I can’t believe he took my first kiss.
Actually, scratch that. I can’t believe I let him take it. In a chapel, no less, like some twisted romance novel written by someone with serious religious trauma.
Should feel mad. Want to feel mad. Why the hell do I feel… good?
It’s been twenty four and I can still taste him. Cigarettes and danger and something I can’t name but want more of. Which is absolutely twisted because I’m supposed to be the girl who doesn’t want anything. Who doesn’t need anything. Who definitely doesn’t fantasize about boys who treat rules like suggestions.
But here I am, sitting in the library that smells like paper and punishment, pretending to read about moral autonomy while stealing glances at the reason my moral compass is currently spinning like a broken carnival ride.
The library used to be my sanctuary. Quiet, ordered, respectful. Now it feels loaded, like the calm before something expensive breaks. And the source of that storm is sitting across from me, spinning his Mont Blanc pen—because of course he has a pen that costs more than most people’s rent—like he’s bored out of his privileged mind.
Any second now he’s going to bring it up. Going to smirk and make some comment about how I kissed him back. Going to ruin everything with that insufferable confidence.
But he doesn’t.
Twenty minutes in and he hasn’t said a word about the chapel. About the kiss. About how I slapped him and ran like some Victorian maiden.
Maybe he regrets it. Maybe I was terrible. Maybe he’s done worse things in more sacred places and I’m just another Tuesday night for him.
“So autonomy means what, exactly?” He leans forward, chin propped on his hand, mouth curved like he’s seconds from that trademark smirk.
“Freedom rooted in principles,” I fire back without missing a beat. “Not just impulses.”
His grin spreads slow and dangerous. “And here I thought impulses were the fun part.”
Despite everything—despite my confusion and anger and this weird disappointment gnawing at my chest—I laugh. Just a little. Just enough for it to slip out before I can murder it.
His eyebrow lifts like I’ve handed him classified information. “Did Saint Juliet just smile at me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I flip my notebook page aggressively. “I was imagining your expulsion.”
He chuckles, and the sound does something absolutely traitorous to my stomach. That low, rich laugh that probably charmed its way through half the female population of Manhattan’s Upper East Side before landing him at St. Augustine’s.
Because that’s what Grayson West is—generational wealth with a hint of rebellion. His family owns enough of the city that they could probably buy St. Augustine’s as a weekend hobby. His trust fund has a trust fund. His casual Tuesday outfit costs more than my mom’s car.
We keep working, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It’s charged. Electric. There’s a current zinging between us every time our eyes meet, every time his knee brushes mine under the table.
Something shifted in that chapel. We both feel it.
“Have you ever broken a rule?” he asks suddenly, pen stilled mid-rotation.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice drops, not teasing for once. “You talk about self-control like it’s a superpower. But have you ever just… done something you knew you shouldn’t?”
Besides kissing you back for exactly 2.3 seconds?
“Once,” I admit quietly.
He leans in. “What?”
“I snuck into the chapel after curfew. Prayed for someone I wasn’t supposed to miss.”
Someone who chose bourbon over his family. Someone who taught me that loving someone means watching them destroy themselves while you stand helplessly by.
He studies my face like he’s reading sheet music. “That’s your rebellion? Breaking and entering for prayer time?”
“Some of us rebel quietly.”
“Some of us,” he murmurs, “are desperate to be good even when we’re tempted not to be.”
Damn. He sees too much.
“Do you speak from experience?”
“I speak from recognizing the exact look someone gets when they’re losing control and pretending they’re not.”
His voice isn’t mocking anymore. It’s softer but still dangerous, like he knows exactly which buttons to press to make me unravel.
He’s pressing his finger on a bruise I didn’t know I had.
“Do you think morality’s subjective?” he asks, leaning forward again.
“In practice, maybe. But people know when they’re doing wrong.” I chew my pen cap—gross habit I can’t break. “We just learn to silence that voice.”
He watches me too long. “And you don’t silence yours?”
“I try not to.”
His lips twitch. “That’s very… you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re consistent. Even when it costs you something.” No mockery this time. Just quiet observation that makes my chest tight. “Even when it would be easier not to be.”
Why does he look at me like that? Like he’s actually seeing me instead of just another conquest?
“You’re different,” he adds after a beat. “I expected rigid. Cold. But you’re not.”
I quote Simone Weil—something I’d been saving for our conclusion—and watch him pause. Actually pause.
He doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t smirk.
He nods slowly. “That’s… actually brilliant.”
My heart does something stupid and hopeful.
“You’re not like the others,” he says softly.
Others. Right. The rotation Lily catalogued in terrifying detail.
“You don’t know me,” I whisper.
His pen stills completely. “Not yet.”
Our eyes lock. He’s closer than I realized. The table between us feels microscopic.
“You know,” he says, “I thought you’d be exhausting to work with.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m serious. But you’re sharp. I like that.” He tilts his head. “And you don’t doubt yourself.”
“You just don’t see it.”
He leans forward, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I think I do.”
The air gets thick. Our notebooks lie forgotten. His knee taps mine under the table—barely, just enough to make my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
“You keep acting like you hate me.”
My throat constricts. Because hating you would be so much easier than this.
“Maybe I hate how you make me feel.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, raw and honest and absolutely terrifying.
His eyes darken. “How do I make you feel?”
Like I’m drowning and flying at the same time. Like every rule I’ve ever made for myself is written in disappearing ink.
“Confused,” I whisper.
30
