Chapter 6

The dinner starts off uncomfortable, but not the kind you can hide behind polite smiles and light conversation, this is heavier, constant, like something is about to break at any moment and only two people at the table are actually aware of it.

My mom and Mark are happy.

Too happy.

They talk nonstop about plans, dates, details that clearly mean a lot to them, but to me just sound like a countdown to something I don’t want to live through.

“We’re thinking of having the wedding in two months,” my mom says with a smile that doesn’t fade.

Two months.

Perfect.

Plenty of time for this to get even worse.

“And after that we’d love for everyone to live together,” Mark adds, calm, like it’s the most logical idea in the world. “There’s more than enough space in the house.”

Of course.

Because living under the same roof with him sounds like a dream.

“It’ll make things easier,” my mom continues, “for you to get to know each other, to build a relationship.”

I can’t help it, a low, dry laugh slips out, completely out of place, and instantly I feel all eyes on me.

“Something funny?” she asks.

“No,” I reply quickly, “just… nothing.”

Mateo doesn’t say anything, but I notice it, he’s tense, uncomfortable, just as unenthusiastic as I am, even if he hides it better, like he doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing this affects him too.

“Lucas,” Mark says, “what happened to your face?”

“Hockey,” I answer without hesitation, “it was a game.”

My mom doesn’t believe me, but she stays quiet.

Then she looks at him.

“And you?”

Mateo takes a second before answering.

“Same.”

We look at each other.

And in that moment everything comes back, the fight, the anger, the impact, last night, all of it packed into a single look neither of us is willing to break.

“What a coincidence,” Mark laughs.

If only he knew.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say suddenly, standing up before I lose what little patience I have left.

I need to get out of there.

I need to breathe.

Because I can’t stop thinking about Sofi, about how she must be right now, somewhere, broken, while he’s sitting here, calm, like nothing ever happened.

I walk fast, push the bathroom door open and lean against the sink, taking a deep breath, but it doesn’t help, nothing helps, because the anger is still there, building, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore.

Then the door opens.

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

“What a coincidence,” his voice says behind me.

I close my eyes for a second.

“Leave.”

“Relax,” he replies, stepping closer, “we’re family now, you should get used to it.”

That’s all I need.

I turn and grab him by the collar, slamming him against the wall hard.

“Don’t call me that.”

He doesn’t push me away right away, doesn’t look surprised, just looks at me, up close, too close, with that calm that gets under my skin more than any punch.

“Does it bother you that much?” he murmurs.

“Everything about you bothers me,” I snap, “that attitude, that face like nothing matters, like you didn’t just destroy someone.”

I tighten my grip.

“You know what I think?” I add. “That all of this is a front, that whole perfect player act is just a show.”

His eyes shift, just slightly.

“Maybe,” I continue, lowering my voice, “girls aren’t enough for you.”

The silence turns thick.

Dangerous.

“Maybe you should try a guy instead.”

For a second I think he’s going to deny it, push me, turn this into another fight.

But he doesn’t.

He smiles.

And that should’ve been my warning.

“You, for example?” he says.

I don’t get to answer, because he grabs me by the neck and pulls me into him before I can react, and in that second everything shifts, the space disappears, the air turns heavy, and then he kisses me, direct, without warning, without giving me time to think, firm, almost rough, in a collision that feels anything but accidental.

His lips press against mine with an infuriating certainty, like he already knew exactly how this would go, like he didn’t doubt it for a second, and that’s what throws me off first, the complete lack of hesitation, the way he takes over without asking, like this is just another move in his game.

I feel the pull at my neck, his hand keeping me close, not letting me pull away as easily as I should, and for a moment everything becomes too clear and too confusing at the same time, because it’s not just contact, not just provocation, there’s an intensity I wasn’t expecting, something deeper in the way he presses in, in the way he doesn’t back off.

I try to push him away, I do, my hand still gripping his shirt, but the resistance isn’t immediate, not as firm as it should be, because my body takes a second to react, a second to process what’s happening, to understand why this doesn’t feel as simple as it should, and in that same moment I feel the kiss shift, deepen, his mouth parting slightly against mine as his tongue brushes mine without asking, insistent, provocative, like he’s pushing every boundary at once.

The contact completely throws me off, it’s warm, unexpected, too close, and for a second my breath catches, my grip tightens instead of letting go, because my body reacts before my mind, caught in a sensation that shouldn’t be there, that shouldn’t feel like this, but stays just long enough to make everything far more complicated than it should be.

And that’s what frustrates me the most, because this should be easy, automatic, just rejection, pushing him away without thinking, without feeling anything but anger or disgust… but it isn’t, and that brief hesitation, that second where I don’t react the way I should, is exactly what makes everything worse.

Because the kiss doesn’t end with that first impact, it lingers, deepens just enough to become real, present, like he wants to make sure I feel it, that I won’t be able to ignore it later.

And it stays.

When I finally manage to pull away, shoving him harder, the air rushes back all at once, my breathing uneven, sharp, and I stare at him like he just crossed a line that shouldn’t exist.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap.

Mateo stays where he is, watching me, with that same unreadable expression, something between a challenge and something else I can’t quite name.

“Thought you wanted to try,” he says calmly.

I hate him.

More than before.

A lot more.

But now there’s something else mixed into all of that, something that shouldn’t be there, something that doesn’t fit, slipping between the anger and complicating it.

And that…

that’s what really worries me.