15 | Kisses in the rain

"You are the soul that fits into mine."

Dominic

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

I hear Ben's voice before I even see him.

Too fucking cheerful. Too fucking close to her.

The locker room doors swing open, and he steps out, still damp from his post-practice shower, his hair a mess like he actually thinks that disheveled look makes him seem effortless. His jersey is stuffed into his bag, his shoulders too relaxed for someone who just spent the last hour getting his ass handed to him on the ice.

And Willa—fuck, Willa is still in front of me, in the bleachers.

She should've left by now. She should've walked out with Alex, who had waved her off in the middle of our conversation. She should've known better than to linger around a bunch of hockey players.

But she doesn't leave.

Instead, she stands there, arms crossed over her chest, her brown eyes flicking between me and Ben as he slows to a stop in front of her.

I don't move from where I'm standing a few feet away. My hockey stick is tight in my grip, my jaw clenched so hard it fucking aches. I don't interfere, don't do anything but watch.

And glare.

Because she's looking at me now.

She doesn't say anything—she just holds my gaze, a silent warning in those brown eyes. A warning I understand.

Don't.

And because she asked, I don't.

Not yet.

But when Ben shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight, his voice lowering just enough that it feels like he's making some kind of move, I feel my grip tighten on my hockey stick.

"You ever been to that little café downtown?" Ben asks her. "The one with the patio and the insane chocolate cake?"

My entire body goes still.

Willa tilts her head, expression unreadable. "Yeah, I know it."

Ben nods, his smile easy, too fucking confident. "We should go sometime."

I drop my hockey stick.

The sound is loud enough that Ben barely has time to turn around before I'm on him.

One second, he's standing there, probably thinking he has a chance. The next, I've got him by the collar of his hoodie, slamming him backward into the bleachers hard enough that the entire structure shakes.

His eyes widen, fingers scrambling to pry mine off of him.

"You don't fucking talk to her," I grit out, my voice low, lethal.

Ben lets out a sharp breath but manages a smirk. "Jesus, Dom. What the fuck!?"

I shove him harder, my forearm pressing against his chest, pinning him in place. "You don't look at her, you don't speak to her, and if you even think about asking her out again, I swear to God—"

He cuts me off with a laugh, shaking his head. "Man, you'd never even know if I did."

I go completely still.

Ben's smile turns sharper, his voice lowering, just loud enough for only me to hear.

"You're always high, West. Always out of it, always in your own fucked-up head. I could take her out, kiss her, do whatever I wanted, and you'd never even know, would you?"

Rage hits me like a gunshot.

I don't hesitate.

I don't think.

My fist connects with his jaw, and the crack of it echoes through the empty rink.

Ben stumbles, hand flying up to his face, eyes wide as he glares at me.

But I don't give him a chance to say anything else.

I storm off, ignoring the way my knuckles throb, ignoring the sound of Willa's voice calling my name.

I don't look back.

I don't stop.

I slam into the locker room, throwing my hockey stick against the wall before yanking off my jersey. The adrenaline is still burning through me, my pulse roaring in my ears as I strip off my gear, my movements sharp, violent.

Ben fucking Carter.

I should've hit him harder.

The thought does nothing to stop my hands from shaking as I shove on my hoodie, not even bothering to dry my hair. My breaths come fast and shallow as I lace up my boots, my thoughts a tangled mess.

Ben thinks I wouldn't notice.

That I wouldn't know.

And maybe he's right.

Maybe I've been so fucking lost these past few years, so stuck in my own downward spiral, that I wouldn't have noticed someone taking her from me.

That's bullshit, and he knows it. No matter how lost I get in those drug-fueled highs, her name is the only thing that ever cuts through the haze.

I fucking notice.

And it's too fucking late.

I shove my bag over my shoulder and stalk out of the locker room, my boots slamming against the concrete. I don't know where I'm going, just know I need air, need to get the hell away from this place before I do something I really regret.

Standing right outside the arena, her arms hugged around herself.

Willa.

Waiting.

The rain is light, more of a drizzle, making the pavement slick and the air heavy. The streetlights cast a dull glow over her, and when she looks up at me, her expression isn't what I expect.

It's not relief.

Not worry.

It's anger.

"You're an idiot."

I exhale through my nose, shaking my head as I approach. "If you're about to give me some speech about not hitting people, I don't want to hear it."

"Too bad." She steps forward, eyes flashing. "You can't just punch people whenever you feel like it."

"I didn't punch him because I felt like it," I growl, voice dangerously low. "I punched him because he doesn't know when to shut the hell up."

"Oh, so that makes it okay?" Her voice rises, her hands flinging out in frustration. "That's your excuse?"

"Yeah," I snap. "It is."

She lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "God, you are so—so infuriating!"

I huff out a breath, running a hand through my damp hair. "You act like I'm the only one who's ever gotten into a fight. Newsflash, Willa, you knew exactly who I was before I left. Nothing's changed."

Her expression flickers, something deeper shifting beneath the surface.

Nothing's changed.

Wrong thing to say.

