Will you give in? - MALACHI BARTON
Everyone warned you about him.
The charming disaster. The man with a trail of broken hearts and no intention of changing. He was temptation wrapped in confidence, the kind of trouble you knew better than to touch. And for a long time, hating him was easy.
Until you met him.
Because in one moment, every rumor makes sense and every boundary begins to blur. What starts as curiosity turns into something far more dangerous, and staying away becomes harder than giving in. You know heâs wrong for you. But some temptations are impossible to ignore.
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song: les - childish gambino
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pairing: malachi barton x reader
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jealousy, flirty banter, angst
Youâd heard about him a while ago, secondhand, the way most things spread on campus. It was strange, really, considering you went to the same college and had somehow managed to miss his existence entirely. Then again, you and Malachi lived in completely different academic worlds. You were a psychology major, he was business and economics. Different buildings, different schedules, different crowds.
Still, for someone whoâd only been at the college for a year, heâd already built a reputation. And not a subtle one.
You first heard his name while sitting in your dorm room with Isabelle. She had friends in his classes, friends who clearly couldnât keep their mouths shut.
âSo now theyâre basically not friends anymore⊠isnât that crazy?â
Isabelle blurts it out as she tosses a half-empty bag of chips onto her bed and flops down beside it. Youâre perched on your own bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You pause, slowly raising an eyebrow.
âOkay,â you say, shutting your laptop just a little. âI need a lot more context.â
Before you can ask anything else, Isabelle gasps like sheâs been waiting for this moment. She hops up, rummages through her desk, and of course pulls out a whiteboard. You groan, but a laugh slips out anyway as she starts drawing frantic lines and circles.
âOkay, so this guy. Malachi.â
She writes his name in bold letters and circles it aggressively.
âHeâs in the same class as Jennifer, which is how I know all this. Even though, honestly, itâs spreading through the whole school at this point. And weirdly? No oneâs even mad at him. But whatever, thatâs another issue.â
You sigh. You love Isa, but she is the slowest storyteller known to man.
âAnyway,â she continues, pacing now, âMalachi was dating Vanessa. Sheâs a music major, super cool, really nice. Iâve only ever seen her from afar, but sheâs gorgeous. Sorry, side note.â
You roll your eyes, smiling.
âSo Vanessa has or had a best friend named Claire. And when I say best friend, I mean best friend. Like you and me close. Apparently Malachi has this thing where he makes you feel⊠special. Like youâre the only girl in the world. Total dream guy energy. Nice car, stupidly good-looking, charming as hell. But itâs all a facade.â
Isa pauses for dramatic effect, then slaps the whiteboard.
âVanessa started feeling like something was off. He was acting weird, distant. So they break up, because she knew something was wrong.â
She looks at you, eyes wide.
âTurns out heâs dating Claire now. As in her best friend. Five years of friendship, gone. Completely.â
And for the first time, you understand why everyone keeps talking about him.
You furrow your brows. As much as you want to pretend youâre unfazed, stories like this still manage to catch you off guard. But the shock doesnât last long, your psychology brain kicks in almost immediately.
âThatâs so stupid,â you say. âWhy would anyone throw away a friendship over a guy? He probably has some kind of insecurity or attachment issue that makes him do reckless shit. Maybe heâs avoidant, one of those guys who bolts the second things get serious. The type who thrives on other peopleâs attention.â
âName one guy who doesnât,â Isa replies, dropping the whiteboard onto her bed and reaching instead for the bag of crisps. She tosses a handful into her mouth, completely unfazed.
You roll your eyes, not entirely disagreeing.
âThe thing is,â she continues, speaking through a mouthful of chips, âno one even hates him for it. Heâs known for ditching people like this. Moves on fast. Finds someone new to charm. Vanessa was honestly lucky she even made it to the girlfriend stage or, well, almost. And apparently, even though heâs kind of with Claire right now, heâs already looking for someone else.â
That makes something snap.
