I know exactly who it belongs to.

Bill.

The same pattern he used all those years ago. A habit so small yet so deeply embedded in my memory that hearing it now feels like stepping into the past.

My pulse stumbles, my body locking in place, breath shallow, heart hammering.2 Then, before my mind can catch up, I turn toward the door.

Our eyes meet, and time fractures—splintering into then and now, the years between us collapsing into a single heartbeat.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath as he steps forward.

I drop my gaze, my heart pounding against my ribs. "Hey." The word escapes me, tight and strained. "What are you doing here?"

My eyes catch the chain hanging on his chest—our necklace. The sight of it sends a familiar ache through me, a bittersweet pull deep inside.

"You're still wearing it," I whisper, voice barely audible.

"You're not."

His words are gentle, but the disappointment in his voice is unmistakable. My fingers twitch, instinctively brushing over the bracelet wrapped around my wrist—the one I’ve never taken off since the necklace broke. His gaze follows the movement, landing on the pendant hanging there.

His breath catches. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. Then, without hesitation, his hand brushes over mine.

His touch is warm. Familiar. Dangerous, even.

"The necklace broke," I say, my voice cracking slightly.

"Hm," he hums, his fingertips brushing my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

The lump in my throat makes it impossible to say anything more.

"You didn’t answer my question." I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

Our eyes lock, searching for meaning in each other’s gaze.

Then, without warning, he moves. His hands grabbing my face as his lips crash into mine.

For a moment, I freeze, caught between shock and something inevitable.

Then, instinct takes over.

I melt into him, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips are soft yet demanding, his touch urgent but careful. When his tongue brushes against mine, a sharp pulse of heat floods my veins, scattering every last hesitation.

He steps forward, and instinctively, I step back.

We stumble up the stairs, hands grasping, clothes discarded—forgotten, irrelevant. Our lips part only when absolutely necessary, breathless gasps filling the spaces between desperate kisses.

We crash into my room—my old room.

In one swift motion, he lifts me onto the desk, his grip firm yet reverent, as if he’s memorizing every inch of me beneath his hands. His eyes burn into mine—full of lust—before his fingers slide my panties down, each slow stroke setting me on fire.

His hands tangle in my hair, his breath ragged as he drags me into another kiss. This one is deeper. Hungrier.

He thrusts inside me. My legs wrap around him instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper.

His movements are slow, deliberate, each one unraveling me bit by bit. The intensity overwhelms me, and before I even realize it, pleasure overtakes me—my body trembling.

His grip tightens on my hips, holding me steady, burying himself deeper, gasping against my skin.

With a firm hold on my waist, he lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to the bed as if I weigh nothing. My arms wrap around his neck, my heart pounding against his. He lays me down, his lips trailing fire along my skin, down my neck, lower—

A sigh escapes my lips as his mouth travels, teasing, tasting. His tongue finds my clit, and my back arches off the mattress, drawing another moan from deep inside me.

Pleasure crashes over me in waves, shattering me all over again.

As the haze slowly fades, I meet his eyes—intense, dark, and brimming with satisfaction. His flushed cheeks and the smirk playing on his lips tell me everything—even after all these years, he still has this effect on me, and he’s savoring every second of it.

Slowly, he moves back up, pressing his body into mine. His lips brush over mine, his breath mingling with my own as he positions himself. With agonizing slowness, he pushes inside me.

A soft gasp escapes me, my body arching, instinctively pulling him deeper. Every movement, every sensation, consumes me, drowning me in a haze of pleasure.

I match his rhythm, my hips moving with his, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle along his back.

"God, I missed you," he groans, his voice low and rough, the words sending a shiver down my spine.

The words hit me harder than they should.

I swallow hard, pressing my forehead against his, my breath catching. "I missed you too."

A flicker of something crosses his face—relief, maybe. He lifts a hand to my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.

His lips find mine again, softer this time. Less urgent, but just as consuming.

It’s different now. Not just need. Not just longing. But something more. Something that never really faded, no matter how much time has passed.

His breath stirs against my lips, uneven and shaky. His fingers tighten at my waist, anchoring me to him. "I never stopped thinking about you."

A lump rises in my throat, my chest tightening. “Neither did I.” The confession barely escapes me, fragile.

Then, as if he can’t bear it a second longer, he moves again—slow, reverent. His hands map my skin like he’s relearning every inch of me.

Our bodies move together, a slow, intoxicating dance, each roll of my hips drawing a moan from his lips, and mine.

His eyes burn into me, dark and desperate, as he quickens his pace. My breath stutters, my fingers tangling in his hair as I wrap myself around him, pulling him closer, needing more. Needing all of him. My eyes flutter shut, lost in the sensation.

I crash my lips against his, tasting his desire, his need. A moan rumbles from his chest, swallowed between our kisses.

Another orgasm crashes over me, intense and all-consuming, leaving me trembling beneath him. A heartbeat later, he follows, a deep, shuddering moan spilling from his lips.

His body tenses, fingers digging into my skin, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. For a moment, we are suspended in the aftermath, our bodies tangled, our hearts racing.

Slowly, his grip softens, his touch turning gentle as he brushes damp strands of hair from my face. He presses a lingering kiss to my forehead, his lips warm and tender. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, voice still rough with pleasure.

As the aftermath of what we just did settles in, it feels like a weight pressing down on my chest, suffocating me. I lower my eyes, tracing the lines of the tattoo on his chest, anything to distract myself from the storm raging inside.

"Are you okay?" His thumb brushes softly over my cheek, his voice a quiet question, yet I can feel the tension in it. Our breathing is still uneven.

I meet his eyes, but it feels like the ground beneath me is slipping away. The silence is deafening, and it only amplifies the war inside me.

No, I’m not okay. What we did—what I did—feels so wrong, but I can’t bring myself to say it. How could I? How could I look him in his eyes and tell him that I regret this? That I’m torn between him, between what we’ve been and what I’ve lost? He would hate me. Wes would hate me. Everyone would.

I’m a cheater.