Chapter 1: Smoke Break Behind the Pool House
The back door swung shut behind me with a click, and the humid night air wrapped around my skin like a wet blanket.
The backyard was a different world from the party inside—quieter, darker, tangled with the skeletal remains of ivy that clawed up the weathered brick wall surrounding the property. String lights hung overhead, their bulbs flickering like dying fireflies, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. The bass from the house thumped through the walls, a muffled heartbeat that seemed to follow me as I made my way down the cracked stone steps.
I was drunk. Not fall-on-my-face drunk, but that warm, floating kind where everything felt soft around the edges. My head buzzed pleasantly, and my skin was flushed from the shots Maya kept pushing across the kitchen counter. Lemon drops. Six of them. Maybe seven. I'd lost count somewhere around the third round, when Rachel started telling that story about her boss and the office Christmas party, and I'd laughed so hard I nearly choked on my own spit.
But now I needed air. And weed. Definitely weed.
The smell had drifted through the back screen door—earthy and sweet, unmistakable. Someone had good taste. I followed it past the empty patio chairs clustered around a fire pit where the last embers of a bonfire smoldered beneath a sky choked with cicadas. Their screaming filled the silence between the thump of the music, a frantic, buzzing chorus that made my ears ring.
The pool house materialized through the darkness, its rusted gate groaning open when I pushed through. The patio behind it was cracked and uneven, weeds sprouting through the fissures in the concrete. A single floodlight mounted above the door cast a weak cone of light across the space, illuminating exactly one thing.
Derek Callahan.
He was leaning against the pool house wall, one foot propped up behind him, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his tie—wait, was that a tie?—hanging loose around his neck. The joint between his fingers glowed orange when he took a pull, the cherry flaring bright before dimming again.
He looked up when he heard the gate.
And for a second, neither of us said anything.
I hadn't seen him in four months. Not since the breakup. Not since Jake packed his shit and moved out of our apartment, leaving me with a half-empty closet and a lease I couldn't afford. Derek had been at the periphery of all that—Jake's best friend, the guy who showed up to help move boxes, who stood awkwardly in the doorway while Jake and I screamed at each other through the bathroom door.
He'd texted me once, a few weeks after. Just checking in. I never responded.
Now here he was, looking at me like I was the last person he expected to walk through that gate. Which, fair. I was probably the last person he wanted to see.
"Mia." His voice was low, careful. The way you'd talk to a stray dog you weren't sure would bite.
"Derek." I matched his tone, crossing my arms over my chest. The lace of my shirt scratched against my skin. "Didn't know you were here."
"Ryan's party. He's my cousin." He held up the joint like an offering. "You looking for this?"
I should have turned around. Should have walked back through that gate, back into the house, back to the safety of my friends and the lemon drops and the music that was loud enough to drown out thoughts like the ones currently forming in my head.
Instead, I walked toward him.
"Maybe."
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. He was handsome in that way that snuck up on you—not flashy, not obvious, just easy. Sandy hair that looked like he'd been running his fingers through it all night. Blue eyes that were too observant for his own good. A swimmer's build under his button-down, lean and strong without trying too hard.
He'd always been the steady one. The reliable one. The guy who showed up when you needed him and never asked for anything in return. I'd noticed him plenty of times when Jake and I were together. Noticed the way he looked at me when he thought no one was watching. Noticed the way he'd find excuses to be in the same room, to join conversations, to stand just a little too close.
I'd never done anything about it. Because he was Jake's best friend, and I was Jake's girlfriend, and that was that.
But Jake wasn't my boyfriend anymore.
I stopped a few feet away, close enough to smell the weed and something else underneath it—laundry detergent, maybe, and a hint of cologne. Something clean. Something that made me want to lean in closer.
"That's not an answer." Derek held the joint out, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "You want it or not?"
I plucked it from his hand and brought it to my lips. The paper was warm where his fingers had been, damp at the tip. I inhaled, letting the smoke fill my lungs, holding it there until my chest ached. Then I let it out slow, watching the cloud dissipate into the darkness.
"Thanks." My voice came out rougher than I intended.
Derek was watching me. Not my face—my hands. The way I held the joint. The way I tilted my head back when I exhaled.
I felt it before I saw it. That prickle of awareness that skated down my spine and settled somewhere low in my belly. The alcohol had loosened something in me, made me reckless. Made me want to push buttons I had no business pushing.
"The lighter's in my pocket," Derek said.
I raised an eyebrow. "You want me to reach in there?"
"Depends." He didn't look away. "You want to?"
The air between us thickened. I blamed the humidity. Blamed the weed. Blamed the shots and the flickering lights and the cicadas screaming their relentless chorus overhead.
I didn't blame the way my pulse jumped when he held my gaze.
"Where'd you park?" I asked, sidestepping the question—and him—to lean against the wall beside him. My shoulder brushed his arm. He didn't move away.
"Street. Behind some van." He shifted, angling his body toward mine. "You?"
"Front driveway. Blocked in by at least three cars." I took another pull from the joint, then held it out to him. "Might be stuck here all night."
"There are worse places."
I snorted. "Yeah? Name one."
"The dentist."