âBut you know whatâs so crazy about that?â you say, slamming your laptop shut. âIâm so tired of the people here. Do they have zero pattern recognition? Heâs known for this. At some point, people have to take accountability for knowingly getting involved with someone like that and then acting shocked when it goes wrong.â
Isa watches you for a moment, then shrugs.
âMaybe,â she says. âBut relationships with people like him arenât logical. Some people just⊠hijack the emotional part of you. The vulnerable part.â She pauses, tilting her head slightly. âItâs like forbidden fruit. The real question is whether you give in or walk away.â
Only a few weeks later, you met the devil himself.
You were late. Something that almost never happened. The night before had slipped away while you worked on an assignment, and before you knew it, it was 3 a.m. When you finally woke up, the clock read 9:00 on the dot. The exact time your first class had already started.
You tumbled out of bed, hitting the floor with a groan before scrambling back up. Communications and Relations. A new class. Outside your program. A mix of majors you didnât recognize and people you definitely didnât know. Missing the first lecture felt like academic suicide.
You pulled on black sweats, threw on a hoodie, and hid behind oversized dark sunglasses, because you looked and felt like youâd just clawed your way out of a grave. You grabbed your bag, bolted to your car, and sped off toward campus.
You stood outside the lecture hall, staring at the door as if it might personally judge you for your life choices. It wasnât that bad, you told yourself. You were late, not absent. Still, the thought of walking in alone, drawing every eye in the room, made your stomach twist. You didnât know a single person in this class.
You inhaled slowly, braced yourself, and eased the door open.
A loud audio clip filled the room, the lights dimmed. Luck, finally. You slipped inside without much attention, quickly dropping into the nearest empty seat by the exit.
Soft snickering drifted down from the rows behind you, male voices, low and amused. You couldnât tell what they were saying, but you knew it was about you. Your shoulders stiffened, and you kept your gaze forward, refusing to turn around.
Whatever this class had in store for you, it had already started badly.
And you had no idea who was sitting behind you.
The lecture passed faster than you expected, though you might have drifted off once or twice. By the time people began standing up, youâd been awake for at least five minutes, which felt like a win. The next session would be hands on labs rather than endless slides, and you were mildly grateful youâd missed the dull introductions instead of anything that actually mattered.
You stood quickly, still heavy with sleep. Small talk was the last thing you wanted, and you definitely werenât in the mood to linger or people-watch. You slipped out of the lecture hall and headed toward the bathrooms, your throat dry and aching.
You barely registered locking the door as you leaned over the sink, taking a long sip of water. It spilled a little, and you wiped your mouth with the sleeve of your hoodie before straightening up. Better. Slightly more human.
As you stepped back into the hallway and turned the corner toward the psychology building, you collided hard with a solid chest.
âOh shit,â a low, unfamiliar voice said.
You stumbled back with a groan, rubbing your face. When you looked up, your brain short-circuited.
There was no fucking way.
âAre you alright?â he asked, concern clear in his voice.
âYeah sorry,â you said quickly. âI wasnât really paying attention.â
Your expression stayed hidden behind the oversized sunglasses, which suddenly felt like a blessing.
âYouâre the girl from my communications class, right?â
You squinted slightly, trying and failing to make out his face through the dark lenses.
âNo clue,â you admitted with a soft, embarrassed chuckle, pressing your fingers briefly to your temple. âSorry. Iâm really not in my element today.â
He laughed quietly, the sound warm. He towered over you, tall and broad, dressed in dark clothes you barely registered through your exhaustion.
âDonât worry about it,â he said. âThough next time youâre late for class, you might want to be a little more subtle. The massive glasses kind of gave you away.â
âThat wasnât very charmingly said of you.â
You pushed the sunglasses up onto your head.
Your heart fluttered traitorously. He was tall, really tall, with a muscular frame emphasized by a tight black t-shirt and matching sweats. His skin was warmly tanned, his hair slightly wavy and falling effortlessly into place. And his face..
Unfair. Completely unfair.
He grinned when he saw your reaction, slow and knowing.
