Chapter 1: The Afterparty
The basement air was thick enough to chew, a stale cocktail of spilled beer, pine-scented disinfectant, and the faint, sweet-sharp tang of weed. The bass from upstairs thumped through the floorboards, a steady pulse that vibrated in Cyrus’s molars. She pressed her spine into the cold, grimy cinderblock wall, feeling the uneven texture through her thin tank top.
Naethan’s body pinned her there, not with force, but with a terrifying proximity. His forearm was braised above her head, his other hand burning through the denim of her jeans, high on her thigh. His gray eyes were storm clouds, searching her face.
“He’s passed out in a lawn chair upstairs,” Naethan said, his voice a low rasp that cut under the music. “Saw him on the way down. Couldn’t tell a puck from a pinecone right now.”
Cyrus’s breath hitched. She could smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap cutting through the basement’s funk, a dangerous contrast. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about. Your captain. Your best friend.”
“I know exactly who he is.” His thumb moved, a slow, deliberate circle on the inside of her thigh. “Do you?”
The question hung there. Jake was solid, golden, predictable. He was early morning practices and late-night pizza, a hand on the small of her back at parties, a proud, easy smile. He was safe.
This—Naethan’s intense, silent watchfulness, the electric current that had arced between them since freshman orientation—was a live wire. Forbidden. She’d spent three years pretending not to feel it.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered, but her hands were fisted in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
“Probably.” He dipped his head, his lips a breath away from the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “You want me to stop?”
He didn’t move. The hand on her thigh stilled, waiting. The highlight reel on the flickering TV across the room cast erratic blue light over his sharp cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw. A discarded hockey stick lay near their feet, tape peeling.
She should say yes. She should push him away, go upstairs, find Jake, drag him home. Be a good girlfriend.
Instead, she tilted her head, offering him her neck. A silent, devastating answer.
He made a rough sound in his throat and his mouth found her skin, hot and demanding. His kiss wasn’t gentle; it was a claim. Her fingers slid into his jet-black hair, holding him there. Guilt was a cold spike in her gut, instantly molten under the heat he stirred in her.
“I’ve thought about this,” he muttered against her collarbone, his hand sliding up to cup her waist. “For years. Where I’d touch you first.”
“Where?” The word was a gasp.
“Here.” His thumb brushed the underside of her breast through her shirt. “And here.” His lips traced the line of her jaw. “And definitely here.” He finally kissed her mouth, deep and consuming, stealing the air from her lungs.
It was nothing like kissing Jake. This was a freefall. This was the dangerous thing she’d been craving without a name for it. She met his hunger with her own, biting his lower lip, earning a growl that vibrated through her.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked.
They froze, a tangle of limbs and frantic breath. Voices filtered down, laughter. Footsteps on the top landing.
Naethan reacted faster. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her hand and yanked her sideways, into the shadowy recess behind the bulk of the humming kegerator. The space was narrow, reeking of stale beer and damp concrete. He pressed her into the wall again, his body shielding her from view, a finger to his own lips.
Two guys clomped down the stairs, arguing about a slashing call in the second period. One of them kicked an empty can. It clattered across the floor, coming to rest near Cyrus’s foot. She held her breath, staring at the matte black fabric of Naethan’s shirt. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her chest, a wild echo of her own.
“Dude, Wolfe was down here. You see where he went?”
“Nah. Probably ditched. Party’s a drag anyway.”
The glow of a phone screen illuminated the gloom. The kegerator tap hissed as one of them poured a beer. They lingered for an eternity of sixty seconds before trudging back upstairs, their conversation fading.
The silence they left behind was heavier, loaded.
Naethan didn’t move. His forehead rested against the wall beside her head. “Cyrus.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say this changes everything. Don’t say we need to talk.” Her voice was shaky. “It was just a moment. A bad idea. The music was loud.”
He finally leaned back, just enough to look at her. In the gloom, his eyes were pure silver, capturing what little light there was. “You’re a terrible liar.” He brushed a strand of her fiery hair back from her cheek, his touch unnervingly tender after the violence of their kiss. “It changed everything three years ago. You just finally decided to look at it.”
She wanted to argue. To summon loyalty, duty, some shred of the person she was supposed to be. It was gone, burned away.
“Jake—” she started.
“Loves you,” Naethan finished, his voice flat. “I know. Doesn’t make what I feel a lie.” He pushed off the wall, putting a foot of cold, charged air between them. “And it doesn’t make what you just did a lie, either.”
He turned and walked toward the stairs, his figure a dark cutout against the light from above. He didn’t look back.
Cyrus slid down the wall until she was sitting on the sticky floor, her legs unable to hold her. She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her forehead on them. The imprint of his hands felt branded on her skin. The taste of him was still on her lips.
Upstairs, the party thrummed on. Jake was passed out in a lawn chair. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—probably a message from her roommate asking where she was.
She didn’t move. She just sat in the dark, the ghost of Naethan’s whisper against her neck, the weight of what she’d just done settling over her shoulders, heavier than any guilt she’d ever imagined. It wasn’t regret. That was the terrifying part.
It was the dizzying, gut-deep certainty that he was right. And that nothing, not loyalty or friendship or the easy, sunlit path of her life, would ever be the same again.