1. Collision Course

The morning after the first time Celine Hartman looked at me, I had coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, staring at a blank text message I didn’t want to send. My fingers hovered over the keyboard like I was about to disarm a bomb.

Don’t text her. Don’t start this. It’s wrong.

I’d been home for less than twelve hours, and the wedding chaos was already suffocating me. My sister, Aaliyah, floated through the apartment like she owned every square inch, perfectly coiffed and radiating ambition. Her fiancé, Celine, moved with a calm precision that made my hoodie-and-sneakers self feel like a torn-up scrap of nothing.

But it wasn’t that I was intimidated. Not exactly. It was… something worse.

Her eyes.

The way she’d looked at me in the living room last night. Like she’d been waiting for me to show up. Like she already knew me in ways no one else ever had. I could still feel it, a heat crawling up my spine and settling deep in my chest, somewhere between thrill and danger.

I shoved my phone into my pocket and slammed the coffee mug on the counter. Maybe ignoring her was safer. Safer for my sister, for myself, for the fragile illusion of normal life I had left.

I peeked out of the kitchen and froze. Celine was leaning casually against the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame, her sharp eyes scanning the room. She wasn’t looking at my sister this time. She was looking at me.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was quiet, soft, but every word hit me like it had gravity.

I cleared my throat. “Morning.”

She smiled—half teasing, half unreadable. My stomach did that stupid flip thing it always did when she was near.

“You look… tired.” Her eyes flicked to the dark circles under mine. “Long flight?”

“No,” I muttered. “Just… life catching up, I guess.”

She tilted her head slightly, like she was examining me. It was infuriating. And intoxicating.

I busied myself with the coffee grinder, pretending not to notice her lingering presence. My hands shook slightly as I tried to focus, but it didn’t help. Every time I moved, her gaze followed me like I was some fragile animal she wanted to protect—or break. I wasn’t sure which.

“You don’t have to be nervous around me,” she said, stepping closer. The faint scent of her perfume wrapped around me—warm, floral, and addictive. “I won’t bite. I promise.”

I almost laughed. Almost. But my throat felt tight. Words stuck. My brain was screaming don’t, don’t, don’t, while every nerve in my body wanted to lean into her, to touch her hand, to feel that electric connection again.

“Right,” I managed, finally. “Nervous. Sure. Totally.”

She laughed softly, a sound that made me want to crawl inside her laugh and never leave. It wasn’t a loud, exaggerated laugh—it was quiet, intimate, like she was letting me in on something I wasn’t supposed to know.

“Come on,” she said, walking past me. “Help me choose the table decorations. Aaliyah thinks gold is too old-fashioned, but I kinda like it. Don’t tell her, though.”

I blinked. “Uh… okay.”

We walked together to the living room, where rolls of ribbon, swatches of fabric, and little floral arrangements covered every surface. My sister was perched on the couch, scrolling her phone, unaware that the world was shifting under her feet.

Celine reached down to pick up a swatch of blush velvet. “What do you think?” she asked, holding it up against the wall.

I hesitated. “It’s… nice.” My voice sounded distant even to me.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “Nice? That’s it? You’re an artist, right? Shouldn’t you have, I don’t know… more to say?”

I swallowed hard, heat crawling up my neck. “I… like it.”

Her eyes softened. “Good enough. For now.”

There it was again—that way she looked at me—like she saw through every layer I’d built around myself, and maybe even through the parts I didn’t like. It was terrifying and thrilling at once.

I busied myself with arranging some of the ribbon rolls, trying to ignore the weight of her gaze, the pull of her presence. But every so often, I caught her watching me, and my chest would tighten. Every glance, every tilt of her head, every small, deliberate movement was a reminder of how impossible this was.

Impossible, and yet… electric.

I wanted her.

Every fiber of me ached with it. The way her hair caught the light, the faint arch of her neck as she bent to pick up the ribbon, the curve of her lips that made my chest tighten—I wanted to memorize it all, press it into my skin so I could feel it even when she wasn’t near. My thoughts kept drifting, despite every warning bell ringing in my brain. I imagined her hand brushing mine, imagined her lips so close I could feel the heat of her breath, imagined the way she would look at me when no one else was watching, all sharp angles softened by want.

I hated myself for it. Hated the way my pulse betrayed me, the way my stomach clenched and melted all at once. Hated the way my tongue wanted to form words I didn’t dare speak. I hated that I wanted her more than I wanted to stay invisible, more than I wanted to obey the rules that said she belonged to my sister, more than I wanted to survive without burning alive.

And yet, with every glance, every almost-smile, every subtle motion, my body betrayed me again. Every time she laughed softly, every time her eyes lingered for the tiniest fraction too long, I felt myself unravel. My fingers twitched to touch her, even knowing I shouldn’t. I wanted her in ways I couldn’t name, in ways that scared me, in ways that thrilled me.

I wanted her. And that simple truth was already dangerous.

Because Celine wasn’t just anyone. She was my sister’s fiancée. She was perfect. Untouchable. Sacred in a way I was never supposed to be allowed to touch.

But the way she smiled at me when she thought I wasn’t looking… that soft, almost-mocking smile… made me want to throw all the rules out the window.

I glanced at my reflection in the window and caught her watching me again. I was lost. Completely, deliciously, terrifyingly lost.

And somewhere deep inside, I knew—this wasn’t going to end quietly.

Not for me. Not for her.