3. Almost Confessions

The garden was silent except for the soft hum of the night air and the faint rustle of leaves under my shoes. I could feel Celine’s presence behind me before I even realized she had followed. Every step she took made the space between us shrink, my chest tightening with each one.

“You shouldn’t sneak around at night,” I said, though my voice betrayed me with a tremor I couldn’t hide.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leaned against the fountain, crossing one leg over the other, her eyes catching mine in the dim golden light. “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked softly, her tone teasing, almost velvet. “Is it because it’s dangerous? Or because you can’t stop thinking about me?”

I froze. The words, casual though they seemed, hit me like a hammer. My heart lurched, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I wanted to deny it, to turn and run, to pretend that none of this, this impossible, forbidden, electric pull, existed. But I couldn’t. Not when she was there, looking at me the way no one else ever had.

“I… I don’t know what you mean,” I said finally, my voice small.

She smiled faintly, stepping closer. Every movement was deliberate, calculated, and somehow reckless all at once. The scent of her—warm, intoxicating, familiar—wrapped around me like a second skin. My hands twitched, craving the brush of her fingers, the ghost of a touch that would never be allowed.

“I think you do,” she whispered, closing the last few inches between us. My breath hitched. Her gaze locked onto mine, heavy and insistent, and I could feel the magnetic pull drawing me forward. Every nerve screamed at me to give in. Every rule I had told myself for months shattered under the weight of her eyes.

“You shouldn’t—” I started again, but the words fell apart.

Her hand reached out, just inches from mine, and I could feel the static hum in the air between us. The almost-touch—the anticipation—was electric, a tether straining until it might snap. I wanted to close the gap, to press my palm against hers, to feel the heat of her skin. My pulse pounded so loudly it drowned out the soft rustle of leaves.

Celine’s lips curved into a teasing, almost-smile. “I shouldn’t, either,” she admitted, voice low, breath warm against my ear. “But here we are.”

The space between us became unbearable. My knees felt weak. I could feel her leaning toward me, and the air between us thickened, charged with everything we couldn’t say. My fingers itched to move, to brush hers, to let this forbidden closeness ignite into something undeniable.

“Celine…” I whispered, barely audible, trembling.

Her hand hovered closer, and I wanted to close my eyes, to let the pull of her warmth take me over, even if just for a heartbeat. The tension coiled inside me, sharp, dizzying, impossible to ignore. I could smell her shampoo, the faint sweetness of her skin, the subtle musky warmth of her pulse echoing in the space between us.

And then, just as my hand twitched, ready to close the last inches, she stepped back.

“Not yet,” she said, voice soft, almost desperate. Her eyes were dark, serious, and full of warning. “We can’t. Not here. Not like this.”

My chest ached. I wanted her so badly it hurt, the ache radiating down to my stomach and up to my throat. The almost-touch, the almost-kiss, the almost-admission—they were worse than nothing. They left me raw, craving, unsteady.

She took a step back, her presence still heavy, lingering like a phantom, and the night suddenly felt colder, emptier. My heart was pounding, my breaths coming too fast, and I realized I had never wanted anything or anyone this badly.

She gave me one last look before turning toward the house. It was a glance that promised danger, that hinted at all the lines we were about to cross, and all the rules we were about to break.

And as I watched her walk away, the ache inside me didn’t fade. It burned hotter, spreading through my chest and down to my stomach, twisting my insides with a hunger I couldn’t tame. I wanted her. Not just her touch or her lips, though I imagined both in ways that made my head spin and my pulse hammer. I wanted her laugh, the curve of her shoulder, the way her hair fell across her collarbone when she leaned forward. I wanted the warmth of her body pressed against mine in a room where no one could see, where no one could judge, where all the rules that made this impossible could dissolve into nothing.

I wanted her more than my own safety. Every warning bell in my brain screamed that this was dangerous. That I was crossing a line I couldn’t uncross. But my body didn’t care. My heart didn’t care. Every fiber of me ached to feel her, to memorize the heat of her skin, the brush of her hand against mine.

I wanted her more than my sister, more than the fragile illusion of family loyalty, more than anything I’d ever thought I could need. And yet… it wasn’t just desire. It was an obsession. It was craving. It was knowing, deep down, that once I let myself fall, nothing, no consequence, no rule, no fear, could stop me.

And I knew, with a terrifying clarity, that I wasn’t going to stop.