He’s home for break.

That’s what my friend said when she texted me, casual as ever, like she wasn’t dropping a problem straight into my lap.

He’s home for break. He’s taller. He’s so helpful. You’d love him.

I should’ve ignored it.

I should’ve been normal about it.

But I wasn’t.

Because the first time I saw him again—standing in the doorway with that easy confidence, that grown-man voice that didn’t match the face I remembered—my brain did something stupid.

It went quiet.

And my body went warm.

He smiled at me like he already knew he was trouble.

“Hey,” he said. “Long time.”

My mouth worked fine, but my thoughts didn’t.

“Hey,” I managed, like I hadn’t just noticed the way his shoulders filled out his shirt. Like I hadn’t just clocked the fact that he smelled expensive. Like I didn’t feel my pulse in places I didn’t want to admit.

My friend ran around the house in hostess mode, laughing and talking, proud of her boy like she should be.

And me?

I tried to act like I wasn’t thinking about what he’d look like with his hands on me.

We were in the kitchen when it started—when it turned from harmless to dangerous.

My friend stepped out to grab something from the garage, and it was just the two of us for a minute.

One minute.

That’s all it took.

He leaned against the counter like he belonged there, watching me with that slow, bold focus that made my skin prickle.

“You look good,” he said, like it was nothing.

I laughed, soft and forced. “Don’t flirt with me.”

He didn’t even blink.

“I’m not flirting,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth.”

My stomach dipped. My throat went dry.

He took one step closer.

Not too close. Just close enough.

“I remember you,” he said, quiet. “You always looked like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

I should’ve shut it down.

I should’ve pulled away and reminded him who his mother was.

Instead, I stood there, frozen, while he looked at me like he was daring me to be the one who behaved.

And the worst part?

It was working.

My friend came back in, and I snapped into place, smiling too brightly, talking too fast, pretending my face wasn’t hot.

But he kept watching me.

All night.

Every time I moved, his eyes followed. Every time I laughed, I could feel the weight of him across the room like a hand on my waist.

I tried to play it cool.

I tried to be the adult.

But then my friend got a phone call and stepped outside again—another perfectly timed moment that felt like the universe laughing at me.

This time, he didn’t waste it.

He came up behind me while I was rinsing a glass at the sink, close enough that I felt the heat of him at my back.

“Amanda,” he said, and my name sounded different in his mouth. Lower. Heavier. Like a suggestion.

I turned around too fast, breath catching when I realized how close he was.

“You’re being dangerous,” I whispered.

His smile was slow. Confident. Wrong.

“So are you,” he murmured. “You’ve been thinking about it all night.”

I tried to scoff. “No I haven’t.”

He tilted his head. “Liar.”

It hit me right in the gut—because he was right, and we both knew it.

I should’ve stepped away.

I should’ve said something smart.

Instead, I stood there, staring at his mouth like it had answers.

He looked at me for half a second like he was checking one last time—like he wanted to see if I’d stop him.

I didn’t.

His hand landed on my hip, firm and certain, and my body reacted like it had been waiting for it. Like it had been aching for permission to stop pretending.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.

I should’ve.

I didn’t.

I grabbed his shirt instead, pulling him in just enough to make the line disappear. Just enough to make it real.

His mouth met mine, hot and hungry, and every ounce of common sense I had went up in smoke.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t careful.

It was the kind of kiss that feels like a bad decision you don’t want to survive.

I broke away first, breath shaking.

“This is… this is insane,” I whispered.

He nodded like he agreed, like he was already addicted. “Then let’s be insane.”

I should’ve walked out.

I should’ve remembered everything I could lose.

Instead…

I let him guide me down the hall, quiet and quick, like we were sneaking into a secret we could never admit out loud.

The guest room door clicked shut, and it was like the whole house exhaled.

He looked at me in the dim light, eyes dark, and I felt it—the heat, the risk, the thrill of doing something I couldn’t take back.

“You’re sure?” he asked, and it was the only gentle thing he did.

I swallowed hard. “I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life.”

He stepped in closer anyway. “That’s not what I asked.”

I looked up at him, pulse pounding, and whispered the truth.

“Yes.”

His grin turned wicked.

“Good,” he said.

And then he kissed me again, deeper this time, like he’d won something.

Like I had.

Because when his hands slid over me, when my body pressed into him like it belonged there, I realized something terrifying:

I didn’t just want him.

I wanted to be caught wanting him.

I wanted the danger.

I wanted the secret.

I wanted the heat of it burning under my skin long after he left for college again.

And if that makes me a bad friend?

Maybe.

But in that moment, with him holding me like he meant it…

I didn’t feel bad.

I felt alive.