One more secret won't hurt/ Bunny Corcoran x Reader
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Chapter 22: Exes and Ohs
Morning creeps on slowly and remembering that everyone very likely heard that whole mess from last night, I realize that it probably wasnât that good of an idea. Now Iâll have to get up and face their teasing. I groaned softly into the pillow, dragging the covers up over my head, wishing I could disappear into them.
Bunny stirred beside me. I felt the bed shift as he rolled onto his back and let out a quiet yawn. âYou awake?â he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
-âUnfortunately,â I replied.
There was a pause. Then he chuckled under his breath. âWe probably made the group chat.â
-âDonât say that. I donât even want to check my phone.â
âWe can blame it on the whiskey. Or you can just tell the truth, say I lost a bet.â His voice was teasing, but I heard it, that little thread of nervousness underneath. Like he wasnât quite sure what the energy between us was now. I wasnât either.
I slide out of bed quietly and gather my things. I want to avoid the walk of shame, or, in this case, the walk of âI dared my friend to perform audio erotica while sharing a bedâ, at all costs, but thereâs no use.
I steeled myself and headed downstairs, dragging my suitcase behind me. Bunny buried his head back in his pillow, still too sleepy to deal.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, five heads turned.
-âGood morning,â Charles sing-songed, grinning into his coffee mug.
-âSleep well?â Camila added, one eyebrow arched way too high.
Francis didnât even try to hide his smirk. âYou know, if you two had just hooked up, Iâd be less disturbed. But that⌠whatever that was⌠and with the mustardâŚ?â He shuddered dramatically. âI feel like I need to go to church.â
Richard, bless him, was already choking on laughter.
I forced a laugh, clutching my travel mug like a lifeline. âOkay, first of all, that was not what it sounded like.â
-âOh?â Henry leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that mild, unreadable expression he always wore when he was holding back amusement. âAnd what exactly was it, then?â
-âA dare. A very stupid dare. We were playing truth or dare and Bunny picked dare. But nothing actually happened.â I hoped my tone was believable enough.
There was a collective pause.
Then Charles gasped, clutching his chest. âOh my god, that makes it so much worse.â
Camila nodded solemnly. âYou made him do that for a dare? Youâre a menace.â
I pointed at her. âExactly. Iâm a menace. Heâs a victim. It was not sexy, it was not romantic, it was performance art and I regret everything. Can we please just move on?â
Francis was already laughing. âYou say that like we donât have a lifetime of material now.â
-âI still think they fuckedâŚâ Charles said, sharing a look with Francis.
Before I could throw myself into the sink, Henry stepped forward, mercifully breaking the teasing.
-âWe should get going,â he said, checking his watch. âTrain leaves in an hour, right?â
-âRight. Yes. Thank you. Letâs go,â I said quickly, grabbing my stuff and heading for the door. âBunny, Iâm leaving!â I yelled up the stairs, as I hugged my friends goodbye.
I heard the thump of hurried footsteps above me, and a moment later he appeared at the top of the stairs, still in the same rumpled shirt from last night, hair wild, eyes puffy from sleep.
-âHey- wait,â he called, jogging down the steps, barefoot. âYou werenât gonna leave without saying goodbye properly, were you?â
-âI was trying to spare you the shame,â I smirked, but my voice wobbled more than I liked.
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. âIâve been through worse. Probably. Plus, Iâm the one staying here with the jerks.â
I stepped outside as he followed me, stolen slipperâs on his feet, Â to the car where Henry was already waiting, leaning on the driverâs side, politely pretending not to eavesdrop.
Bunny came to stand beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, the cool morning breeze ruffling his hair. âHey,â he said, quieter now. âThanks for this week. For the chaos. The mustard. Everything.â
I gave him a small smile. âBack at you. Youâre a surprisingly good roommate. Loud, dramatic, but dependable.â
âIâll take that as a compliment.â
A pause. Something hung in the air between us, maybe it was the shared memory of last night, or the soft way the morning light hit his face, or the echo of my own realization that was still rattling around in my chest. But I couldnât say any of it. Not now.
Instead, I leaned in and gave him a quick hug. I meant it to be brief, but he held on just a second longer than I expected. His hand brushed the small of my back before pulling away.