And that grin did something to you.
âI donât see why youâd need the glasses,â he says, shrugging slightly. The grin on his face is unmistakable.
âI look like I just rose from the grave,â you reply, meeting his gaze head-on and tilting your head with deliberate sarcasm.
He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like he finds the whole thing amusing.
The name hits you harder than the collision did.
He reaches out his hand, casual. Confident. Like he has no idea what that name does to you, or exactly knows and doesnât care.
You shake his hand automatically, your brain lagging behind your body. His grip is warm and firm, his hand large around yours, and for a split second your knees almost give out.
âOh. Iâm Y/N,â you say, a beat too late, still stunned.
He releases your hand, but the sensation lingers anyway, like your skin hasnât caught up yet. His grin deepens, slow and unreadable.
And suddenly, every warning youâd ever heard feels a lot closer than it did a moment ago.
"Well," you say after a moment, glancing down the hall. "I should probably get going before I'm late to another class."
Malachi nods, hands slipping into his pockets.
âYeah. Wouldnât want you showing up with a second disguise.â
You let out a quiet scoff, shaking your head as you mumble a brief goodbye and turn on your heel, putting distance between you and him before you can second-guess yourself.
By the time you get home, youâve replayed the interaction more times than youâd like to admit.
You tell yourself it was nothing. A hallway collision. A handshake. A name.
Still, when your phone lights up, your stomach drops.
Youâve just stepped out of the shower, hair twisted up in a towel, another wrapped loosely around you, when you grab your phone from the counter. The screen lights up with a familiar notification.
Malachi Barton has requested to follow you.
Youâre not sure what you expected to feel. Not the weak knees from earlier. Not the flutter. Instead, itâs something closer to nausea, like your body is reacting before your brain can catch up. You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, pulse loud in your ears.
Against your better judgment, you accept.
Purely observational, you tell yourself. Research purposes. Curiosity. And besides, he requested first. Youâd never chase a man.
A few minutes pass. Then fifteen.
Your curiosity spikes immediately. You tap into his profile. No posts. Of course not. Just a few story highlights, carefully curated, intentional. You hesitate for half a second before tapping his most recent story, still glowing with that thin ring.
The image fills your screen: Malachi at the gym, shirtless, flanked by two equally shirtless friends. The lighting is annoyingly perfect, effortless, like he didnât even try. Your eyes go straight to him, traitorous and immediate.
Defined shoulders. Strong arms. Abs carved far too precisely for your peace of mind.
Your stomach flips in a way that feels unfamiliar. Dangerous.
You swallow hard, phone still in your hand.
You knew you werenât supposed to do this, but you couldnât stop yourself. This time, you got ready properly. Hair curled in a half-up, half-down style, makeup carefully done, outfit thoughtfully put together: high-waisted bootcut jeans, a black, form-fitting long-sleeve top. Simple, but elevated, effortless enough that it felt like you, not the disheveled disaster who had barreled into him weeks ago.
You tried to deny it to yourself, but after your⊠less-than-stellar first impression, you wanted him to see the real you. The confident, sarcastic girl. Not the girl who looked like she had just risen from the grave.
The moment you stepped into the classroom, heads turned. Guys stared. Some women shot you questioning looks. But then you spotted a familiar face. One of Isabelleâs friends, smiling as her group waved you over. Relief. Familiarity. You waved back and made your way through the desks.
Malachi. His eyes had found you the instant you walked in, and that subtle grin, soft, almost private which made your pulse skip. You smiled back, careful to keep your confidence steady as you passed by. Not too much attention. Not yet. But in your peripheral vision, you noticed him glance back at you again, just once, and linger.
The class began, and you couldnât help but observe. He sat a few rows in front, mostly quiet, but when he spoke, people listened. And every so often, your eyes met his. Every time, he didnât look away.
You and Isabelle are getting ready, standing shoulder to shoulder in the bathroom as you carefully remove the clips holding your curls in place, one by one. Your makeup is done, smokey eyes in warm, toasty browns, lashes darker and heavier than usual, lips lined and glossed into something undeniably seductive.
