Page 17 of All the Things We Buried

SIXTEEN

LENORE

M assachusetts in July sweats through your skin. Mornings bright and blinding, afternoons a thunderstorm waiting to happen. That day was hot like hell, but the sky stayed gray, like even the sun couldn’t bear to look.

I sat curled in the corner of my bedroom, dragging a fingernail into the peeling green wallpaper beside my closet, scratching another tally into the wall, marking time like I was serving a sentence. All I wanted was to disappear. To never see any of them again.

I wore an oversized black shirt, its edge brushing my knees. My hair was tied in a loose bun, dark and messy. My cheeks were sticky with tears. My skin, was still raw, still feeling the strokes from the Father’s belt.

The door creaked open. Then shut. I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to.

It was him .

Dorian.

“Hey, Trouble,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Loving the makeup.”

“I like yours better,” I mumbled, eyes flicking up to the purple bruise blooming beneath his eye.

His black hair clung to his forehead, damp, and messy in a way that felt intentional without trying.

His eyes, so dark they looked black in the shadows, watched me as he crouched down.

His jaw was sharp and clean-shaven. Beautiful, in a way that felt misplaced in this house full of cold and ugly people.

But don’t get me wrong, he was dangerous. I knew that. He wore his bad like a scent, a warning.

That stupid black button-up, always with two buttons undone, revealing his silver cross. A middle finger to the whole idea of faith. Tight black jeans. Black All-Stars I wasn’t allowed to wear.

Sneakers are for boys, my stepmother would say. Girls wear heels and dresses.

I never got what I wanted.

Dorian reached for my hand. From behind his back, he pulled out a chocolate muffin with a single pink candle sticking out.

He placed it gently in my palm.

“Happy birthday, Trouble.”

I couldn’t help the smile. “You remembered.”

He lit the candle. His smirk replaced the smile, cocky and soft all at once.

“Make a wish.”

“What’s the point?” I whispered. “I never get my wish.”

“Maybe this time you will,” he said, raising a brow, hand sliding up to scratch the back of his head.

Those hands. Veined and strong, covered in tattoos like messy, beautiful stories. They were too much. He was too much. My body always betrayed me when he was near. It was wrong. So fucking wrong.

Tonight, tonight, he’d haunt me forever. Because after midnight, he knew there would be no more lines to cross. Nothing holding him back.

I closed my eyes, blew out the candle, and swallowed the breath that trembled in my chest.

He leaned in, too close. His voice brushed across my lips.“What did you wish for, Trouble?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He saw it in my face.

“For me to leave,” I muttered.

He didn’t believe me. Of course, he didn’t. He chuckled, low and wicked. “Nah, Trouble. You wished for that kiss you never got.”

“No.” My eyes snapped open, hands pushing against his chest.

But my heart didn’t listen. It sounded like it wanted to leap into his.

He came closer anyway. Fingers skimmed my jaw and lifted my chin.

“Who would’ve thought my sister would be the one to make my dick so fucking hard,“ he murmured.

“Ew. Gross.” I shoved him again. “ Step -sister. Not sister. Huge difference.”

“I’m just teasing.” He leaned in again, eyes dropping to my lips. “But you just confirmed what I already knew.”

I stiffened. “And what’s that?”

He hissed softly, a grin spreading slowly like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re in love.”

“You don’t know shit,” I whispered. My voice barely made it past my throat, caught on the lump forming there.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared, soaking me in like he could see straight through the lies I wrapped myself in.

“Don’t I?” he said, almost bored. His fingers dragged slowly down the curve of my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. My lips parted. On instinct.

I hated him. Hated how much I wanted him.

“You’re shaking,” he said, voice a low hum.

“I’m not.”

I was.

He pressed closer, and I felt him against the bare skin of my thigh.

“I could make you mine ,“ he said. “But the truth is, Trouble… you’ve already been.”

My breath hitched.