âWrite me dumb texts from your momâs house,â he said, a hit of pleading hidden in his tone.
âI will.â
He stepped back as I got into the car, and Henry wordlessly pulled away from the house. Through the window, I caught one last glimpse of Bunny standing in the driveway, waving.
âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚ
The drive was quiet. The air was thick with early sunlight and leftover awkwardness. Henry didnât speak for a long time, just focused on the road, the occasional tap of his fingers against the steering wheel the only sound.
I was grateful for the silence, honestly. I needed time to sort through the tangled mess in my head. Bunnyâs sleepy smile. The way he had moaned like his life depended on it. How my chest had ached when I realized I didnât want to leave his side. What an inconvenient time for a life altering realization.
Halfway through the drive, Henry glanced at me.
âYou two are close,â he said simply.
I stiffened. âPlease donât.â
Henry didnât respond right away. He just gave a knowing little hum, then focused back on the road. âHe cares about you,â he said after a moment. âHeâs a mess, but heâs got a good heart. Loud about it, but still.â
Damn Henry.
I didnât answer. I couldnât. Not with the way my throat tightened.
âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚ
The train station was a blur of noise and motion. I boarded with a twinge of reluctance, backpack slung over one shoulder, suitcase dragging behind me, Â earbuds in even though I wasnât playing anything. Just blocking out the world.
Once the train started moving, I found a window seat and curled up beside it, forehead resting against the cool glass.
Outside, the trees and towns blurred together, but inside, my mind was stuck. On Bunnyâs laugh. On the way his voice had dropped when he whispered, âHas it been a minute yet?â On how safe it felt to fall asleep next to him.
I exhaled, fogging up the glass, and wrote a little heart in the condensation with my fingertip. Then wiped it away before anyone could see.
Because I was in so much trouble.
âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚ
The train pulled into the station right on time, and there she was, my mom, standing on the platform like a movie clichĂŠ, arms folded tightly across her chest, wearing her usual smile. Next to her stood Don, her boyfriend and permanent flannel-shirt enthusiast, waving like I was a toddler arriving home from summer camp.
-âHi, sweetheart,â my mom said as I stepped off the train, pulling me into one of her patented overly long hugs that always made me feel like I was being measured instead of comforted.
-âHey, Mom. Don.â
-âLook at you, youâve gotten skinnier,â she said immediately, pulling back and scanning me like a catalog item. âAre you eating enough?â
-âYup, still believe in food. Hi to you too,â I muttered, giving Don a polite nod as he reached for my suitcase with the enthusiasm of a man pretending it was heavier than it actually was.
-âGood trip?â Don asked as we walked to the car.
-âYep. Uneventful.â
They didnât need to know about the truth-or-dare moaning debacle, or the part where I realized I was desperately in love with my best friend.
We drove in silence for a bit, Don humming along to the radio, Mom occasionally stealing glances at me like she wanted to ask something but was holding back. The house was exactly as I remembered it: pristine, quiet, the furniture all color-coordinated like a staged real estate listing. Too clean. Too perfect.
Inside, my old room looked untouched, like a museum exhibit dedicated to my teenage angst. Same posters, same creaky twin bed, same stuffed rabbit on the shelf Iâd never admitted was sentimental.
-âGo ahead and get settled in,â Mom called from the kitchen. âDinnerâs going to be special tonight!â
That shouldâve been my first red flag.
I unpacked a little, freshened up, and made my way to the kitchen. The table was already half-set, candles and all. I narrowed my eyes.
-âSo⌠special, how?â I asked, eyeing the fancy china on the table.
-âWell,â Mom said, not looking up from arranging the silverware with militant precision, âsince we couldnât all be together for Christmas, I thought, why not a late Christmas dinner?â
-âThatâs⌠thoughtful?â I said, slowly.
-âAnd I figured itâd be nice to catch up with old friends. You know, people who meant a lot to you.â
My stomach tightened.