Because then she's stepping closer, shoving her hands against my chest, her voice breaking.

"No," she chokes out, "everything changed, Dominic. You left."

The rain is coming down harder now, mixing with the tears in her eyes.

"You left," she says again, shaking her head, her voice raw. "And I—I wrote to you. Every day. I wrote you letters, and you never wrote back. You never answered me."

I freeze.

The words slam into me, stealing the air from my lungs.

Letters.

She wrote me letters.

Who took them from me?

Rage burns in my throat, at the fact that my butterfly wrote me letters and I never received them.

I swallow hard, my brain scrambling to catch up. "Willa, I—"

"I hate you." Her voice cracks, her fists clenching. "I hate you so much."

I don't think.

I don't hesitate.

I kiss her.

Hard.

Fierce.

Like it's the only thing keeping me breathing.

Cause it is.

She gasps against my mouth, her fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie, holding me there like she doesn't know if she wants to pull me closer or push me away.

I don't give her a choice.

I pour everything into the kiss—all the regret, the anger, the longing, the years of silence between us.

And for a second—just a second—she kisses me back.

But then she's gone.

One second, she's in my arms, her lips against mine.

The next, she's tearing herself away, stepping back, her breath ragged.

And then—

She runs.

She turns and sprints away from me, her hair a blur in the rain, her footsteps echoing against the pavement.

I stand there, frozen, my chest heaving, my hands clenched into fists.

I should go after her.

I should chase her down, demand answers, demand that she doesn't just disappear on me again.

But I don't move.

I can't.

I don't know what the hell to do.

I don't know how long I stand there, rain soaking through my hoodie, heart hammering against my ribs. My pulse still beats to the rhythm of that kiss, of her hands fisting my sweatshirt, of the way she ripped herself away like it physically hurt to stay close.

And then she ran.

My legs finally move, carrying me away from the rink, away from the parking lot, away from the ghost of her lips on mine.

The house is quiet when I push through the front door, my breath still ragged, my hands damp from the rain. The lights in the kitchen are on, the warm glow spilling into the hallway, and then—

"Dom?"

My mother's voice. Soft, surprised.

I turn and see her standing by the stove, stirring something in a pot, her brows furrowing at the sight of me. She looks the same as she always has—gentle eyes, brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, worry creasing her forehead. The only difference is that she's staring at me like she can't believe I'm actually here.

I swallow, suddenly feeling too big for this space, too out of place in a house that used to feel like home.

"I didn't know you were coming back so soon," she says carefully, setting the spoon down, stepping toward me. "How was practice?"

I open my mouth to answer, but she beats me to it.

"Never mind that—come here."

Before I can react, she pulls me into a hug, arms tight around me, like she's afraid I'll disappear again. And maybe she should be.

I hesitate for half a second before sinking into her hold, pressing my face against her shoulder, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

So damn tired

"You're soaked," she murmurs, running a hand over my damp hair.

"It's raining."

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head before pulling back to study my face. I know what she's looking for. Signs. Bruises. Shadows under my eyes that aren't from lack of sleep.

I let her look.

She exhales softly. "Your dad went out for a run."

I nod, not really caring. "Okay."

Her lips press together, searching my face for more. For something. I don't give it to her.

Instead, I step back, clearing my throat. "I need to go out for a second."

"Dom—"

But I don't wait for her to finish.

I turn, pushing back out into the rain, my heartbeat a steady drum against my ribs as I cross the street.

I don't even hesitate as I make my way up the driveway of the Myers' house, rain dripping from my hair, my hoodie clinging to my skin.

I know Luke is home before I even step inside.

The second I open the front door, I see him.

He's standing at the kitchen counter, pouring himself a glass of water, his broad shoulders tense, his jaw sharp under the dim glow of the overhead lights. The second he looks up and sees me standing in the doorway, his expression hardens.

His glare is instant. Unwavering.

I brace myself.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice is low, edged with something dangerous.

I square my shoulders. "I'm here to see Willa."

Luke exhales slowly, placing the glass down, his fingers drumming against the counter. "No."

I lift a brow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my mouth. "No?"

He straightens, crossing his arms. "You heard me. You are not good enough for my daughter."

The words don't sting as much as they should. Maybe because I've already told myself the same thing a hundred times. Maybe because I know he's right.

But it doesn't matter.

Because I'm here.

Because Willa is upstairs.

Because I can still taste her on my lips, feel the way she trembled against me.

I take a step forward, meeting his stare head-on. "Maybe I'm not." My voice is steady, stronger than I feel. "But I'm going to try to be."

Luke's jaw ticks. His arms flex against his chest. But I don't back down.

Because none of this matters.

Not his disapproval. Not his anger.

Not the fact that he could probably break my nose with one punch.

Because nothing—nothing—is going to stop me from walking up those stairs and talking to her.

And I think he knows it.

The air between us is thick with tension, charged and heavy.

But I don't move.

And neither does he.

Yet.

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THE KISS FINALLY HAPPENED

Guys I can't wait from here on out it get gooooooood😆

they r just so cute and they make me melt😭😭😭😭🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