Truth,Dare,and the Edge of Something Dangerous

The kiss haunted me.

Not in the way nightmares do—but in the way memories do, the kind that sit on your skin long after the moment ends. I could still feel the ghost of Jace’s lips against mine, the press of his fingers laced with mine, the softness in his voice when he whispered, “Let me put you back together.”

And the worst part?

I’d let him.

I hadn’t stopped him. Hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t said no.

Now, I didn’t know what we were.

---

I avoided him the next morning.

Not on purpose, but in that clumsy way where you move slower getting dressed, pretend you’re focused on brushing your teeth, pretend your chest isn’t tight every time he shifts behind you in the mirror.

He didn’t push.

He just watched me from his bed, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped over bare skin.

“Going to class?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You want me to walk you?”

I paused. “I’m not five.”

He smiled. “I know. But I like the way people look at you when you’re next to me.”

I stared.

“Why?”

“Because you look like mine.”

The words slammed into me.

I turned away before he could see what they did to my face.

---

Classes were a blur. Every voice sounded muffled. Every step felt too loud. My sketchpad stayed closed in my lap the entire day. I couldn’t draw him now. Not after he’d crossed that line. Not after I let him.

When I got back to the dorm, he wasn’t there. A post-it note on the mini-fridge caught my eye.

> “Out late. Gym + drinks. Don’t miss me too much. —J”

I peeled it off slowly, stared at his stupid, confident handwriting. The kind that curved like it belonged on someone’s bare shoulder.

God, I hate him.

I hate how much I want him.

I hate how much he knows it.

---

That night, I was half-asleep when the door opened and closed softly.

Footsteps.

Keys dropped onto the desk. The creak of a hoodie pulled off. Then... silence.

I kept my eyes closed, breathing slow.

The mattress dipped behind me.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t touch me.

Just laid there, close enough to feel, not close enough to blame.

“Still mad?” he asked quietly.

I didn’t answer.

“Still scared?”

That one hurt more.

“I’m not scared of you,” I whispered into the darkness.

“No,” he said gently. “You’re scared of you.”

I rolled over, my eyes meeting his.

Moonlight spilled through the blinds, softening the angles of his face.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me.”

He grinned faintly. “It’s part of the roommate package. Right under stealing your charger and knowing when you're lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

He reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Then why are you shaking?”

I hadn’t realized I was.

“You kissed me,” I said.

“I did.”

“You can’t do that and then pretend everything’s normal.”

“I'm not pretending anything,” he said. “But I won’t push you. Not unless you want me to.”

I swallowed. “What if I don’t know what I want?”

“Then we take it slow.”

He reached for the lamp beside the bed and flicked it on. The warm glow lit the space between us.

“Let’s play something,” he said, sitting up.

“What?”

He grinned. “Truth or dare.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You need to loosen up. And I want to know you.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Fine. Truth.”

He leaned back against the headboard. “Have you ever kissed a guy before me?”

I looked away. “No.”

“No one?”

“No one,” I admitted.

His gaze softened. “You’re not broken, Luca.”

I stared down at the sheet in my lap. “Sometimes it feels like I am.”

He nudged me gently. “Your turn.”

I hesitated, then asked, “Why me?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You could’ve had anyone,” I continued. “Anyone on campus. So why me?”

His smirk faded.

“Because when you look at me,” he said, “it’s not about ego. Or sex. Or status. You look at me like I’m real.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He nudged me again. “Truth or dare?”

I hesitated.

“Dare.”

His smile returned—lazy, slow-burning, dangerous.

“I dare you,” he said, voice dropping, “to lay your head on my chest for ten seconds.”

I froze.

He moved slowly, laying back on the bed and opening one arm in invitation.

“I won’t move,” he said. “Just ten seconds.”

I stared at him. Then, heart pounding, I crawled over and laid my head gently on his chest.

His skin was warm. His heartbeat steady.

He smelled like mint and skin and something deeper I couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything.

Just let me be there.

The seconds passed slowly.

I counted them in my head like steps off a ledge.

One.

Two.

Three...

His fingers brushed the back of my neck.

Four.

Five.

Six...

He didn’t pull me closer. Didn’t press. Just kept breathing.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine...

Ten.

I lifted my head, eyes meeting his.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did I.

The silence between us wasn’t empty.

It was charged.

---

Later, when we were both lying back under the blanket, inches apart, he spoke again.

“Rule eight,” he said.

I glanced over. “Another one?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low. “You can touch me whenever you want. But only if it’s real.”

“What does that mean?”

“No teasing. No tests. No maybe.” His eyes flicked to mine. “If you touch me, it means you want me.”

I swallowed hard.

“What if I never do?”

He smiled faintly. “Then I’ll wait.”

And for the first time in days, I slept.