She smiled, real pleased with herself now. âSo I invited Noah.â
My whole body went cold. âYou what?â
-âHeâs had a rough time too, you know? I thought it might be healing for both of you.â
-âMom, we broke up. And not like, friendly coffee and closure broke up. Like ugly, please stop calling my friends broke up.â
-âHeâs matured. Youâll see. Besides, itâs just dinner.â
Don awkwardly patted my shoulder on the way past, clearly wanting no part of this conversation. âTurkey smells great, honey,â he said, disappearing down the hall like he was fleeing a crime scene.
I stood frozen in the doorway, heart hammering. I thought this week was going to be hard. I didnât realize it was going to be war. Seeing Noah was literally the last thing I needed right now.
There was no point making a scene, her plan was already in motion. The tables were set, the turkey was probably already halfway cooked, and judging by her tone, she'd already mentally photoshopped a happy reunion into the family photo album. The smartest thing now was to survive the evening without setting the house on fire and then, when the dust settled, firmly explain to my mother why ambush therapy dinners were not okay.
At least it wasnât going to be just us. A few relatives and family friends were coming, people who never turned down free wine and overcooked poultry. I could orbit the crowd, fade into the background, and avoid Noah entirely if I played my cards right.
I sighed and resigned myself to the torture. Just half an hour until the first round of awkward smiles and backhanded compliments.
I found Don in the living room and sat down with him, thankful for the calm. We swapped Christmas stories, he told me about their cruise and the tacky live shows, and I told him a heavily censored version of my week at the country house. No moaning dares. No revelations. Just the snow, the fireplace, and my âeccentric friends.â Don laughed at all the right parts and didnât ask too many questions. Out of all the men my mom had dated, Don was the one I actually liked. He didnât try too hard, and he always talked to me like a person, not a project.
Eventually, the house started to fill up. My little cousins came charging through the door like sugar-high tornadoes, clinging to my dress and immediately begging for games on my phone. Aunts and uncles arrived in waves of perfume and plaid, dishing out side-hugs and stories I already knew. I helped in the kitchen, poured wine, played the role of the good daughter, the helpful niece, the one who was fine.
Then, three knocks at the door. Firm. Familiar.
Everyone else was here.
It had to be Noah.
I steeled myself, smoothed out my dress, and walked slowly to the door like I was approaching an execution. I took a deep breath and opened it.
There he was.
He looked⌠annoyingly good. The same thoughtful eyes and sharp cheekbones, but with a new haircut that made him look more mature somehow. Still tall, still lean, still tattooed forearms peeking out from under the sleeves of his flannel button-down. He was holding a bottle of wine and wearing that same bashful, slightly crooked smile I remembered.
-âHey,â he said, his voice soft and uncertain, pulling me into a brief, lopsided hug. It wasnât forced. Just⌠cautious. Respectful.
-âHey,â I echoed, stepping back. âIâm⌠sorry about my mom. She didnât tell me she invited you.â
He gave a little shrug, lifting the wine. âHonestly? I shouldâve seen it coming. This feels like a Cynthia move.â
I cracked a small smile in spite of myself. âYeah. Classic.â
We both stood there for a second, caught in the weight of the weirdness. Then I asked, âHowâve you been?â
-âGood. Busy,â he nodded. âThe bandâs still going, we got picked up for a couple gigs out of state. Iâve been writing a lot. I teach some music lessons on the side now too.â
-âThatâs awesome. Sounds like youâve got a good thing going.â
He gave me that familiar grateful look, like he actually believed I meant it. âTrying. You look good, by the way.â
I tried not to freeze at that. It didnât feel loaded. Just⌠kind. But still, ugh.
-âThanks,â I said, tone neutral but not cold. âCome on in.â
He stepped inside and slipped off his boots, glancing around the house like it was both familiar and foreign. Like he wasnât sure if he was still allowed to make himself comfortable.
We were both older now. Different. Still tethered to the same shared past, but no longer living in it.
This was going to beâŚÂ interesting.
âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚ
Dinner was served with the chaotic precision of a battlefield. Dishes passed from hand to hand, children shouting over each other about mashed potatoes, and Don heroically carving the turkey like it was a competitive sport. And yet, beneath the noise and festive lighting, I could feel it, that careful orchestration. My momâs fingerprints were all over this.
