Page 13 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Damien

T he wipers drag across the windshield in slow, squeaky arcs, clearing away the light mist that’s started to fall. The air in the cab is heavy, quiet except for the low hum of the engine.

“That was for him,” she says suddenly, her voice sharper than the rain.

I glance at her. “What?”

“That kiss. You didn’t do it for me. You did it to get under Colton’s skin.”

Her cheeks are still flushed, her eyes bright in the passing glow of the streetlights. She’s not wrong that Colton saw every second — but she’s dead wrong if she thinks that’s the only reason I did it.

“You think I’d—”

“I know you would,” she cuts in, her tone like a whip crack. “You’ve been at each other’s throats since before I met you, and I don’t want to be part of it. I never want to feel like I’m some pawn in whatever twisted game you two are playing.”

I keep my eyes on the road, my grip tightening on the wheel. I should let it go. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But the words stick under my skin like splinters.

I bite back the first thing that comes to mind and keep my voice level, even though it’s a damn effort. “This is what you wanted, Lyla. A fake relationship. We agreed to sell it.”

“I didn’t agree to that ,” she snaps, twisting in her seat to face me. “There’s a difference between playing the part and… whatever that was.”

Her words hit harder than they should, but I don’t look at her. “So what do you want from me? Kiss you? Don’t kiss you? You tell me the rules.”

“The rules?” She lets out a sharp laugh that has zero humor in it. “I want you to stop using me to fight your battles.”

I flick my eyes toward her then, catching the defiance in her stare. “And I want you to stop assuming you know why I do what I do.”

Her mouth presses into a hard line, and she turns to face the window again. The silence that follows feels thick enough to choke on.

We turn onto my street just as a streak of lightning slices the sky, white-hot against the dark. The thunder follows seconds later, a deep, rolling growl that makes the windows vibrate.

Beside me, Lyla flinches. Not just a startle — her shoulders tense, her breath hitches, and she curls in on herself like she’s bracing for a hit.

I pull into the driveway, cutting the engine. Rain starts pattering against the hood, the rhythm quickening. Another flash, another rumble.

Her fingers are clenched in her lap, knuckles pale.

“Lyla.”

She doesn’t look at me. “It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. I saw it the night Aaron died, when the storm was so loud you could barely hear your own voice over the roof.

I lean closer. “We can fight later. Right now, I want to show you something.”

She blinks, her gaze flicking to mine, unsure.

“Come on,” I say, already reaching for the door handle.

The rain’s coming down harder by the time we reach the porch. I unlock the door and push it open, the scent of fresh paint and old wood wrapping around us.

“Upstairs,” I tell her, motioning toward the steps. She hesitates, glancing back at the dark, rain-slick street, before following.

My room is at the end of the hall, still mostly bare except for the bed and a few boxes stacked in the corner. One sits open on the quilt, the cardboard edges softened with age.

I lift out a thick, leather-bound photo album, the spine worn and splitting. “Found this in the back of my parents’ closet,” I say. “Mom must’ve packed it away before they moved.”

Lyla steps closer, her eyes drawn to the faded cover. I open it to the first page — a cluster of Polaroids, edges curling.

Aaron’s in almost all of them. One with his arm hooked around my neck, grinning at the camera. One where he’s crouched on the dock with Lyla, both of them holding fishing poles. One of all three of us, squinting into the sun with matching crooked smiles.

Her hand hovers over the page, trembling just slightly. “I forgot about this day,” she murmurs, touching the corner of the fishing photo.

“You caught the biggest one,” I remind her. “Wouldn’t shut up about it for a week.”

That earns me the smallest smile, fleeting but real.

I flip another page — a school dance, a bonfire, birthdays. Moments we’d all lived together before everything broke.

“I wasn’t leaving these for strangers to find,” I say quietly.

She glances at me, her expression softening, and for a moment, the fight in the car feels far away.

“I can’t stay,” she says, closing the album gently like it’s something fragile. “My mom…” Her voice trails off, but I know what she means.

“I’ll walk you,” I tell her, already reaching for my jacket.

“It’s just across the street,” she protests, but I shake my head.

“It’s coming down harder. Humor me.”

We head out into the rain, hoods up, water soaking through the fabric in seconds. The street is slick, reflecting the flash of lightning and the warm glow spilling from her front window. She hurries ahead, and I match her stride.

When we step inside, the air smells faintly of lavender and something sweet — maybe tea. Lyla shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair.

“Mom?” she calls softly.

A shuffle from the living room, and then she’s there — smaller than I remember, her hair thinner, her eyes not quite focusing the way they used to.

“Lyla,” she says, smiling, though there’s a hesitation in it, like she’s making sure she’s got the right name. Her gaze slides to me, and for a moment there’s no recognition. Then her brow furrows. “Damien?”

“Hi, Mrs. Hart,” I say quietly.

She steps closer, studying my face. “You… you were Aaron’s friend.”

My throat tightens. “Yeah.”

Her smile wavers, and I can see the flicker of confusion there, the way it shifts behind her eyes before she glances back at Lyla. “It’s storming.”

“I know,” Lyla says gently, taking her hand. “I’m home now.”

Her mom nods, letting Lyla guide her back toward the couch. I stand there for a moment, rain still dripping from my jacket, feeling the weight of all the years between then and now — and everything that’s been lost.