Page 97 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

He looks at me as though he’s never heard them before, and if I had to guess, he hasn’t.

He tries to pull away, but I catch his face and turn it back to mine, my fingers trembling slightly.

“Arlo, you were a baby. You didn’t take anyone’s life. You were born out of love, I’m sure of it. Sometimes things happen that aren’t fair, but that doesn’t make them your fault.”

For a heartbeat, the world feels still. His gaze burns through me, raw, unguarded, and my chest aches with it.

Then, like a door slamming shut, it’s gone. His expression empties, the distance returns.

My hand slips from his face.

“I don’t need your pity,” he says coldly. “It’s not some tragic tale, it’s just what happened. People die. Some of us just learn it earlier than others.”

He leans back, jaw tight, the firelight carving harsh lines across his face. The self-hatred is there, buried deep, contained, controlled, and weaponised.

Then laughter, footsteps, and doors slamming break through the silence.

The spell shatters. The others are back.

By the time everyone gathers for Thanksgiving dinner, the house is alive again, music, conversation, the clatter of dishes.

Adelaide is bossing everyone around, Milo’s making jokes, and Octavia is arguing about seasoning.

Arlo, though, is silent and detached.

Each time our eyes meet, he looks away, and it hurts.

So I make myself stop looking.

Chapter 33

Ophelia

The last few days of our trip pass in a blur.

After our Thanksgiving dinner, where Milo complained through half the meal about the absence of aveganturkey, it was surprisingly pleasant.

For once, there were no arguments worth remembering, just laughter and warmth and the hum of music that made the chalet feel alive.

In the days that follow, the others spend their time skiing, snowboarding, or finding new ways to nearly get themselves killed on the mountain.

I stay behind.

Partly because I want to, partly because Arlo can’t go anywhere with his injured ankle.

He grumbles every time I bring him tea or insist he rests, but he lets me fuss.

We don’t talk about anything heavy anymore.

In fact, we barely talk at all.

Whenever I try, he finds a way to stop me.

First with his mouth on mine, then with his cock buried so deep that in that moment, nothing exists but us.

And all I can feel, all I can think about, is him.

His presence, his scent, his touch.