Sheâd set the table earlier, saying it was âjust random,â but now I noticed the pattern. Very specific placements. Cousins clustered at one end. The kids' table by the fireplace. Don at the head. And then, me. With an empty seat to my left. And across from us, a perfectly positioned view for my mother.
I sat down slowly, glaring at my napkin like it might sprout wings and fly me out of there. Noah caught on the second he walked in and scanned the table. There goes my plan to avoid him.
-âOf course,â he muttered under his breath, giving me an apologetic look as he slid into the seat beside me. âI swear, I didnât ask for this.â
-âI know,â I sighed. âThis has âCynthia scheme #47â written all over it.â
He chuckled quietly, and I hated how easy it still was to fall into old rhythms. The way our jokes clicked into place like well-worn gears.
My mom floated past behind us, placing an extra bottle of wine on the table like a peace offering.
-âBe nice, you two,â she said sweetly, patting both our shoulders before disappearing into the kitchen again.
-âI feel like weâre in a holiday hostage situation,â I muttered, pouring myself a very necessary glass of wine.
-âStockholm Syndrome starts with bread rolls,â Noah whispered, tearing one in half and sliding the plate toward me.
The first twenty minutes were easy enough to coast through. Noah talked mostly to Don and my uncle about music stuff, and I focused on the kids, sneaking green beans onto their plates while they werenât looking. But then, inevitably, conversation slowed. People got up for seconds. My mom put on holiday music in the background.
And somehow, it was just the two of us again.
-âYouâve really changed,â Noah said, his voice lower now, more careful. âI mean that in a good way. You seem⌠lighter. Happier.â
I blinked, not expecting something that sincere. âThanks. I feel that way too. Getting away helped. New people, new place. It made it easier to, I dunno, breathe.â
He nodded slowly. âIâm glad. I wasnât exactly the easiest person to be with back then.â
I looked at him. Really looked. And it hit me how rare it is for people to actually admit that. To not dress it up or deflect.
-âYou werenât all bad,â I said. âBut yeah. It got hard. And I felt like I was slowly shrinking just to keep things calm. I needed more space than that.â
He was quiet for a moment. âI get it. I think about it a lot, actually. How I couldâve handled things better. I was scared of losing you and didnât know how to deal with it. So I clung harder, which just made it worse.â
-âThatâs kind of the thing, though,â I said gently. âYou werenât losing me until you made it feel like I didnât belong to myself anymore.â
We let the silence hang there for a moment, soft and heavy like snowfall. Then he exhaled a quiet laugh.
-âYouâve gotten really good at saying what you mean.â
-âCollegeâll do that to you,â I said with a small smile.
He smiled too. âWell⌠Iâm glad weâre talking. Even if itâs in your momâs holiday matchmaking trap.â
I snorted. âHonestly? Same.â
We went back to picking at our plates, and for the first time since Iâd arrived, the tension began to loosen a bit.
As plates emptied and the noise around the table morphed into the lazy hum of post-feast satisfaction, things between Noah and me had started to shift, just a little. It mightâve been the wine, or the comfort of shared history, or maybe just the exhaustion of holding onto awkwardness for so long.
- âRemember that time we tried to make cookies from scratch with no recipe?â I said, swirling the wine in my glass and giving him a sideways glance.
Noah grinned instantly, his dimples showing. âYou mean the sugarless disaster that we tried to pass off as âshortbreadâ to your mom?â
-âShe was so mad. All those wasted ingredients⌠And then you pretended to choke just to make her laugh.â
- âWorked, didnât it?â he said, with a mock-pompous tilt of his chin. âSaved the day with my top-tier comedic timing.â
-âYou also dropped an entire tray on her foot,â I pointed out, laughing.
-âMinor details,â he said, chuckling with me. âHonestly, I think that was the moment Don started bonding with me. Shared survivorâs trauma.â
I laughed louder than I meant to, and he looked at me, eyes warm, amused. It felt strangely good to laugh with him again. The tension had dulled to something nostalgic, familiar. I caught myself remembering why Iâd fallen for him in the first place, and, equally, why it had stopped working. But right now, we were in the sweet spot. No expectations, just⌠memory.
