I only needed his.

I wanted to dance for him more than anything in the world.

“Yes.”

The minute I agreed, he climbed the storeroom behind the gym to the roof, jumped the distance to the main building, slipped through a skylight into the science lab, and made his way through dark and empty corridors to unlock the main door for me.

With a secretive smirk, he’d led me to the school hall, picked me up and placed me on the stage that still held the backdrop of a magical castle where a beast was trapped by a curse, then commanded I put my ballet slippers back on and dance.

To start with, I’d been so nervous I could barely walk, let alone dance.

Dance was my special place; my vulnerable place.

But his pride and affection soon became the music I needed to lose myself in my art.

I didn’t need other dancers.

I didn’t need the guy who played the Beast to hold me, spin me, throw me.

I only needed Gil as he held his breath, devoured me with his eyes, and after—when I breathed hard and my body hummed with an endorphin rush—he’d climbed the steps to join me on the stage. “I’ve watched you dance a thousand times, but this...you stole my heart, O.”

I’d thought he would kiss me.

I’d hoped he’d make love to me.

I believed he would have with the way his eyes glowed with love and pure desire etched his face.

I’d never known lust had a recognisable mask.

But it did.

Gil wore it that night.

Lust so deep and powerful, he didn’t have to touch me for my body to burn, my nipples to harden, my core to dampen.

With our eyes locked and starlight our only illumination, it was the best foreplay I’d ever had. The only foreplay. We were two teenagers desperate to become adults, hungry to share, not just our hearts, but everything else too.

The air sparked with electricity as he’d breathed my name. My hair prickled. My heart flurried. We stumbled into one another, only to scatter as a torch swung into the hall, and the grouchy voice of the groundskeeper complained about rats scurrying in the corners.

I shook my head, dispelling the memory. My body still sang from that night. My toes still pinched from my ballet slippers. My heart still ravenous to claim Gil’s.

Gil had always held such a raw power over me. I’d never gotten over what could’ve been between us because the almost-was was unbelievably special—the reality of it would’ve been our undoing.

Hurry.

I lay down on the ground and scooted under the door, dragging my handbag with me. The heavy metal clanged and banged as I let it fall to the floor, effectively announcing to every turpentine bottle and air compressor that a stranger had entered uninvited.

Find him.

Leaving my handbag by the door, I stood and brushed off dust and grime. “Gil?”

My voice echoed in the unfurnished area.

No response.

“Gil, are you okay?” I kicked off my high heels and jogged in my stockings toward his office. The air hung heavy and still as if trying to convince me no one was there. But something tugged me forward. The silence was a pretender because my skin prickled the way it did whenever I was in Gil’s company.

He’s here.

Somewhere.

His office was empty, the door slightly open as I pushed through and kept my shoulders braced. Even though I’d been in his home before, I couldn’t shed the sensation I wasn’t welcome.

“Hello?” My voice fell to a whisper as I entered his apartment.

Nothing.

No sounds, no smells, no Gil.

I stood by the couch, noticing the bottle of painkillers and the glass of water we’d shared.

The clutter hadn’t been moved.

Surely, he would’ve cleaned up after himself. His place seemed tidy. His warehouse was paint-speckled, but his equipment was clean and put away after use.

“Are you here, Gil?” I strode toward the bathroom. The longer I stayed, the more uncomfortable I became. What was I thinking breaking into his place? Why did I think I’d have better luck finding him over Justin who’d been part of his life for the past year?

Ego.

That’s what this is.

I thought I’d find him because there was something unexplainable between us. Because every word he gave me, no matter how harsh, begged me to keep coming back.

The rainforest mural glittered in the glow of a single lamp, this time I spied an owl on fern branches, a symbol of me—just like my tattoo was a symbol of him.

He’d never forgotten me. Never stopped wanting me.

“Gil?” My chest hurt as I turned, taking in the space.

A soft snick of a door opening behind me made me spin around at super speed.

My hand flew to my throat as Gil tripped out of one of the rooms hidden in the graffiti rainforest I’d just admired.

No lights illuminated behind him. I couldn’t see into the space he’d just vacated, but the faint whiff of strawberry followed him.

My insides tangled.

Strawberry.

Like in his bathroom yesterday.

I backed up as Gil turned around and closed the door. He locked it with a key that vanished into his pocket a moment later. He didn’t turn to face me; he didn’t show any sign of realising I was there.

Pressing his forehead against the door, his hand stayed glued to the handle as if he couldn’t face life outside the room.

My heart physically ached to touch him. To do something, anything, to eradicate the sorrow cloaking his shoulders.

I was trapped.

I’d found him, but I wasn’t meant to see this.

I wanted to vanish, but if I moved, he’d notice me.

I had no idea what to do, so I just stood there, blushing and afraid as he inhaled a shaky breath and turned slowly.

It took him longer to move than normal, his senses dulled and reactions compromised. His gaze fixated on a mostly empty vodka bottle on the kitchen countertop. He made to move toward it, his eyes hazy and body loose from drinking.

But then, he froze.

His head whipped to me, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “Olin.”

His eyes shot to the door behind him as if afraid of what I’d seen. “How shlong have you been standing...there?” His voice dripped with alcohol.

He swayed; his face shadowed with fury.

Out of everything that could’ve happened tonight, seeing Gil drunk was the hardest.

Not because I feared he’d be violent and a threat to my safety but because of the many moonlight conversations we’d had about his father’s drinking.

He’d been fiercely adamant he would never drink like him. The smell and taste of liquor repulsed him. He never wanted to ruin his life with a bottle.

Yet seven years later, he was slurring and swaying before me.

“Gil...what happened?”

He stumbled to the side, shaking his head as if trying to eradicate the drunkenness he swam in. “You’re not meant to be here.”

“You told me to come, remember? You were going to paint me.”

“Ah...” His eyes unfocused as something brutal and damaging cast over his features. His breath hitched in such a helpless way, tears confiscated my vision. “It’s too late.”

I rubbed at the liquid in my gaze. “What’s too late?”

“Everything.” His face tried to settle on furious but just kept melting back into grief. His jeans and grey hoodie were grass stained and muddy. An area by his elbow was torn while blood marked the neckline. Green, taupe, and black paint speckled his skin.

Needing to touch him. Crippling with the need to soothe, I dashed forward and wound my fingers with his.

I couldn’t not touch him. I couldn’t not care. “Gil...what’s going on? Where have you been? You’re hurt. You’re filthy.”

Yanking his fingers from mine, he groaned, “Get out.”

“I can’t.”

“Go.”

“I’m staying.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Leave.”

We’d had this conversation far too many times. I should honour his wishes. This was his place. There was no law about drinking alone.