Page 54 of The Order of Disorder

His lips twitch again. That grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, and it hits me low and deep, the way it always does.

“You’re something,” he murmurs. Warm. Softer than it should be.

And then chaos cracks open behind us. A table flips. A woman screams. A bottle smashes on the floor.

Wyatt’s hand tightens on my waist. His head snaps up, scanning, already tracking Brandon and Knox as they move in.

“All right,” he says, voice shifting. The tension’s back. “Time to disappear before this night gets stupider.”

We tumble into the room, breathless and still laughing. Wyatt shrugs off his leather cut, and I kick off my shoes. We collapse onto the bed without bothering to pull back the blankets.

“I’m tired,” he says, exhaling hard. “And drunk. But I should probably go back down in a bit, check on things.”

“No,” I complain, rolling over and laying a hand flat on his chest. “Stay with me.”

He covers my hand with his, taps it gently like he’s humoring me, the warmth of his body seeping into my palm, into my skin.

“You never answered my question,” I say after a moment.

“What question?”

“Jennifer Miller. Did you or didn’t you?”

He turns his head toward me—mouth smiling, eyes frowning. “Why are you so obsessed with my prom night?”

I shrug. “I just want to know who you were when you weren’t…saving me. I’m trying to understand Wyatt the man.”

His smile fades and his brow creases. “Shh,” he whispers gently, then sits up to turn the fan up a notch before lying back down.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

He gives me a small, apologetic look.

“Ryanthe man,” he says quietly. “There’s not much to say. I was just some kid. I enlisted that summer. Life started fast.”

“Stop changing the subject,” I whisper. “Sex or not sex?”

He chuckles. “Yes, okay? Yes. I had sex with Jennifer Miller. Are you satisfied now?”

By my math, Wyatt would’ve graduated about thirty years ago. Before I was born. I should be able to laugh it off.

But the answer hits wrong.

A hot, irrational line of jealousy flashes through me. “No,” I say truthfully.

His brow furrows. “No?”

I don’t answer right away. I keep my eyes on the ceiling. I can feel him watching me, waiting for the joke that doesn’t come.

“I guess I thought hearing about it would scratch the itch,” I say slowly. “But it didn’t.”

“What itch?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. Then after a breath: “Maybe I just wanted to picture you…in a different way.”

He pauses for a minute before speaking. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. Not in control, I guess. Not so serious. Just…wanting something. Losing yourself in it.”