I leaned back in my chair, watching a little cousin attempt to climb into the fruit bowl.
-âYou wanna sneak away?â I asked quietly, glancing over at Noah. âGet some air? Like old times. Balconyâs still there.â
He raised an eyebrow. âYou think Iâd say no to that?â
Then, with a perfectly mischievous glint, he reached under the table, opened the side cabinet behind him, and pulled out a bottle of Hennessy like it was muscle memory.
-âReally?â I laughed, eyes wide. âStill remember where they keep it, huh?â
-âSome things never change,â he grinned, holding it up like a trophy. âBesides, your mom owes me for the seating arrangement ambush.â
With a glance over our shoulders to make sure no one was paying attention, we slipped out of the dining room and padded up the stairs, avoiding the one step that creaked. It felt like a rewind in time, just the two of us, sneaking around like teenagers again.
My room hadnât changed much since I left, aside from the dusty bookshelves and an old scarf still draped over the mirror. The balcony doors creaked open like they always had, and we stepped out into the chilly evening air, the lights of the neighborhood soft and scattered like stars below us.
Noah handed me the bottle and sat down on one of the old folding chairs. âSo⌠are we rebels again, or just two sad adults in holiday exile?â
I smiled and took a swig, coughing dramatically. âWhy not both?â
He laughed, and we leaned back into the silence for a moment, just breathing in the evening air.
The night was crisp, the cold biting just enough to make the Hennessy feel like warmth in a bottle. We passed it back and forth in silence at first, the kind that felt comfortable rather than strained. The hum of conversation and clinking plates inside the house faded into the background, replaced by the rustle of wind through trees and the occasional distant laugh.
- âI used to think this balcony was the coolest place on earth,â Noah said, tilting his head back to look at the sky. âLike we were above everything. Just⌠floating.â
I smirked. âYou used to? I still think itâs the coolest place. Especially when Iâm hiding from dinner-table ambushes.â
He grinned, eyes flicking toward me. âHey, I was ambushed too. I didnât know youâd be home til last minute. It was too late to cancel then. But I somewhat salvaged the evening with that bottleâŚâ
I held the bottle up in salute. âYou really did.â
He let out a soft laugh and looked around the balcony. âYou remember when we camped out here one night after that fight with your mom?â
I nodded. âYou brought blankets and that crappy little Bluetooth speaker.â
-âWe listened to The National on repeat and tried to convince ourselves we werenât freezing to death.â
-âAnd then we saw that shooting star,â I added quietly.
-âYou made the dumbest wish,â he said, bumping his knee against mine.
-âHey, fuck you. I wished for free coffee for life. Thatâs not dumb. Thatâs practical.â
-âYou were always practical,â he said, smiling. âEven when you were being completely reckless.â
I laughed and handed him the bottle again. âYou mean like the time I snuck you into that wedding reception just because the cake looked fancy?â
-âGod, yes. You wore a stolen shawl and pretended your name was âSabrina.â I think about that night at least once a month.â
The memory washed over me, my bare feet on the dance floor, his hand in mine, both of us half-drunk and giddy. My smile softened. âThat was a good night.â
He looked at me, his voice gentler now. âWe had a lot of those. Good nights.â
I met his gaze, and the weight of his words hit something in my chest. We really did. Between all the messy, broken parts, there were moments that had been golden.
-âYou were my favorite person for a long time,â I said, quieter than I meant to. âI donât think I ever told you that.â
Noahâs expression shifted, something sad, something warm. âYou were mine too. Maybe still are, a little.â
The words hung in the cold air between us. My face felt hot despite the chill, and I reached for the bottle again, mostly for something to do with my hands. The Hennessy burned its way down.
-âYou look good, by the way,â I added, trying to keep it light. âThe haircutâs working for you.â
He chuckled. âYou always said I looked like a lost dog. Thought Iâd try looking like a dog who has his shit together.â
-âMission accomplished,â I said with a smile. âA little scruff, a little ink. Very tortured artist.â
-âI do try to suffer beautifully,â he replied, leaning his elbow on the chair arm, his body angling just slightly toward me.
-âYouâre unbearable,â I laughed, but it was softer now. Flirting again. Easy.