You barely recognize yourself.
This isnât you. You usually go for soft, natural, rosy. Clean girl. Effortless. This version of you feels intentional in a way that borders on dangerous, like youâre dressing for someone instead of yourself, and the thought makes your stomach twist.
While you spiral quietly in your own head, Isabelle is entirely unbothered. Sheâs halfway through an Aperol spritz, singing loudly and off-key to a Justin Bieber song while straightening her hair, hips swaying with the music.
Sheâs been buzzing all evening.
The annual college sittings are kind of her thing. A formal gathering where students from different majors cram into a massive hall to eat overpriced food, make forced conversation, dance badly, and endure a speech from the headmaster that no one remembers by morning.
Normally, you wouldnât care. You barely cared now.
Except this time, it was different.
Because you knew heâd be there.
You step back from the mirror, finally letting yourself really look. The dress is a long black maxi, sleek and unforgiving, hugging you perfectly. The back is open, dipping low, tied together by a simple black bow just beneath your lower back. Itâs elegant. Minimal. And devastating.
You look⊠unfairly good.
Isabelle turns, eyes widening.
âOh my god,â she breathes. âYouâre going to ruin someoneâs life tonight.â
You snort, grabbing your clutch. âDramatic.â
One more drink for courage, liquid confidence you absolutely donât need but take anyway, and then youâre piling into an Uber, city lights streaking past the windows as your nerves hum under your skin.
The hall is already buzzing when you arrive.
Soft golden lighting spills from chandeliers overhead, reflecting off polished floors and glassware. The air smells like perfume, alcohol, and something vaguely floral. People are everywhere, laughing too loudly, greeting friends they barely like, scanning the room for someone worth talking to.
You do the same thing before you can stop yourself.
You tell yourself youâre just taking it all in. Just people-watching.
Malachi stands across the room, effortless as ever, dressed in a tailored black suit that fits him obscenely well. No tie. Collar open just enough to feel intentional. Heâs surrounded by people. Guys from his program, a couple girls you donât recognize, but he isnât performing. He doesnât need to.
Heâs smiling at something someone says, relaxed, comfortable, magnetic.
The smile on his face changes, not wider, not brighter. Slower. More deliberate. Like heâd been expecting you. Like the room has narrowed down to just the two of you, even with dozens of people between.
Isabelle leans in, voice low and confused.
âTell me why the devil himself just clocked you from across the room.â
You swallow, eyes still locked on his.
âDonât,â you mutter. âPlease donât.â
But itâs already too late.
Because Malachi lifts his glass in a subtle, almost lazy acknowledgment just for you and then, without breaking eye contact, turns back to the conversation at hand.
Leaving you standing there.
Sheâs standing beside you, scanning the room with interest, already halfway into a story about someone from her program who showed up in a suit two sizes too small, completely oblivious to the way your pulse is still racing. She doesnât notice how your grip tightens around your glass. She doesnât notice the way your shoulders stiffen, or how your eyes flick back, just once, to where Malachi stands.
Youâve made sure of that.
You never told her about the hallway collision. Or the handshake. Or the way his name had settled into your chest like something unfinished. You definitely didnât tell her about the follow request, or the gym story you absolutely shouldnât have watched twice.
Because Isabelle wouldâve clocked it immediately.
She wouldâve raised an eyebrow, given you that look, the one that says be serious right now, and reminded you, gently but firmly, of every red flag sheâd already laid out weeks ago. She wouldâve told you that people like him donât change their patterns just because youâre self-aware enough to recognize them.
You know that. Youâve known it since the second he said his name and your body reacted before your brain could catch up. Since the nausea that followed the follow request. Since the thrill that came anyway.
So you keep it to yourself.
You sip your drink, nod along to Isabelleâs chatter, laugh at the right moments, all while pretending that your attention isnât split. That you arenât hyper-aware of where Malachi is in the room at all times. That you donât feel something electric every time you accidentally meet his gaze again.
