Chapter Fifteen: The Kiss
Writer's POV - Age 16
The winter formal was exactly as terrible as Evan expected.
Too bright. Too loud. Too many people crammed into the decorated gymnasium, all of them pretending this mattered, pretending they were happy, pretending their lives weren't as messy and complicated as his.
He stood against the wall in the rented suit his mother had insisted on black, perfectly tailored, expensive. It felt like a costume. Like he was playing dress-up as someone normal.
And then Fabiola walked in.
Evan forgot how to breathe.
She wore deep purple the color she'd worn the first time they really talked, the color he'd told her was pretty on her. The dress hugged her curves, fell to just above her knees, made her dark skin glow under the colored lights.
Her hair was down, a cloud of black coils framing her face. She wore minimal makeup, but her lips were painted deep red.
She was devastating.
And she was looking for him.
Their eyes met across the crowded gym, and she smiled bright and warm and his.
Evan pushed off the wall and walked toward her like she was gravity.
"Hi," she said when he reached her.
"Hi." His voice came out rougher than intended. "You look..."
"Too much?"
"Perfect." He couldn't stop staring. "You look perfect."
Her smile widened. "You clean up pretty nice yourself."
"I feel ridiculous."
"You look beautiful."
The word made something in his chest ache. Boys weren't supposed to be beautiful. But Fabiola said it like it was truth, like she saw something in him worth admiring.
A slow song started. One of those generic romantic ones they always played at school dances.
"Dance with me," Fabiola said, holding out her hand.
Evan hesitated. "I don't really.."
"I know. One dance. Then we can leave if you want."
He took her hand.
They moved to the center of the dance floor, and Evan felt every eye on them. The freak and his charity case. The weird Harlow kid and the girl stupid enough to care about him.
He tried to block it out. Focused on Fabiola instead.
She stepped close, wrapped her arms around his neck. He placed his hands on her waist, and even through the fabric of her dress, he could feel her warmth.
God, she was so warm.
They swayed to the music, barely moving, and Evan pulled her closer. Too close. Close enough that there was no space between them, her body pressed against his, her head tucked under his chin.
He buried his face in her hair and breathed.
Deep. Desperate. Drawing in her scent like medicine.
Cocoa butter. Vanilla. Something sweet and floral from whatever she'd put in her hair. And underneath it all, her warm and alive and real.
"You smell like life," he whispered against her hair, so quiet only she could hear.
Fabiola's arms tightened around him. "Is that good?"
"It's everything."
They stayed like that through the entire song, holding each other, swaying slowly. Evan didn't care about the stares anymore. Didn't care about anything except the girl in his arms and the way she made the cold recede.
When the song ended, Fabiola pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"See? That wasn't so bad."
"It was perfect." And he meant it. "Can we go now?"
She laughed. "Yes, we can go now."
Evan insisted on walking her home.
It was cold February cold, the kind that bit through jackets and made breath visible. But Fabiola didn't mind. She was still warm from dancing, from being held, from the way Evan had looked at her like she was the only person in the world.
They walked in comfortable silence, their hands occasionally brushing but not quite holding. Like they were both afraid of taking that next step.
Two blocks from her house, they passed under a streetlight, and Fabiola stopped.
"What?" Evan asked.
She didn't answer. Just turned to face him, standing in the pool of yellow light, gathering her courage.
Then she kissed him.
Rose up on her toes, cupped his face, and pressed her lips to his.
Evan froze.
Completely, utterly froze. His body went rigid, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his mouth unmoving under hers.
Fabiola's heart sank. She pulled back, mortified.
"I'm sorry, I thought..."
Evan grabbed her.
His hands came up, one sliding into her hair, the other wrapping around her waist, and he pulled her against him with bruising force.
Then he kissed her back.
And it wasn't like the kiss in the stairwell that had been desperate but controlled.
This was drowning.
He kissed her like he was dying. Like she was air and he'd been underwater for too long. Like if he stopped, he'd cease to exist.
His mouth moved against hers, hungry and demanding. His tongue traced her bottom lip, and when she gasped, he deepened the kiss, tasting her, claiming her.
His hand tightened in her hair, angling her head exactly how he wanted. His other hand pressed against the small of her back, crushing her against him.
He kissed her until she couldn't breathe, until her knees went weak, until nothing existed except his mouth and his hands and the desperate, aching need in the way he held her.
When he finally pulled away, they were both gasping.
Evan pressed his forehead to hers, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling.
"Don't do that again," he said, voice raw.
Fabiola's heart stuttered. "What?"
"Don't kiss me like that. Not unless you're ready for.." He stopped himself, shook his head. "Just don't."
He started to pull away.
Fabiola grabbed his jacket and kissed him again.
Harder this time. More insistent. Pouring everything she felt into it every moment of waiting, every night of worrying, every ounce of stubborn affection she'd been holding inside.
Evan made a sound half groan, half surrender and kissed her back just as fiercely.
This time when they broke apart, he didn't pull away. He buried his face in her neck and scented her, breathing in great shuddering gulps like he couldn't get enough.
"You're going to kill me," he whispered against her skin. "Your warmth, your scent, your everything it's going to kill me."
"Good," Fabiola said breathlessly. "Then we'll die together."
Evan's arms tightened around her. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I might take you seriously." He pulled back, and his eyes were wild, dark, hungry. "I might decide that dying with you sounds better than living without you. And that's..." He laughed, bitter and broken. "That's exactly the kind of thing that proves I'm not good for you."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"Too late." She touched his face, traced the sharp line of his jaw. "I'm yours, Evan Harlow. Whether you want me or not."
Something in his expression broke.
"I want you," he whispered. "God help me, I want you so much it terrifies me. I want to keep you. Possess you. Make sure no one else ever touches you or looks at you or.." He stopped himself, closed his eyes. "I want things I shouldn't want. Things that aren't healthy or normal or.."
"I don't care about normal."
"You should."
"Stop telling me what I should care about." She grabbed his face, forced him to look at her. "I want you too. All of you. The darkness, the hunger, the parts you think are too broken to show anyone. I want all of it."
Evan stared at her like she'd offered him salvation and damnation in the same breath.
"You have no idea what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
"Not yet." He kissed her forehead, soft and reverent. "Let me keep pretending I'm someone worthy of you. Just for a little while longer."
"You are worthy..."
"I'm not." His voice was gentle but final. "But I'm selfish enough to take you anyway."
He walked her the rest of the way home, their hands finally, properly linked.
At her front door, he kissed her one more time soft, sweet, achingly tender.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For tonight. For everything."
Then he turned and walked away, back into the darkness where he felt he belonged.
Fabiola stood on her porch, watching him go, her lips still tingling, her heart still racing.
And she knew with absolute certainty that she was falling in love with Evan Harlow.
Had probably been falling since she was nine years old.
And nothing not warnings, not rumors, not even his own protests would stop her.
She was his.
And somehow, impossibly, he was hers too.
Even if he didn't believe it yet.