He passed the bottle back to me. Our fingers brushed, just a graze, but it lingered. The air suddenly felt thinner.
-âYou ever think about⌠us?â he asked, almost tentative. âLike, if things had been different?â
I held the bottle in my lap, eyes fixed on the edge of the balcony. I felt that same pulse of warmth in my chest Iâd felt when he smiled at me at the table.
-âSometimes,â I said honestly. âBut I also remember how much of myself I had to quiet down to make us work.â
Noah nodded slowly, eyes distant. âYeah. I remember that part too.â
But the moment didnât break. He didnât pull away. And neither did I.
The Hennessy was doing its job, blurring the sharpness of my thoughts, softening the edges of everything. The past and present started folding into each other out there on the balcony, like no time had passed at all.
Noah was still watching me, his eyes searching, like he was trying to read every version of me heâd ever known, trying to match it with the one sitting beside him now.
-âI used to think,â he said slowly, âthat if we just got away from everything, our parents, our town, all the noise, weâd be fine. That weâd make it.â
I looked at him, his features silhouetted by the soft glow spilling from my bedroom window. He looked different. Older. But also, somehow, exactly the same.
-âWe were kids,â I said, not unkindly. âWe didnât know what we were asking of each other.â
He nodded. âBut I donât regret it.â
-âMe neither,â I said. And I meant it.
Silence again. But not uncomfortable.
-âYou still have that stupid ring I gave you?â he asked after a while, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I laughed, surprised. âThe one from the arcade machine?â
He nodded, eyes lighting up. âThe plastic one with the fake emerald. You wore it like it was a goddamn engagement ring.â
-âI still have it, actually,â I admitted. âBuried in my jewelry box. I couldnât throw it away.â
He looked at me with something soft and unreadable in his eyes. âI donât know what that means. But I like that you kept it.â
Another long pause. My head was swimming now, but not in a bad way. The cold air, the heat of the liquor, the closeness of him. The way he looked at me like I was still so special to him. It was too much and not enough all at once.
Noah leaned his head back and stared at the sky again. I found myself watching him instead, the curve of his jawline, the slope of his nose, the sharp edge of his cheekbone catching the faint porch light. The way his hands wrapped around the bottle, like they had once wrapped around my thighs or my neck.
I swallowed hard. The air between us had shifted. Warmer. Closer.
He still wore that damn ring, the one with the jagged edge that used to press into my skin when our fingers were interlaced. I remember that pressure like muscle memory, like something my body hadnât let go of, even if my mind had tried.
He turned to look at me then, like he could feel my gaze, and our eyes locked.
-âGod,â he muttered, voice low and strained. âI shouldnât say this.â
I didnât move. âSay what?â
He laughed, humorless. âThat Iâve missed you like hell.â
The words hit something deep in my chest.
I didnât answer. Just reached for the bottle and took another long sip, trying to find the right thing to say in the burn of liquor. But when I looked up again, he was already closer.
One second he was across from me, and the next his mouth was on mine.
It wasnât soft, or sweet, or tentative, it was every unsaid thing, every memory, every fight and every fuck. It was the kind of kiss that came with teeth and history, with the kind of urgency that says I remember exactly how you taste.
I gasped into it, caught off guard, but I didnât stop him. My fingers were in his hair before I could think about it, pulling him closer. His hand gripped my waist like heâd been dying to do it again, thumb slipping under the hem of my dress to touch bare skin.
His mouth moved against mine like it still knew the rhythm of me, hungry, desperate, searching. We broke apart only for air, panting, foreheads pressed together, and then I kissed him again, harder this time.
I tasted the Hennessy on his tongue, felt the buzz of it in my bloodstream. Everything was spinning. My knees were weak, my heart racing, and all I could think about was how dangerous this was.
In one swift movement, I climbed onto his lap, his back pressed to the back of the folding chair. His hands were on my thighs in an instant, the cool press of his ring digging into my skin like it used to. Familiar. Dangerous. I felt his fingers slip beneath my dress, curling around the small of my back, dragging me closer.
His tongue slipped into my mouth, dragging out a moan from my lips. His hands wandered while mine tangled in his hair. I ground my hips against him like muscle memory.