If you donât say it out loud, it isnât real.
If Isabelle doesnât know, she canât disapprove.
And if you donât examine it too closely, you can pretend this isnât the beginning of something you already know how to diagnose.
Still, the awareness lingers, heavy, uncomfortable.
You know exactly what kind of man he is.
And somehow, that knowledge hasnât stopped your heart from racing anyway.
The rest of the evening unfolds slowly, like a game you didnât remember agreeing to play.
You notice him everywhere without trying to. Across the room, laughing with his friends. Leaning against a table, drink in hand. Listening more than he speaks, eyes tracking conversations with an ease that feels practiced. And every time you accidentally glance his way, heâs already looking at you.
Not staring. Just⊠aware.
Isabelle drifts between conversations, pulling you along with her. Introductions blur together, names, majors, polite smiles. At some point, the two of you end up standing near a group that includes Malachiâs friends. It happens naturally, organically enough that it doesnât raise suspicion. You tell yourself thatâs why your pulse starts to race.
Heâs closer now. Close enough that youâre aware of the warmth of him beside you. Close enough that you can catch the clean, understated scent of his cologne when he shifts.
You angle your body carefully, positioning yourself so Isabelle stays within armâs reach. Casual. Normal. If anyoneâs watching, it would look like nothing.
Just a fraction. Enough that your bare back brushes against his arm.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
Conversation flows around you, but youâre barely listening. Youâre hyper-aware of the space between you shrinking, of the way he leans in slightly when someone across the circle speaks, his shoulder nearly touching yours. Itâs subtle. Intentional. Like heâs testing how much youâll allow without calling it out.
A photographer appears suddenly, camera slung around his neck, cheerful and loud.
âHey guys, quick photo!â
Everyone groans good-naturedly but bunches together anyway. Isabelle laughs and grabs your arm, tugging you closer to the group. You step forward, boxed in by bodies and chatter.
Malachiâs hand settles at your lower back.
Not possessive. Not hurried. Just there, warm skin against bare skin, fingers resting easily where your dress dips low. The contact sends a sharp jolt through you, like your body has been waiting for it. You freeze for half a second, every nerve ending lighting up.
He doesnât squeeze. Doesnât move.
He just leaves his hand there, like it belongs.
You force a smile, hoping it looks effortless, hoping Isabelle doesnât notice the way your posture stiffens. Her arm is still looped through yours, her head tilted toward someone else as she laughs.
Malachiâs hand lingers for a beat longer than necessary after the photo is taken before he pulls away, slow enough that the absence feels louder than the touch ever was.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
You glance down at the screen, relief washing through you at the interruption.
âI- I need to take this,â you say quickly, already stepping back.
Isabelle nods distractedly. âGo.â
You donât look at Malachi as you slip away.
The balcony is cool and quiet in contrast to the warmth and noise inside. You lean against the railing as you answer the call, focusing on the voice on the other end, grounding yourself in something normal. By the time you hang up, your heart rate has finally begun to settle.
Then you hear footsteps behind you.
You donât turn right away. You donât need to.
âRunning away already?â Malachi says lightly.
You close your eyes for a brief moment before facing him. Heâs leaning against the balcony door now, posture relaxed, hands in his pockets. The city lights behind him frame his silhouette, softening the sharpness of his expression.
âI needed air,â you reply. âAnd privacy.â
âMhm.â His gaze flicks briefly to your back, then back to your eyes. âDid you get it?â
You cross your arms, more for your own composure than modesty. âWhat do you want, Malachi?â
His smile is slow. Knowing.
âI was wondering how long you were going to pretend you donât notice me.â
Your jaw tightens. âI notice a lot of things.â
âI know,â he says quietly. âThatâs what makes this interesting.â
Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. Youâre acutely aware of how alone you are out here with him. How easy it would be to step closer. How much your body wants to.
He tilts his head slightly, studying you.
âSo,â he says, voice dropping just enough to feel intimate, âwhen will you give in?â
The words settle into you, heavy and dangerous.
