ZARA'S POV:
The taste of Soren was a ghost on my lips all afternoon. A phantom brand that made every polite smile at Isa, every careful glance at Juniper, feel like a performance. My body thrummed with a restless, guilty energy. The memory of the closet played on a loop behind my eyes: the shock of his touch melting into a heat so intense it felt like coming home to a house on fire.
He'd kissed me like he was starving, and I'd kissed him back like I was the meal. And then, just as the world had narrowed to the feel of his hands skating under my skirt, the heat of his palm on my thigh—
"Zara? You in here, love?"
Isa's voice had been the bucket of ice water. Soren had frozen, his forehead dropping to my shoulder with a ragged exhale that vibrated through my entire body. The look he'd given me before nudging me into the light was scorched earth and shattered glass.
"Go."
So I went. I stumbled into the corridor, leaning against the cool wall, trying to piece my breathing back together.
"There you are!" Isa rounded the corner, Juniper a silent, watchful shadow a few steps behind her. Isa's cheerful expression flickered into concern as she took me in. My cheeks were flushed, my ponytail was lopsided from where his fingers had gripped it, and I was certain my lips looked thoroughly kissed. "What were you doing in there? You look… flustered."
The lie came out in a breathless rush. "Sorry, I felt a bit faint. Too much sun, I think. Needed a moment in the cool." I smoothed my skirt, a useless gesture, my eyes flickering to Juniper. She was studying me, her expression unreadable. Since the incident with the angry stranger—the one she'd sworn me to secrecy over—a careful distance had settled between us. We were civil, linked by Isa, but the trust was a fractured thing. She knew how to spot a lie. "Shall we?"
Isa's gaze was sharp, too knowing. She'd seen Soren on the course. She'd seen me look away. But being a good friend—or perhaps being afraid of the answer—she just nodded. "Right. Let's get you some water."
Juniper simply turned, her silence more accusing than any question.
The rest of the golf lesson passed in a blur of green and strained politeness. Isa carried the conversation, Juniper offered a tight-lipped smile or a short laugh when required, and I swung my club mechanically, every rustle of leaves making my heart lurch. I kept waiting for him to reappear, a dark silhouette against the perfect lawn, watching. He never did.
It was worse.
The absence was its own presence. The promise he'd left hanging in the dusty closet air—"I'll text you."—was a live wire in my pocket. My phone felt radioactive. Every buzz against my thigh sent a jolt through me, but it was only ever Isa sending a silly photo, or a notification from a app, or Elio.
Elio: Just finished up. You surviving the sporting life?
Me: Barely. I think the golf ball is winning.
Elio: Want me to come beat it up for you?
Me: Always my hero. But I'm alright. Just tired.
The lie tasted like ash. My hero was currently nursing bruised knuckles because of me, while I was still tasting his cousin's kiss.
When we finally piled back into Isa's car, the silence was thick enough to choke on. Juniper claimed the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window. Isa's fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel.
"So," she said lightly, eyes on the road. "See anyone interesting on the course?"
The question was a trap disguised as casual. I kept my voice even. "Not really. Just a lot of people in terrible trousers."
Juniper let out a soft, knowing snort. It wasn't friendly. Isa shot her a look.
"Could've sworn I saw Soren lurking about near the ninth hole," Isa pressed gently. "Looking very… focused."
My throat tightened. "Oh? I didn't notice."
"Right," Isa said softly. "Of course you didn't."
Juniper didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Her silence from the front seat was a verdict.
Isa didn't press further. She just turned up the radio, filling the car with meaningless pop, allowing me the dignity of my terrible, transparent lie under Juniper's silent, judging gaze.
Back in my dorm, the silence was deafening. I scrubbed my face, trying to scrub away the memory of his hands, his mouth. It was useless. I changed out of the golf clothes, folding the pleated skirt away with a sense of finality. I'd never be able to wear it again without remembering the feel of rough shelves against my back.
Night fell. The shadows in my room deepened. This was his hour. The time when he usually came, a spectre in the corner. I sat on my bed, knees pulled to my chest, waiting. Would he come? Would he demand to finish what we started? The thought sent a bolt of pure, undiluted fear—and longing—straight through me.
My phone lit up on the duvet.
Not a call. A text.
From an unknown number.
The message contained no words. Just a single, stark location pin. The old stone boathouse on the edge of Blackwood Lake. Isolated. Half-derelict. A place for secrets and drownings.
A second text followed.
Unknown: Midnight. Come alone.
The screen went dark. I stared at it until the numbers blurred. This wasn't a request. It was a summons. And the part of me that was still vibrating from his kiss, the part that felt more alive in his dangerous shadow than in any safe, sunlit room, already knew the answer.
I was already standing, my fingers reaching for the wardrobe, for the folded fabric that held the scent of sunshine and ruin.
Midnight. The boathouse. The skirt.
The promise of a continuation, under the watch of a cold, impartial moon.
And the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that this time, no one would be there to call my name.