His lips crashed into mine again, all heat and friction, pulling a low, aching sound from my throat. He stood up suddenly, arms locked around my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. I barely had time to gasp before my back hit the wall, the cool surface pressing into my spine as his body pinned me there.
We were a tangle of limbs and mouths, all push and pull, too many emotions and not enough words. His hand slid up my leg, under the hem of my dress. My legs tightened around his waist instinctively. He groaned into my mouth, and I swore I felt it in my chest.
âFuck,â he murmured, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at me. âYou still drive me crazy.â
I didnât answer. I didnât know how. I just grabbed his shirt and pulled him back down, mouths crashing again. This time slower, but deeper. Hungrier. My hands slipped under his shirt, fingers grazing old scars, familiar lines, all the places I used to know by heart. He made a sound at the back of his throat, and then we were stumbling toward the bed, hands roaming, clothes shifting, breathless and buzzing.
He laid me down gently, for a moment just hovering over me, staring like he wasnât sure if this was a memory or a dream. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him down. Our lips met again, the mattress sinking under us, his body pressed to mine, heat blooming everywhere.
His hands slid along my sides, thumbs brushing against bare skin, my dress bunched around my hips. I let out a soft sigh as his mouth found the hollow of my throat, his teeth scraping lightly against skin. It shouldâve felt like home. Maybe for a second, it did.
But then, without warning, his face flickered into my mind.
I didnât want it to.
But there it was, uninvited, unstoppable, him.
Bunny.
The way his hand brushed mine on the couch just a little too long. His laugh when I made him choke on his drink. The stupid moaning dare. His sleepy goodnight smile that felt like a hug. That look he gave me when I came back from my momâs call, eyes full of quiet concern. The way my name sounded when he said it, light, teasing.
I swallowed hard. My body was here, tangled up in a messy knot of nostalgia and heat with Noah. But my heart?
My heart was somewhere else entirely.
I tried to push the thought down. To drown it in brandy and old habits and the weight of someone I used to love. I looked at Noah, at the new haircut, the tattoos I hadnât seen before, the boy who once made me feel like I was the only person in the world. Noah was everything I used to want, confident, handsome, familiar. He knew how to touch me like heâd memorized me. I knew his rhythm, the way he moved, the way he kissed, the way he said my name. But it felt like a well-rehearsed performance now.
He was still beautiful. He was still kind.
But he wasnât Bunny.
And suddenly, that mattered more than I knew what to do with.
Because Bunny had crept in when I wasnât looking. Threaded himself into the quiet spaces of my life. Become a comfort and a chaos all at once. And now, in the arms of someone I used to dream about, all I could think was, I wish it was him.
Not because he'd better at this. He might not be. He might be awkward and clumsy and do everything wrong.
Bu I still wanted his hands on me, unsure but hungry. His voice, shaky but honest. I wanted to see what it looked like when he unraveled for me.
I blinked back the thought like it burned. Because it did. It scorched through me, terrifying and thrilling all at once.
I really was in love with Bunny Corcoran.
And not the gentle, slow kind of love. The all-consuming kind. The kind that rearranges your insides. The kind that makes you realize youâre not who you were anymore, and maybe⌠you donât want to be.
Noah kissed me harder, and I let him, but the deeper it went, the more hollow it felt.
Like I was chasing something Iâd already left behind.
My heart really wasnât here anymore.
Noah pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. His breath was heavy, eyes dark and searching.
-âYou okay?â he murmured.
I didnât answer right away. Because no, I wasnât. I was split right down the middle. Between what was and what is. Between a guy who knew my past, and the guy who suddenly felt like my future. I touched the mushroom pendant resting between my collarbones.
-âI⌠I think I need some air,â I said softly, slipping from under him, my hands trembling just slightly.
The warmth of his hands left my skin, and the night air suddenly felt colder than it had before as I stepped back out onto the balcony.
âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚ
I stood there for a second, leaning against the railing, arms wrapped tight around myself as the breeze cooled the heat still radiating off my skin. I heard Noah shift behind me, the creak of the chair under his weight, the faint clink of the Hennessy bottle being set down.