You donât answer right away.
Because the scariest part isnât that he asked.
Itâs that a part of you already knows what heâs talking about.
Your first instinct is to laugh.
It slips out too sharp, too fast, and immediately gives you away.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you say, waving a hand lightly, like heâs joking. Like this is nothing. âYouâre reading into things.â
Malachi watches you closely, head tilted, like heâs clocking the shift in you in real time. The way your shoulders tense. The way you put space between you, even though the balcony suddenly feels far too small.
âAm I?â he asks quietly.
âYes,â you say, a little too quickly. âAbsolutely.â
He takes a step closer anyway.
Not invading. Just⊠narrowing the distance. Enough that you can feel the heat of him again, smell the faint trace of cologne that has already been haunting you all night.
âYou donât look confused,â he murmurs. âYou look scared.â
Something in you snaps, not in his direction, but inward.
âThis is stupid,â you say, exhaling sharply as you turn away, gripping the railing. âI shouldnât even be out here.â
Because you know the answer, and you hate it.
You turn back to him, expression tight but honest in a way you havenât allowed yourself yet.
âListen,â you say, voice lower now, steadier. âIâm not pretending youâre not attractive. You are. Youâre charming. You know exactly what youâre doing, and it works. But Iâm not-â You stop, choosing your words carefully. âIâm not the girl for you.â
His eyebrow lifts slightly. Amused. Interested.
âYes,â you press on, momentum building. âBecause I know how this goes. I know your reputation. You make people feel special, you pull them in, and the second it starts to mean something, youâre gone. You detach, move on, find the next person who hasnât learned the pattern yet.â
The silence between you sharpens.
His smile doesnât disappear, but it does change.
âAnd you think youâve got me all figured out?â he asks.
You let out a breathy, almost humorless laugh. âYouâre avoidant,â you blurt. âOr dismissive-avoidant, if weâre being specific. Intimacy triggers you, so you chase connection without vulnerability. Itâs safer that way. You keep control.â
The words hang there, bare and undeniable.
For the first time all evening, Malachi looks genuinely caught off guard.
âWow,â he says softly. âYou really have been paying attention.â
âThatâs my point,â you say. âI donât want to be another girl you convince just enough to leave wondering what she did wrong.â
His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes.
âAnd yet,â he says, stepping closer again, voice dropping, âyouâre still here.â
You hate that heâs right.
Your heart is racing now, logic fraying under the weight of proximity and tension and the way his attention feels laser-focused, almost reverent.
âI should go back inside,â you whisper.
âYou could,â he agrees.
The kiss happens before you consciously decide to let it.
Itâs slow at first, testing, restrained, like heâs giving you time to pull away. When you donât, when your hand curls into the fabric of his suit instead, something in him shifts. His mouth deepens against yours, confident but unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.
You forget about psychology. About reputations. About patterns.
You remember only how right it feels.
When you finally pull back, breathless and slightly dazed, you blink up at him and then your stomach drops.
You reach up quickly, thumb brushing across his lower lip.
âHold on,â you murmur, wiping away the faint smudge of your liner youâve left behind. âI- someone could see.â
No one has. But the sudden rush of awareness floods back in anyway.
You turn slightly, pulling your lip liner from your clutch, reapplying it with shaking hands, grounding yourself in the ritual. Control. Normalcy.
When you look back up, Malachi is watching you with something unreadable in his eyes.
âYou always do that?â he asks quietly. âPull yourself together like nothing happened?â
You donât get the chance to answer.
The voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
A girl stands a few feet away, dress immaculate, expression tight with forced patience. Her eyes flick briefly to you, assessing, curious, before settling back on him.
âIâve been looking for you,â she says.
Malachi straightens slowly, composure snapping back into place as if it had never slipped. His hand drops from where it had been hovering near your waist.
The girl exhales gently as she approaches you, reaching her hand out to greet you.
