The kiss? Never happened
RYAN
She went completely still, her expression blank, like my words had short-circuited something in her brain. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a long, tense moment, she simply stared at me, wide-eyed and utterly silent.
I resisted the urge to sigh. I wasn’t going to pretend nothing had happened, wasn’t going to brush this off like some forgettable moment. Not after the way that kiss had lingered in the back of my mind, taunting me every time I closed my eyes. It was time to clear the air, no matter how much it might rattle her.
“Violet,” I pressed. “We need to talk about the kiss.”
She blinked, her face flushing as if she’d suddenly come back to life. Her gaze dropped, and I could see the flicker of panic in her eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she muttered, her voice almost defiant.
Irritation simmered low in my blood, flaring hotter by the second. She was going to pretend it meant nothing? That the kiss hadn’t left us both shaken? My voice took on a darker, silkier tone, one I knew she couldn’t ignore. “I disagree,” I said, taking a step closer. “We have plenty to talk about. Like the way you tasted… or the way you parted your lips for me, wanting more. Or maybe we should talk about how your hair felt wrapped around my fingers, soft and—”
“Stop.” Her cheeks flamed red, and she looked away, clearly rattled. “It was just a kiss. The moment was… intense, okay? But we got caught up in it, that’s all. It didn’t mean anything.”
The ember of irritation flared into anger. “Bullshit.” I closed the distance between us, feeling the undeniable charge crackle between us. She lifted her chin, defiant as ever, but I caught the quickened rise and fall of her chest. “That night… it wasn’t just a mistake. And you know it as well as I do. You can pretend if you want, but I’m not letting this get swept under the rug.”
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “Fine. Let’s say, hypothetically, that the kiss did mean something,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “What then? Do we date? Have a fling? What about the people around us, Ryan? You know there are tons of girls who’d kill to be with you, and the attention you already get…” She bit her lip, her jaw hardening as she looked at me. “It would be impossible to keep a relationship like this secret. Imagine the scandal if people knew what happened between us. And we're step siblings. Our parents would kill us if they found out. can you even imagine their reaction? they’re still in their honeymoon phase, completely wrapped up in their lives together. and they see us as family now.” she shook her head, a dark flash of worry in her gaze. “if they knew there was something going on between us, they’d be furious. we’d ruin everything.”
Her words cut through my anger, deflating it, replacing it with a bitter ache I didn’t want to admit to. Of course I’d considered everything she’d just laid out; I’d known from the start how impossible this was. And yet, she’d forced all those obstacles back into sharp, undeniable focus.
She was right. We were walking a razor’s edge, and a relationship between us wasn’t just dangerous—it was reckless. But her clinical breakdown of everything we’d face left a dull, cold feeling where that warmth had been. I clenched my jaw, the fantasies I’d allowed myself over the week dissolving, leaving only a bitter taste in their place.
“You’re right.” The words felt like gravel in my throat. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” I managed a hollow smile, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. “We’ll pretend the kiss never happened. Won’t bring it up again.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “Good. I’m glad you understood”
“Yeah”
We both went quiet, the unspoken tension simmering in the silence. She’d given us both the reality check we needed, no matter how much it stung. Ignoring the ache in my chest, I forced myself to turn away and make my way toward my room, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Back in my room, I shut the door behind me, leaning against it and releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The lingering warmth of her touch faded, leaving only a cold, hollow ache. She was right—there was no way this would end well. And yet, as I closed my eyes, trying to shut out her scent, her voice, her everything, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to kiss her again.
Sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed and turned, her words replaying in my head, the heaviness in my chest impossible to shake. My eyes kept drifting to the ceiling, to the walls—anywhere but the dark thoughts clawing their way to the surface. I needed an outlet, something to clear the chaotic storm inside me. So, after what felt like hours of wrestling with my own mind, I pushed off the bed and walked over to the shelf on the far wall.
Sliding my fingers over the groove, I found the small button hidden in the wood and pressed it. The shelf gave a soft click, revealing a narrow doorway that led to my sanctuary, my secret room
Stepping inside, I flicked on the light, and the familiar scent of paint and turpentine filled the air. The dim glow from a single lamp illuminated the half-finished canvases and scattered brushes, some still wet from the last time I’d been here. I grabbed my paints, squeezing out colors without much thought, letting instinct take over. With the brush in my hand, I let everything pour out—my frustration, my anger, the simmering ache I couldn’t seem to shake.
I painted with a kind of intensity that left me breathless, each stroke fierce, desperate. I didn’t stop, didn’t hold back, letting the colors and shapes fill the canvas as if they could absorb the turmoil roiling within me. The minutes bled into hours, my mind a blur, my focus entirely on the rhythm of brush against canvas.
Finally, I stepped back, breathing heavily, trying to come down from the emotional high. I drew in a long, shaky breath, my chest rising and falling as I took in what I’d created. The painting had taken on a life of its own, a swirl of light and shadow, softness and fire. I blinked, my gaze sharpening as I took in the image fully.
And then it hit me like a punch to the gut—I’d painted her.
There she was, Violet, captured in the strokes and colors, every line and shade unintentionally perfect. Her eyes held that stubborn fire, her lips parted slightly as if caught mid-sentence. I could almost see the flicker of emotion in her expression, almost feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair. I’d painted her exactly as she was that night, looking at me with that vulnerability
I swallowed hard, feeling the ache intensify. It was then I realized–i could do anything but not act like the kiss never happened.
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