Chapter 3: Broken Scripts and Stolen Futures

His lips parted, breath ragged. I could see the vulnerability there, the way he wanted to hide but couldn’t. He looked so breakable, it made my chest ache.

“If you’re not good, I’ll kiss you.” I leaned in, inch by inch, until our noses nearly touched. The tension crackled between us.

My voice was barely a whisper, but it carried in the hush. His eyes went wide, pupils dark and blown with surprise.

Hunter’s eyes shimmered, the tips of his ears going bright red, his fingers gripping the desk like he might break it. I tapped his cheek with my finger, slow and clear: “Be good and listen.”

The class was silent, every eye glued to us, but I didn’t care. I pressed my finger to his cheek, holding his gaze steady.

[Wow, the supporting girl is really about to reel him in.]

[Ahhh, the supporting male’s face is gorgeous, his breathing so sexy. I want to grab his hair and kiss him hard, make him cry for me.]

[What is happening? How did the school bad boy turn into such a tempting little puppy?]

The comments made my cheeks flush, but I forced myself to stay focused. I couldn’t let him see me falter now.

Hunter stayed silent, letting me lead him to the nurse’s office. By the time we finished up there, the last bell had already rung—school was over before I even realized it.

The nurse fussed over his wound, clucking her tongue and muttering about boys and trouble. I held his hand the whole time, refusing to let go, no matter how much he tried to pull away.

We headed back to the Cross family mansion together. Ever since Hunter had saved me from my dad—back when things at home were bad, really bad—I’d been living at his place. The memory of that night, fists and shouting, still haunted me sometimes.

The mansion was huge—dark wood, old money, creaky stairs, and family portraits everywhere. My room was at the end of the hall, quiet and safe, a little haven.

His black T-shirt was streaked with blood. I grabbed the tweezers and started cleaning his wound, slow and careful, not wanting to hurt him more than I had to.

The bathroom was thick with the smell of rubbing alcohol and minty ointment. Hunter sat on the closed toilet lid, silent, eyes glued to the floor. I dabbed at the wound, hands gentle but shaking.

I spread the ointment the nurse gave, tracing the cut on his back. His muscles jumped under my fingers, the lines of his back sharp and tense—more fragile than I’d realized.

He hissed, but didn’t pull away. I could feel the heat of his skin, the strength in his back. The closeness made my cheeks burn, the moment suddenly too intimate.

I turned to set down the ointment, only to see Hunter staring at me, Adam’s apple bobbing, gaze burning a hole through me. His fingers dug into the edge of the counter, knuckles white, sweat beading at his temples.

He looked like he was fighting a war inside himself, every muscle taut and trembling. I set the ointment aside, hands shaking just as much as his.

He looked away, voice rough and low. “Go. Lock the door...” His words were barely more than a growl, thick with something I didn’t dare name. My heart stuttered.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it was thick with something raw. I hesitated, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands or my heart.

I knew what was happening. Hunter’s skin hunger was acting up—he needed touch, craved it, but hated that about himself. I’d learned that about him in quiet moments, when he let his guard down just enough for me to see.

I reached out, trying to touch his hand, wanting to help him to bed. But then the world spun—Hunter yanked me onto the mattress before I could blink.

He moved fast, almost desperate. The bed creaked under us, the room spinning for a second as I landed beside him, breathless.

He panted, eyes rimmed red with need, drawn to me like a magnet he couldn’t resist. The air was thick with something electric.

His breath was hot against my cheek, his hands trembling where they gripped the sheets. I felt the heat of his skin, the closeness making my head spin.

[Here it comes, the classic scene where the supporting girl saves the supporting male when he’s sick.]

[At this point, the supporting girl finds something of hers under the supporting male’s pillow and gets grossed out.]

[She just locks him in the room alone and leaves...]

[Then the supporting male is taken care of by the main girl all night, and finds he can accept her touch...]

The plotlines scrolled through my mind, but I shoved them aside. This was real. This was us.

Under the pillow? I fumbled around, confused. My hand brushed something crinkly and thin, and I froze...

My fingers closed around it—a candy wrapper, slick and cool. I pulled it out, heart pounding in my chest.

It was a shiny candy wrapper, flattened out like it was special. The orange foil glinted in the bathroom light.

It was the kind you buy at the corner store, bright orange with faded letters. I turned it over in my hand, confused and oddly touched.

The edges were worn thin, like someone had held it a thousand times, worrying it between their fingers.

There were tiny creases all over, from being folded and unfolded, again and again. I ran my thumb over them, feeling the story they told.

[The supporting girl probably doesn’t even remember—this was the first time she saw Hunter having an episode, thought it was low blood sugar, and gave him a candy.]

[Ever since, every time he had an episode, Hunter relied on this cheap candy wrapper to get through.]

I stared at the wrapper, a lump rising in my throat. I hadn’t realized how much it meant to him until now.

I turned my head. Hunter was propped over me, his sharp cheekbones close, lips bitten red, eyes wet and shining. His shirt was ripped from where I’d cleaned his wound, showing the strong, scarred muscles of his back and shoulders.

His breath was shaky, his eyes wide and vulnerable. The scars on his back stood out like a road map of old pain, pale against his skin.

[At this point, the supporting girl will definitely say ‘gross,’ then leave the sick supporting male alone and walk away...]

But I didn’t move. I just looked at him—really looked—and saw the boy hiding behind all the rumors. The boy who’d kept a candy wrapper for months, maybe years.

I was silent. Then I dug into my pocket and found a piece of candy, fingers shaking as I searched.

I fished out a butterscotch from the bottom of my backpack, the wrapper sticky with lint. I held it up, grinning, trying to lighten the mood.

I tore the wrapper open with my teeth. The sweet orange flavor exploded across my tongue, bright and familiar.