I laughed despite myself, the sound escaping before I could stop it. It came out too loud, too genuine, and I pressed my lips together to muffle it.
Derek grinned. It was the same grin I remembered from all those months ago—easy, warm, disarming. The kind of grin that made you forget, for just a second, that you were supposed to be guarded.
"You're still funny," I said. "That's annoying."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"You're not sorry."
"No." He took the joint from my fingers, his skin brushing mine. The contact lasted half a second, but I felt it linger longer, like a smudge of ash on a windowsill. "I'm not."
The pool house door rattled in its frame, and we both flinched. But no one came through. Just the wind. Just the ghost of a party that neither of us seemed eager to return to.
"I heard you moved," Derek said after a moment. The question hung in the air between us, tentative and loaded.
"Yeah. Studio apartment in Midtown. It's small, but it's mine." I shrugged like it didn't matter, like the rent wasn't eating half my paycheck and the walls weren't paper-thin and I didn't spend most nights wondering if I'd made the right call. "You?"
"Still in the same place. Off 7th." He passed the joint back. His eyes dropped—just for a second, just a flicker—to the bare strip of skin between my shirt and my shorts. To the ink curving over my hips, the black lace of my shorts, the tattoos that framed my waist like parentheses.
He looked away fast. But not fast enough.
I felt my face heat, and this time it wasn't the alcohol.
"Like what you see?" The words came out before I could stop them. Bold, impulsive, the kind of thing I would have said to any other guy without a second thought.
But Derek wasn't any other guy.
He was quiet for a beat. Then another. The cicadas filled the silence, buzzing their frantic song.
"Everyone can see." His voice was even, but there was an edge to it now. Something underneath the calm. "That shirt doesn't leave much to the imagination."
"Maybe that's the point."
He looked at me then. Really looked. His blue eyes traced the curve of my jaw, the slope of my neck, the exposed skin still damp with sweat from dancing. When his gaze finally met mine, there was something raw there. Something hungry. Something he was trying very hard to leash.
"You're drunk, Mia."
"I'm tipsy."
"Same thing."
I pushed off the wall, turning to face him fully. We were close now. Close enough that I could see the stubble on his jaw, the faint lines around his eyes. Close enough that if I leaned forward even an inch, I could—
"Does it matter?" I asked.
Derek closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the hunger was still there, but tempered. Controlled. The same steady Derek everyone knew and trusted.
"Yeah." His voice was softer now. "It matters."
I didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know what to do with the way it made my chest tighten, my throat close up, my eyes sting with something I refused to name.
So I looked away.
The joint had burned down to a nub between my fingers. I dropped it on the cracked patio and crushed it with the toe of my sneaker, grinding it into the concrete until there was nothing left but ash.
"I should go back inside." I said it to the ground, to the weeds, to anything but him.
"Mia."
I looked up.
Derek was still leaning against the wall, but he'd straightened. His arms were crossed now, and he was watching me with an expression I couldn't read. Not quite pity. Not quite longing. Something in between.
"I'm glad you're okay," he said. "I didn't—after everything—I didn't know. If you were okay."
The words hit me somewhere soft. Somewhere I'd been keeping locked up and barred for months.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"Are you?"
No. No, I wasn't. I was a mess of half-processed feelings and unhealed wounds and a stubborn refusal to admit that maybe, just maybe, I'd been holding onto something that wasn't worth holding.
But I wasn't about to tell him that.
"I'm fine," I repeated, harder this time. "What about you? Still hanging around Jake?"
Derek's jaw tightened. "He's my friend."
"He's an asshole."
"Yeah." He didn't argue. "He is."
The admission caught me off guard. I stared at him, waiting for the backtrack, the excuse, the loyalty that would put me back in my place.
It didn't come.
"He was never good enough for you," Derek said. "Not even close."
The words landed like a punch to the chest. I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Just air. Just the gap between what I wanted to say and what I could actually admit.
Derek pushed off the wall, closing the distance between us. He was close enough now that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the smoke on his breath, see the way his pulse jumped at his throat.
"Tell me to back off," he said quietly. "And I will."
I should have. I knew I should have. This was dangerous territory—forbidden, complicated, a mess waiting to happen. He was Jake's best friend. I was Jake's ex. Whatever was happening here, whatever sparks were catching in the space between us, it could only end badly.
But I didn't say anything.
Derek's hand came up, slow and careful, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His thumb grazed my cheek, gentle and deliberate, and every nerve in my body lit up like a pinball machine.
"You're blushing," he said.
"It's the alcohol."
"Sure it is."
I should have laughed. Should have rolled my eyes. Should have stepped back and walked away, back through that gate and into the safety of the noise and the crowd and the people who didn't make me feel like I was standing on the edge of something I couldn't take back.
But I stayed.
And when Derek leaned in, his forehead brushing mine, his breath warm against my lips, I didn't pull away.
The cicadas screamed. The lights flickered. Somewhere inside, the music shifted to a new song, and someone cheered.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us moved.
The air between us felt electric, charged with something I couldn't name. His breath was warm against my lips, mint and smoke and something sweeter underneath. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild, insistent rhythm that drowned out the cicadas, the music, the distant laughter from the party.