He didn’t touch me beyond that one hand, didn’t push. He didn’t have to. His presence alone was enough to undo every wall I had built.

“You were mine the moment you looked at me like I was human.” He chuckled, “That was your first mistake.”

A drop of rain hit the window. Then another. The storm we had both been holding back was coming.

“I should scream,” I said. “Tell them what you said. What you’re doing.”

His smile curved darker. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you want this as much as I do. Maybe more.”

I hated how right he sounded.

I hated how my legs refused to back away.

“Maybe,” I said, but my voice cracked.

He leaned closer, lips grazing the shell of my ear, breath hot enough to burn.

“They’d call you crazy if they knew what you thought at night.” He took a step back, smile on his lips, “But I’d call you mine. ”

His.

He stood then, slowly, dragging his eyes over me like he was taking a picture he would keep locked in a drawer forever.

“Put something on,” he said. “I’m taking you out.”

“What?” I blinked up at him. “Where?”

My breath caught again.

And then he turned, walked to the door, and looked back just once.

“I’ll be downstairs. Ten minutes, Trouble. Don’t make me come back up.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click , and I was left staring at the muffin still cradled in my palm.

The candle had burned down to nothing.

And I jumped. No hesitation, no mirror check, no makeup. Just jeans and a white t-shirt pulled from the closet with hands that shook a little. I didn’t care how I looked. I just needed to breathe. I needed to get out of that room before it swallowed me whole.

I ran through the door, my heart slamming against my ribs, down the stairs two at a time like I could outrun the past. And he was there.

Standing at the front door, like he belonged there. Like he had always belonged there.

He looked at me and smiled. Not that crooked smirk he gave other people, but the soft one. The one he only gave me. In one hand, his bike helmet. In the other, a single rose.

Pink.

Not red.

He knew. Of course he did. He always knew.

Red roses were my mother’s favorite. They were for funerals and anniversaries. But pink… pink had been mine, once. Soft and bright and full of life. Until she died. Then everything turned black. Not just my clothes. Not just my room. Me . The inside of me.

But somehow, with him, the color started to come back. Not all at once. Just in little moments. Like this one.

I used to think pink meant weak. Pretty. Safe. But now I know better. Pink was the color of coming back to life. Of trying again. Of wanting something after everything has been taken. Pink was for surviving.

And the words I used to carve when the pain got too loud, none of them mattered now. Except for one. Just one letter. A small “D” hidden where no one would see it. D for Dorian. He hadn’t seen it yet. But it was there. Quiet and real.

He made me want to speak again. To scream. To stop hiding behind silence. Because silence is where things rot. And love, real love, wants to be loud.

So yeah, I was too pink when I was with him.

Too soft. Too open. He made the black edges fade with one look.

He made the weight lift with one touch. He was the light I never thought I would see again.

And I was the dark he held without fear.

Because even the sun needs the night. And I was his night, just so he could be my day.

I ran to him like I had nowhere else to go. Because I didn’t. I took the rose from his hand and looked up at him.

“You knew,” I whispered.

He grinned. “Because you never shut the fuck up about it.”

I laughed. It caught in my throat, because it was too much. Too full.

“Okay, biker boy,” I said, rolling my eyes, even though they were already wet. “You win.”

“Just this time,” I added, smelling the rose like it could save me.

We walked to the Harley he had parked out front, shining black. Vivian and my father were gone for club business in Salem. Which meant today was ours. No masks. No pretending.

I stood next to the bike and stared at it. I had no idea what to do with it.

He didn’t say a word. Just lifted me gently, like I weighed nothing, and placed me on the seat. Then he slid the helmet on, carefully, and clipped it under my chin. He tapped the top.

“For good luck.”

I smiled. My head felt tight, and my heart even tighter. But I didn’t care.

He started the engine, and it roared to life beneath us.

The pink rose slipped from my hand and landed on the ground behind us.

I didn’t look back.

I just wrapped my arms around him and held on as if I let go, I might disappear again.