The boy who hurt me first

015

𝒯𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒶 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔

"Don't be shy, Tess. I'm staring because you look beautiful."

The words don't rush toward me.
They don't collide with my chest or force a reaction out of me.

They drift in slowly, the way warmth spreads through fabric when you've been cold for too long. The way a blanket is placed over your shoulders with care—no sudden movement, no weight meant to trap you. Just enough pressure to remind you that you're not freezing anymore. That you don't have to keep your muscles clenched. That it's okay to let your breath deepen.

For a moment, I don't move at all.

I stay exactly where I am, suspended between before and after, like my body is waiting for permission to believe this moment exists. I feel my heartbeat in my throat, in my wrists, in the soft hollow beneath my ribs. It's not panic. Not quite excitement either.

It's disbelief.

Beautiful.

I've heard the word before. I've worn it the way you wear borrowed clothing—carefully, never fully settling into it. Because it usually comes with something attached. A laugh that takes the edge off. A tone that implies exaggeration. A look that expects something back. Attention, gratitude, compliance.

Sometimes it comes with an expiration date.

Sometimes it comes with strings.

So my body waits.

I stay very still, my breath shallow, my shoulders tight in that familiar way that says don't trust this yet. Compliments have always felt like fragile objects to me—pretty, delicate things that shatter the moment you lean your weight on them.

But Hardin doesn't add anything.

He doesn't joke to soften it.
He doesn't glance away like he's embarrassed by the sincerity of it.
He doesn't rush to explain or correct himself.

He just looks at me.

And there's something about that look that feels steady. Not hungry. Not calculating. Not evaluative.

He's not measuring me.
He's not deciding anything.

He's simply there, meeting my eyes like he's already certain of what he sees.

That's what makes something inside my chest loosen—not all at once, not dramatically, but just enough for me to notice it. Like a knot easing slightly after being held too tight for too long.

Then his lips brush mine.

The contact is so soft I almost miss it at first. No urgency. No claiming. No sense of taking something from me. Just a gentle press that feels like reassurance made physical. Like he's saying I'm here without words.

When he pulls back, the warmth doesn't disappear with him. It lingers in the space between us, in the air, in my skin—like sunlight that stays on a windowsill even after the sun has shifted.

He turns toward the bathroom, and I watch him go, my eyes following him as if the simple act of looking might keep him close. Like if I let him walk away too easily, the moment might slip through my fingers before I've fully felt it.