I could feel the heat of his body, the barely-there brush of his chest against mine. His hand was still cupping my cheek, thumb tracing slow circles against my skin. Every nerve ending in my body was tuned to him, hyperaware of the way his breathing had gone shallow, the way his fingers trembled just slightly against my jaw.
This was a bad idea.
This was the worst idea.
I leaned in and I kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that had been building for months—maybe years—a collision of everything we'd both been holding back. His lips were warm and firm, and he tasted like weed and whiskey and something that was just him. My hands found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He made a sound low in his throat—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then his arms wrapped around me, one hand sliding into my hair, the other pressing flat against the small of my back. He kissed me like he'd been starving for it, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into the heat and the pressure and the way his tongue brushed against mine, slow and deliberate. The world narrowed to the space between us, to the push and pull of our bodies, to the desperate, aching need that had been simmering under my skin for longer than I wanted to admit.
When I finally pulled away, we were both breathless. My lips tingled, swollen and sensitive. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and he looked at me like I'd just rearranged his entire universe.
I stepped back. Just a little. Just enough to put space between us before I did something stupid like climb him like a tree.
"By the way," I said, my voice rough and unsteady. "Just because I dressed like this here tonight doesn't mean I'm a whore."
Derek blinked. "What?"
"I was just having a good time." I gestured vaguely at my outfit, at the lace and the skin and the tattoos. "This is just—it's just clothes. It doesn't mean anything."
"I didn't think—"
"I'm doing okay." The words tumbled out faster now, a dam breaking. "I'm healing. So yeah. I'm fine."
"Mia—"
"I feel like a fucking fool." My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated myself for it. Hated the way my eyes burned, the way my throat tightened, the way everything I'd been bottling up for months came spilling out in the middle of some stranger's backyard. "He was literally fucking everyone. Like, everyone. There were more cougars than a damn fucking zoo."
Derek's expression shifted. The hunger faded, replaced by something softer. Something that looked a lot like guilt.
"I know," he said quietly.
"You knew?"
"I found out after. He told me—he told me some of it. Not all of it." He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. "I should have said something. I should have—"
"It's not your job to babysit your friend's relationships."
"No. But it's my job to be honest with you." He met my eyes, steady and unwavering. "And I wasn't. I let you walk into that blind."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just stood there, arms crossed over my chest, trying to hold myself together.
"I'm sorry I didn't text back," I said finally. "I didn't want to put you in a weird spot with Jake."
"I get it."
"But I've always had a thing for you." The words came out before I could stop them, raw and honest and terrifying. "Since the beginning."
Derek went very still.
"The beginning," he repeated.
"The first time Jake brought me to that stupid bowling night. You were wearing that ugly sweater with the reindeer on it, and you spilled beer on your shoes, and you laughed so hard you almost choked." I shook my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "I thought, that's the guy. That's the one I should be with."
"You never said anything."
"What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know we just met, but I think I'm in love with your best friend?"
The word hung in the air between us. Love. I hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to admit it, even to myself.
Derek stepped closer. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining, palm warm against palm.
"I've been in love with you for three years," he said. "Since that same stupid bowling night. Since you laughed at my ugly sweater and told me I had beer on my shoes and then spent the whole night making fun of me for it."
I stared at him. "Three years?"
"Three years." He squeezed my hand. "I never said anything because you were with Jake. And then you weren't, and I didn't know if you'd want to hear it. Didn't know if you'd want me."
"I want you."
The words came out fierce, almost angry. Like I was daring him to contradict me.
Derek's mouth curved into that slow, easy grin. The one that made my stomach flip.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
The pool house door rattled again, and this time it swung open. A guy stumbled out, reeking of tequila, and blinked at us like we were aliens who'd just landed in his backyard.
"Bathroom's inside," he slurred.
"Thanks, man." Derek didn't look away from me. "We're good."
The guy shrugged and wandered off toward the house, muttering something about tacos.
We both laughed. It broke the tension, softened the edges of everything we'd just laid bare. Derek pulled me toward him, wrapping his arms around my waist, and I let myself lean into his chest. His heart was beating fast, a mirror of my own.
"We should probably talk about this," I said into his shirt. "Like, actually talk. When we're not drunk and standing in some random backyard."
"Probably."
"And I should probably tell my friends I'm not dead."
"Probably."
"And you should probably stop being so agreeable."
"Probably." He kissed the top of my head. "But I'm not going to."
I tilted my head back to look at him. His eyes were soft, warm, full of something that made my chest ache in the best possible way.
"This is complicated," I said.
"Yep."
"Jake's going to lose his mind."
"Probably."
"You're not worried?"
Derek considered this. "I've spent three years putting everyone else's feelings ahead of my own. I'm done with that."
I didn't know what to say. So I kissed him again, softer this time, slower. A promise instead of a confession.
When I pulled back, he was smiling.
"Come on," he said, lacing his fingers through mine. "Let's go find your friends before they send out a search party."
We walked back through the rusted gate, past the smoldering fire pit, under the flickering string lights. The cicadas screamed their endless song. The music from the house pulsed through the walls, a familiar beat.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered that this was only the beginning.