He places his hand on my arm, guiding me gently to the door.

"Oh, Skye, I can't wait to see your face tomorrow morning when the hazy memory of tonight returns. Mortification is such a good look on you."

He reaches for the knob.

"Ollie."

He doesn't react. He's twisting now.

I grab his fingers, holding them against the door, stopping him. And then I look up at the face that's only a few inches away from mine, drawing strength from the warmth of his hand, from the touch I so desperately crave.

"Ollie," I whisper.

He turns, meeting my gaze, looking down, enchanting me with those deep turquoise pools. But his expression is empty, unaware, not pining like mine. Not craving. My focus shifts to his lips, tantalizingly close, a distance that would be so easy to close if I weren't so afraid.

"Skye?" he murmurs.

I can't do this while we're touching, I can't think straight when his skin is pressed against mine. I can't think straight at all. My mind is running a hundred steps ahead of my body. What will he say? What will he do? Will he ever talk to me again? Will things ever be the same? Will Bridge find out? Will I lose them both?

The pressure beneath my skin mounts, boiling over. I'm a bubble about to burst. A volcano about to erupt. A bomb about to explode. My entire body tenses with anticipation. And I know Ollie must feel it, because his eyes narrow, growing more intense, more concerned. My ears buzz, drowning out the world, growing louder and louder.

And then everything stops.

I'm calm.

Clear.

Every ounce of fear evaporates for one split second, and in that second, I let go. "I'm in love with you," I whisper.

My heart surges forward, racing, thumping. But at the same time, I feel free.

I said it.

After so many years, I finally said it.

"You’re what?" he murmurs.

"I'm in love with you," I repeat, and this time all of the hesitation is gone. The secret is out. "I've been in love with you for my entire life, and I had to say something before I leave tomorrow. I don't expect anything from you, I just needed to say it, to have you hear it, so I can move on with my life."

And then I wait, running over every possible outcome in my mind. Ollie will reject me, of course. Maybe he'll say I'm too much like a little sister, that we've known each other for too long, that he's never thought of me that way, that we've always just been friends. He'll be kind, he'll be gentle, caring like he's always been to me. But no matter how he says it or what he does, it will all mean the same thing—no. No, I don't love you too. No, I don't like you like that. Just no. And even though my heart sinks just thinking about it, it’s okay. It's what I expect. It's what I need to hear to get over this—it's the whole reason I came to his room tonight, to hear the no I've imagined a million times in my dreams.

But he doesn't say no.

He doesn’t say anything.

He blinks.

And then he moves. Closer.

I can't breathe.

Ollie shifts his hand, lifting it from the doorknob, turning it so he brushes against my fingers. Those clear cerulean eyes hold mine enraptured. Butterflies flutter to life. Every rub of his thumb against my wrist sends fire up my arm. And then he leans down, led by his lips, closing the already small gap between our bodies.

My eyes shoot wide. I can’t move. Can't react. I've envisioned Ollie's response for years and never once did I let myself believe he might actually say yes. Might actually feel the same. Might actually—

Ollie kisses me.

And I can't think anymore.

In a rush, our bodies melt together. My hands run through his hair, slipping past each strand, holding the back of his head. His fingers draw a burning trail up my arm, setting fire to my skin as they come to a rest just below my jaw, drawing circles on the soft skin of my neck, driving me wild. His other arm molds to my back, holding me close, skin slipping beneath my shirt, sending a shiver up my spine.

And I want to ask what's happening. What this means. What he means.

But I can't.

His lips trail across my jaw, down to my neck, eliciting a little gasp of pure pleasure from my lips, and I admit to myself that if I'm dreaming, I don’t want to wake up. If this is a trick, I don’t ever want to know the truth. I want to stay here, in this moment, finally living everything I never dared hope could be real.

I let my fears go.

And everything moves fast forward.

Somehow, my shirt ends up on the floor, followed by my bra, and in a few moments I've gone farther with Ollie than I have ever gone with anyone before. We still don't speak. Everything is quiet, as though being pulled along by fate. No questions. No awkwardness. It’s just happening, smoother than anything I've experienced before. His skin feels made to touch mine, to hold mine, to caress mine. Ollie's shirt tumbles to the ground. My fingers trace the groove of muscles cutting into his chest, to his back, tracing the lines along his skin, exploring places I've only ever explored in my mind. All the while we're kissing, tasting.

Then he steps.

I step.

He falls.

I fall.

We land in a tumble on his bed, a mess of limbs, but nothing pauses. Ollie rolls, tucking my body beneath him, and then sinks down with utter control, pinning me against the mattress. His hand travels down my side while his lips still dizzy my brain, sending my nerves haywire. But as his fingers dip just barely below my waistband, tickling my untouched skin, I break away, sobered.

"Ollie?" I murmur, breathing heavily.

He stops.

Everything.

"Ollie?" I whisper again.

In one motion, he jumps from the bed, walking to the other side of the room, turning his gaze away from me, staring at the wall instead. And I understand. The spell is broken. I broke it.

"You should leave," he says, voice dark, tone dead. I've never heard him like this before.

"Ollie? What just happened? Why?"

"You should go."

I stand, pulling the sheet with me, suddenly shy. I reach out to touch his back, golden in the soft midnight light, but he turns before I do. I snatch my fingers to my chest, hugging the sheet, and meet his empty expression. There's no hurt. No confusion. No anger. Nothing. He's blank. Emotionless.

"Go."

But I can't. I won't. He felt it too. Feels it too. Or he wouldn't have kissed me. I shake my head. I love him. "Ollie, why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" he asks, tugging his shirt back over his head, sitting on the bed, casual.

"Why did you kiss me? Why did you—why?" And my voice sounds weak, trembling, on the brink of tears—which must be the burning sensation around my eyes.

"Because I wanted to see if I felt something, and I don't. So it's better for both of us to forget this ever happened and move on. Friends, like we've always been."

I lift my foot to step closer, but I can’t move. My head swivels back and forth, frantic with denial. "I don't believe you. There's no way you felt nothing just now. You can't kiss someone like you just kissed me and feel nothing."

He sighs, teal eyes colder than I've ever seen them. "You’re just a kid, Skye. You have no idea what guys can or can't do."

"I know you," I whisper, desperate to cling to something.

"Do you?"

"Yes." I step forward, still wrapped in his sheets, clutching them to me like a life raft. "And I know that if you felt nothing, you would have said that in the first place. You wouldn’t hurt me like this. You wouldn’t be so cruel."

He pauses.

Doesn't respond.