Chapter 1: The Hug That Changes Everything
The air in Dan’s apartment always had a weight to it. It smelled like old takeout containers and the faint, sweet mildew of a carpet that hadn’t been properly cleaned in years. The only light came from the flickering television, its blue glow catching the dust motes that danced above stacks of unopened mail and discarded video game cases.
Lexi sprawled across the worn corduroy couch, her head in his lap. She was wearing nothing but one of his old band t-shirts, the fabric soft and thin from a hundred washes. It rode high on her thighs.
“You give the best big warm hugs,” she sighed, her voice a contented murmur. She nuzzled her cheek against the rough denim of his jeans. “My mom hugs all stiff, like she’s afraid I’ll break. You don’t think I’ll break, do you, Dan?”
He didn’t answer. His hand rested on the curve of her waist, his thumb absently tracing the hem of the shirt where it met her skin. The news anchor droned on about a traffic accident on the interstate. His jaw was tight.
“I had the worst day,” she continued, oblivious to his silence. “Missed the bus because I couldn’t find my pink headphones. Then my card got declined at the smoothie place. It’s so embarrassing.” She tilted her head back to look up at him, her blonde hair fanning out across his legs. Her eyes were wide, the color of a clear sky. “Can we order pizza? I’m starving.”
“You just ate,” he said, his voice flat.
“That was hours ago.” She pouted, a practiced, childish expression. She wriggled, pressing herself more firmly against him. The shirt shifted. “Please? With extra cheese. I’ll be good.”
Dan’s breath hitched. Her body was a warm, insistent pressure. Good. He stared at the flickering screen, at the mangled car illuminated by police lights, and tried to focus on that instead of the scent of her shampoo or the way the shirt collar gaped.
“You’re always good, Lex,” he said, and the words tasted like ash.
She beamed, taking it as a compliment. She reached a hand up to pat his cheek, her fingers soft and clumsy. “You get me. Everyone else is always, like, ‘Lexi, think ahead,’ or ‘Lexi, be responsible.’ It’s so boring.” Her hand slid down to his chest, fingers playing with a loose thread on his flannel. “You never tell me to be anything else.”
Because it was easier. Because the sheer, staggering simplicity of her was a blank canvas. He could paint his own frustrations, his own boredom, right onto it. His hand on her waist stilled, then flexed, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just above her hip bone. A possessive mark. She just sighed, snuggling deeper.
“Remember that guy from the concert?” she giggled suddenly. “The one with the snake tattoo? He asked for my number and I gave him my old one from, like, seventh grade. I totally forgot it changed.”
She laughed, a light, bubbling sound that clashed with the grim report from the television. Dan imagined the guy’s face. He imagined other faces. The bartender who kept giving her free shots. The so-called friend from her community college who ‘helped’ her study. All of them seeing that same vacant, inviting smile. All of them thinking what he was thinking right now.
His blood felt too hot, too close to the surface.
“You shouldn’t give your number out,” he said, the roughness in his voice surprising even him.
“Why not?” She blinked up at him, genuinely curious.
“Because they don’t want to talk, Lexi.”
“Well, what do they want?”
He looked down at her. The television light played over the perfect line of her nose, the pout of her lips, the innocent confusion in her eyes. She wasn’t playing. She truly didn’t know. The shirt had ridden up almost to her waist now. She made no move to pull it down.
A molten wire of anger, fuelled by a hunger he refused to name, coiled in his gut. Her dumb, eager little body was begging for it. For something. For anything. She’d take whatever he gave her with that same grateful smile.
“Forget it,” he muttered, shifting beneath her. “Get up. I’ll order the pizza.”
“Yay!” She bounced up, the motion careless, and the shirt did nothing to conceal the sway of her breasts or the flash of pale skin. She stood on the stained carpet, stretching her arms over her head with a little groan that was pure, unthinking provocation. “Can we get cinnamon sticks, too? With the sweet icing?”
He stood up abruptly, turning his back to her and fishing his phone from his pocket. He stabbed at the screen, his vision blurring at the edges. He needed her to put on pants. He needed her to stop talking. He needed her to understand the danger she was in, the danger he was, but she was incapable of holding the thought.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“You’re the best, Dan.” She padded into the tiny kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the linoleum. He heard the fridge open, the clink of a can. “Do you want a soda? Oh, eww, this lettuce is all black.”
He didn’t answer. He finished the order, paid the extra delivery fee, and tossed the phone onto the couch. It landed where her head had just been. The warmth was already fading.
She came back, holding two cans, a smudge of something dark on her cheek. She held one out to him. Her smile was radiant, untroubled. A princess in a crumbling castle, completely unaware the walls were rotten.
He took the can. His fingers brushed hers. A static shock jumped between them.
“Oops!” She giggled, jerking her hand back and sticking the tip of her finger in her mouth. “You shocked me.”
Dan looked at her—at the smudge on her face, the trusting eyes, the lips wrapped around her own finger. The coiled wire inside him snapped.
He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t kiss her. He just took a single, swift step into her space, crowding her against the doorframe of the kitchen. The laughter died in her throat, replaced by a small, surprised gasp. He loomed over her, blocking out the flickering light, his shadow swallowing her whole.
For one endless second, he let her see it. Let her see the raw, unfiltered want that wasn’t for hugs or giggles or pizza. It was a look that stripped away the pretense, that spoke of dirty, gripping hands and a mouth used for things other than smiling. It was a promise of how he could ruin her, and how little he’d care afterwards.
Her sky-blue eyes went wide. Not with fear, but with a dawning, baffled recognition. Like a child seeing a raised hand for the very first time.
Then he stepped back. The spell broke. He took a long, deliberate sip from the soda can, the fizz loud in the silent room.
“They’ll be here in thirty minutes,” he said, his voice perfectly, terrifyingly normal.
He walked to the window, staring out at the darkened parking lot. He could feel her standing frozen behind him, could almost hear the clumsy, slow gears turning in her head. He didn’t turn around. He let the silence stretch, let the tension he’d created hang in the thick air between them.
Finally, he heard the soft shuffle of her feet. Then the creak of the couch springs as she sat, curling her legs beneath her, pulling the hem of the shirt down over her knees.
She was quiet for the first time all night.