Page 7

CHAPTER SIX

ALLY

Game nights used to feel like a refuge—back when everything was simple, before Rhys and I started circling around something messy neither of us could name clearly. Now, though, every round feels charged with hidden tension—a minefield wrapped up in trivia questions and card games.

I desperately try to convince myself that I can act normal. I force a smile when Rhys laughs, hide my longing glances, and suppress the urge to reach out every time our paths cross in the kitchen. I even try not to feel that piercing ache when Ashley cosies up next to him on the couch, even though that charade is supposed to be history. I’m failing at playing the part of the carefree friend.

“Okay,” Arden declares, lifting a beat-up deck of cards as if it were a sacred relic ready to settle our unspoken disputes. “Tonight, we’re going old school. Cards Against Humanity. Yasmin’s brilliant— or so she claims, so you can all thank her for the emotional rollercoaster we’re about to endure.”

Yasmin flashes a mischievous grin from the far side of the couch. “It’s only traumatic if you can’t laugh about it.”

Rhys lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that twists something tight inside me. I shift away, claiming I’m adjusting my position, though really, I’m trying to hide the way my eyes linger on the soft freckle near his jaw.

“You okay?” Ella leans in urgently as if reading the conflict in my eyes while Arden shuffles the cards.

I give a too-quick nod. “Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her glance sharpens, silently telling me she sees right through my charade. “Just checking.”

The usual high-spirited madness of our game nights surrounds me—snacks scattered everywhere, people lounging on cushions, chairs borrowed from the dining room. This should be comforting noise, yet with Rhys so near that our knees occasionally bump, every laugh feels like an unspoken challenge. It’s as though he’s testing how far he can push me—and how much of myself I can still hide.

“Ally,” Chase calls from the floor, theatrically sprawled like a fading superstar. “Make sure your card’s good. I’m still recovering from that ‘dead dolphin in the bathtub’ combo you unleashed last time we played.”

I manage a smirk. “You mean the card that won?”

He groans and flops back with a theatrical, pained expression. “You’re merciless.”

“I respect that,” Millie chimes in, tearing into a slice of garlic bread. “Fear the redhead.”

“Amen,” Ashley mutters, barely lifting her eyes from her drink.

I catch myself frozen—as if suspended in a moment—unsure whether to feel flattered or humiliated by her comment. When I glance at her, she’s absorbed in watching Rhys.

Before I can wrestle with those feelings, Arden strikes up the first round. “Alright. Winner of this round gets to assign a dare. No pressure, folks.”

There’s a chorus of groans punctuated by Yasmin’s gleeful whoop, making me wonder if everyone else finds this as exhilaratingly conflicted as I do.

We play through the round, and when the cards are flipped and votes cast, it’s Rhys who wins. Of course—he bides his time, gambling for moments of victory when it truly matters.

With a lazy smirk, he surveys the room before his eyes lock onto mine. “Ally. Dare.”

My heart stumbles in its rhythm. “Why do I get the feeling this is personal?”

“Because it is,” Chase mutters under his breath, prompting Yasmin to swat him roughly.

Rhys leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his face invading my space. “I dare you to tell the truth.”

I blink, caught off guard. “That’s not how dares work.”

“Not anymore.”

“Truth or Dare is a different game,” I protest, my voice wavering with an uncertainty that I can’t quite hide.

“Fine. I dare you to tell the truth about the last person you thought about kissing.”

The room plunges into a silence so deep it feels suffocating as if each of us is holding our breath.

My mouth goes dry. I wrestle with the decision—I could lie; I should lie—but the truth is already etched in every sideways glance, every unspoken confession in this tangled room. I look at Rhys, meeting his gaze that seems to pierce straight into me. He already knows.

I clear my throat, forcing out the truth: “Easy. Chris Hemsworth.”

Laughter cascades around the room, and Chase groans with theatrical despair. “Ugh, basic.”

“He’s Thor as if I wouldn’t want to kiss him,” I retort, though even as I speak, I feel the sting of my own vulnerability.

Rhys only smiles, unfazed by my public admission. I had asked him for time, for space, but his casual confrontation only deepens the clutter in my mind.

We continue the rounds, and the tension loosens just enough for fragile laughter to seep through. Arden ends up with a dare so absurd it almost makes me forget everything—texting his dad to announce he’s legally changing his name to Princess Bubblegum. Yasmin challenges Chase to devour three marshmallows while belting out the national anthem. It’s ridiculous, perfect almost, and for a moment it feels like before everything went so wrong.

Almost.

Later, after half the room has filtered off to bed and soft music begins to fill the quiet spaces, I find myself in the kitchen, mechanically refilling my water. Rhys approaches silently until he’s close enough to let his presence brush against my back.

"You can tell me the truth, you know.”

I turn slowly, the conflict in my eyes clear. “About what?”

He arches an eyebrow in silent inquiry. “Chris Hemsworth? Really?”

I shrug, the motion feeling empty and forced. “Can you blame me? The man wields a hammer.”

Rhys steps closer—far too close. My back presses against the fridge, and suddenly, the air between us feels charged with unspoken truths.

“You never said who you really wanted to kiss,” he murmurs.

My breath catches. “You don’t know that.”

He lifts his hand, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers pause against my cheek for a beat too long, stirring tumultuous feelings I’ve tried so hard to suppress.

“Come on, Ally. Say it.”

I try to laugh, but the sound is brittle and uneven. “We can’t do this. Not here, not while everyone is still around.”

His voice drops. “Why not?”

I push gently against his chest, desperate for space, for some semblance of control. “Because if we start now, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”

His eyes darken, conflicted with desire and something else I can’t decipher. “I’m not even sure I want to.”

For a long, charged moment, our eyes lock—an electric pause filled with everything unsaid. Then I slip past him, grab my water, and head into the hallway. I don’t dare look back, even though I feel his eyes weighing on every step.

Because if I stop, if I turn around and surrender to this forbidden pull, this night might just be the first move that changes everything—and not in a way I can ever take back.