-âYou donât have to explain,â he said gently, voice lower now, a little clearer. âI felt it too. The moment, it was⌠nice. But not right.â
I turned around, my eyes meeting his. He wasnât hurt. Not really. Just a quiet understanding in his expression, like he already knew what I was going to say and had made peace with it before I had.
-âIâm sorry,â I said anyway, stepping closer. âI think a part of me wanted this to still mean something. To feel the way it used to. But it doesnât. And thatâs not your fault.â
He gave a soft, crooked smile, one that almost made me tear up with how familiar it was. âItâs not yours either. People change. Thatâs a good thing.â
I reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair from his face, a habit I hadnât realized my body still remembered. âThanks, Noah. For being cool about all this. The ambush. The kiss. The restâŚâ
He held my gaze a second longer, then sighed, rocking back in the chair. âSo⌠music? Or are things way too awkward now?â
I snorted. âMusic sounds good.â
He stood and ducked back into my room, returning with my laptop under his arm like he owned the place. Just like old times.
-âSame password?â he asked, already halfway through typing.
-âUh- no, itâsâŚâ I hesitated, heat rising in my cheeks as realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I gave a helpless laugh, half in disbelief, half in embarrassment. His stupid nickname was my password. His nickname. How had I not put two and two together until now?
-âItâs âcuniculusâ now,â I muttered, looking away.
Noah paused. âWeird.â
-âDonât ask,â I mumbled.
He didnât. Just gave me a little side glance and logged in without another word. We settled back into our folding chairs, passing the laptop between us, taking turns queuing up old favorites. Some tracks we hadnât heard in years. Noah sang along under his breath, his voice warm and better than I remembered. I sang too, off-key and unapologetic.
It was easy again. Comfortable, now that the ghosts were named and tucked away. With the pressure gone, we slipped back into the rhythm of being friends, of knowing each other, really knowing, without wanting anything more.
Sometime later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out and glanced at the screen. Two texts, stacked on top of each other.
âeveryone still alive?â âyou cannot imagine the amount of teasing iâve endured đđťÂ â
I couldnât stop the smile that bloomed across my face, wide and instant. My fingers moved on autopilot, typing something back before I could even think of a clever reply.
Noah caught the shift in my expression. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, but his eyes⌠his eyes looked carefully at me.
-âThat spark in your eyes,â he said softly, over the quiet hum of the music. âItâs still the same.â
I looked at him, unsure.
-âItâs just not because of me anymore,â he finished, voice gentle, full of understanding, not bitterness.
I swallowed, throat suddenly tight. There was no guilt. Only clarity. And a quiet ache that felt terrifying and wonderful all at once.
I didnât know what to say to that. He wasnât accusing me of anything. There was no weight behind his words. Just recognition. And something like⌠peace.
I tucked my phone back in my pocket and reached for the bottle between us, giving it a little shake. âThereâs, like, a sad inch left.â
-âPour it out for the ghosts of Christmas past,â Noah said with a grin.
I snorted and took a sip instead. âNah. I think weâre making peace with them.â
Noah stretched, the chair creaking under him as he leaned back. âWe should commemorate it. One last blurry picture for the archives?â
I raised a brow. âYou want to take a photo with me? In this lighting?â
He held up his phone, tilting it slightly to catch the soft, yellow glow spilling from my bedroom window behind us. âYou look good,â he said plainly. âYou always do.â
I didnât argue. Just leaned in, our shoulders touching like puzzle pieces that once fit perfectly. Noah held the phone out, and we both smiled, not forced, not fake, just honest.
Click.
He looked at the photo and chuckled. âYou blinked.â
-âWhatever. Thatâs how I look now. Emotionally blinking.â
He laughed and sent it to me anyway. âFor the record. That weâre cool again.â
I nodded and leaned back in my chair, letting the music fill the silence. The night was cool and quiet, the chaos of dinner far away now, and I felt something settle inside me. A chapter closed.
Not with anger, not with heartbreak, just with a photo, a smile, and the knowledge that I was already somewhere else entirely. My thoughts drifting, inevitably, toward someone who made my heart race in an entirely new, terrifying, beautiful way.



