"I'm Claire, nice to meet you"
âY/N,â you say, forcing a smile you donât feel. Your stomach twists violently, the room suddenly too warm, too loud, too bright.
Claireâs grip is polite. Friendly. Completely unaware.
The realization hits you all at once, sharp and merciless.
This is whatâs going on.
You barely register Malachi saying your name as you mumble an excuse, something about needing the bathroom, before turning and weaving back inside, heels clicking too fast against the floor.
You donât slow down until you reach the restroom.
The second the stall door shuts behind you, youâre on your knees, bile burning your throat as you throw up hard enough that it makes your eyes water. Your hands shake as you grip the porcelain, breaths coming in uneven gasps.
When it finally passes, you sit there for a moment longer, forehead pressed against the stall wall, trying to steady yourself. You flush, rinse your mouth, and step out, splashing cold water onto your face at the sink.
Thatâs when you notice her.
Sheâs standing at the mirror beside you, washing her hands. Tall. Elegant. A long black dress drapes effortlessly over her frame. Her hair falls down her back in glossy waves, black as ink, except for the streaks of cherry red woven through it, bold and striking. Her face looks sculpted, model-sharp, devastatingly beautiful.
She glances at you in the mirror, concern softening her expression.
âHey,â she says gently. âAre you okay?â
You hesitate, then nod too quickly. âYeah. Just too much to drink.â
She offers a small, understanding smile. âHappens.â She dries her hands, then turns slightly toward you. âIâm Vanessa, by the way.â
The name lands like a punch.
His first girlfriend. The one Isabelle had talked about. The one whoâd been blindsided. The one who had trusted him.
âOh,â you manage, voice thin. âNice to meet you.â
She gives you a warm nod, completely unaware of the spiral detonating inside your chest. You canât stay here. You canât breathe in this room another second.
You murmur something polite, an excuse, a lie, and slip past her, heart hammering as you flee back into the hall.
Isabelle finds you almost immediately.
She frowns the second she sees your face. âHey, whatâs wrong?â
You shake your head. âI just need a drink.â
She doesnât push. She never does. Instead, she loops her arm through yours and steers you toward the bar. A passionfruit margarita appears in your hand moments later, cold and sweet and grounding.
You take a long sip. Then another.
Music swells. People dance. Someone pulls you into the crowd, some guy you barely register, smiling and easy and safe. You let him spin you, let the noise and movement drown out the thoughts clawing at your brain.
This is fine.
This is normal.
This is what you should be doing.
Youâre laughing when you see him.
Malachi stands at the edge of the dance floor, eyes locked on you. His expression isnât smug or playful now, itâs intent. Focused. Like heâs already moving toward you.
You pull away abruptly, mumbling something to the guy youâre dancing with before slipping through the crowd. Isabelle calls your name, confused, but you donât stop. You grab your coat, your clutch, your phone.
Fresh air hits your lungs like a shock as you burst outside.
Your hands are shaking as you request an Uber.
By the time the car pulls up, your chest is tight with something that feels dangerously close to grief. You slide into the back seat, giving the driver your address with a voice that barely sounds like your own.
As the car pulls away, your phone buzzes in your hand.
The phone stays dark in your lap as the city blurs past the window, lights smearing into something indistinct and far away. Your reflection stares back at you, unfamiliar. Quieter. Like someone whoâs just crossed a line she swore she never would.
For the first time in your life, youâve gone against your own morals.
Not by accident. Not because you didnât know better.
You saw the pattern. You named it. You warned yourself with the language of textbooks and lived experience and every red flag youâd ever learned to recognize. And still, you stepped closer. Still, you let yourself believe that awareness might make you immune.
You betrayed yourself in the most insidious way, not by falling for him, but by choosing him anyway, if only for a moment. By letting desire outweigh discernment. By proving that knowing better doesnât always mean doing better.
And worse than all of it?
But to the part of you that wanted to be wanted, even when it cost you everything you pride yourself on being.
And you sit there, silent, carrying the weight of a choice you canât undo, knowing this isnât over, even if you wish it were.
