Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer

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Where the Lines Overlap

All We Know

~~ Edward ~~

Crush (Crush Crush) - Part I

"Edward? Why are you up so early?"

My father's voice is soft, almost a whisper, but it still startles me. I glance over my shoulder to see him standing a few feet away, his eyes curious but slightly concerned. He looks half-awake, his hair mussed from sleep.

"Did you even sleep?"

I sigh and turn back to the night sky visible through the open living room window. The stars are faint against the dark backdrop—too clean, too calm, too different from the mess in my head.

"Not really," I admit, my voice low.

My father steps closer and leans on the windowsill beside me, studying me with the patience only he seems to have.

"What time did you guys get back?" he asks, his tone as measured as ever.

"Around two," I say, keeping my eyes fixed on a random spot in the distance, anywhere but on him. His gaze feels too perceptive, and I don't know if I'm ready for him to see everything.

He pauses, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don't, he exhales quietly and places a firm hand on my shoulder.

"Alright," he says, sounding reluctant but understanding. "I'll leave you to it. If you want to talk, you know where to find me."

He steps away, his movements quiet, and the room feels heavier without him.

I should call him back. I should talk to him. He's the one person who would understand, or at least try to. But something inside me resists, some combination of guilt and confusion I can't fully untangle.

"It's Luke," I blurt out, louder than I intended. I'm not even sure he's still in the room, but before I can turn, he's there again, quick and steady.

I look at him, and the concern etched on his face makes my chest tighten. He doesn't say anything, just waits, and the silence feels unbearable.

"He said he's in love with me," I finally say, the words tumbling out.

I expect judgment or shock, but all I see is my father's eyes narrowing slightly, processing, assessing. He doesn't fill the silence, and for some reason, that makes it worse.

"With everything Jasper's already been through," I grumble, running a hand through my hair, "the self-imposed pressure, the stress surrounding our relationship… and now this?" My voice cracks, and I press my hands to my face.

I let out a sigh and make my way to the couch, each step feeling heavier than the last. When I sink into it, it feels like a refuge—my knees falling apart, elbows resting on them as if the weight of everything is too much to hold. My father follows silently, sitting beside me without a word.

"Does Jasper know?" he asks carefully, his voice quieter now.

"No," I admit, shaking my head. "I haven't told him. How am I supposed to tell him? He's going to lose it."

"Why would he?"

"Because he was right," I snap before I can stop myself. The words hang between us, and I feel the burn of shame crawl up my neck.

I take a deep breath and try to steady myself.

"When he first found out about Luke… he suspected something, said there was more than friendship there. And now—now he's going to think I let this happen. That I wanted it to happen."

My father's silence feels heavier than any response he can give.

"You're afraid he'll blame you," he says eventually.

"Yes," I admit, but it's not the whole truth. There's something else, something unspoken and unformed that's eating away at me.

"But no matter what his reaction is, Edward," he says, his voice firm, "this is something you have to tell him."

"I know," I whisper, my throat tight.

My hand moves instinctively to my neck, rubbing at the tension there. The air feels thick, stifling, as if even breathing takes effort. My father studies me, his expression hardening, his brows drawing together.

"What?" I ask, my voice defensive despite myself.

"Nothing," he says after a moment, but his gaze doesn't soften.

And I know, without him saying a word, that he sees something in me I've been too afraid to admit to myself.

He exhales heavily, his brow furrowing.

"He can't really be mad at you, you know," he says in that steady, pacifying tone of his, though his expression remains serious. "If you're honest with him, if you tell him what's going on, he can't blame you. It's not your fault."

The reassurance lands hollow. It doesn't calm me. It feels like, somehow, I am responsible for this.

"I'm just reminding you of that so you'll stop feeling so guilty," he adds, more incisively this time.

I squeeze my eyes shut and huff.

Damn it—he can still read me too well. Why the hell do I feel like this?

"Edward, look at me." My dad's voice shifts, firm and commanding.

My body reacts on instinct. I drop my hands loose between my legs and meet his gaze. He studies my face intently, searching for something. Shame creeps over me like a slow tide, and I don't even know why. My eyes burn, and to my horror, they start to water.

"Do you have feelings for this boy?" His tone is cautious, but his eyes stay sharp, pinning me in place.

"What?!" My response is immediate, defensive, my brows knitting together. "No!"

My heart pounds violently against my ribs, and my breaths quicken, but I refuse to look too closely at why.

"You seem… too disturbed," he observes, his tone too linear, too neutral, though I sense the edge of suspicion beneath it.

"It's because I'm terrified of Jasper's reaction," I snap, the defense automatic, my voice sharper than I intended.

My father's gaze narrows slightly, just for a moment, and then he sighs.

"Or because you're afraid he'll ask you to stay away from your friend."

The statement lands like a punch, its certainty undeniable. He's not guessing—he's concluded it.

I release a long breath I hadn't realized I was holding, feeling unsettled in a way I can't quite define.

"Maybe I am…" I admit reluctantly, forcing the words out. "A little. But that's expected, isn't it? Luke is my friend—the closest one I have here." My voice sounds tight, and I don't know why it carries a faint edge of irritation.

"Do you like him?" His brows lift slightly, the question deceptively simple, his tone mild.

The way he asks it bothers me.

"Of course I do, Dad," I say, my voice hardening, almost impatient.

His expression shifts slightly, a flicker of surprise mixed with something heavier. His exhale is controlled, deliberate, and I get the sense he's holding back. I half-expect him to scold me, though he rarely has.

"Don't pretend you didn't understand my question," he says sternly now, his tone no longer gentle.

I swallow hard, feeling an uncomfortable heat crawl up my neck. I don't understand why I feel so on edge—so defensive.

"I don't have feelings for him," I say, the words coming out grudgingly, almost angry. "Not in the way you're clearly implying."

My father doesn't look convinced, and his quiet scrutiny only intensifies my nerves. The silence between us grows oppressive, the tension thick enough to choke on.

"Tell Jasper today. Don't postpone it," he finally says. His tone is soft, but the directive is firm, a command rather than a suggestion. His expression softens as he places a hand on my knee. "Don't make a mistake, son."

His doubt pierces me, sharp and deep. It's like he doesn't trust me, and the realization stirs a wave of indignation that I can't suppress.

"I won't," I reply, my tone clipped, defensive.

We both sigh at the same time, though for entirely different reasons.

"Don't be mad at me, Tonton," my dad says gently, using the nickname that always felt like a comfort. "I'm just worried."

"Well, you shouldn't be." My voice is low, strained with the effort to keep my anger in check. "I thought you trusted me."

"You know I do," he says, his voice laced with regret.

"Right now, you don't." The words leave my mouth quietly but confidently. "And I don't understand why."

"I'm just trying to protect you." His tone is loving, almost pleading.

"From what?" I snap, losing my grip on the frustration I've been trying so hard to contain. My voice rises despite myself.

My father stands slowly, his face calm but firm. He places a hand on my shoulder, his grip steady, and meets my gaze with a quiet authority that silences me instantly. Despite being taller, I feel small under the weight of his presence.

"From yourself," he says with quiet intensity. "I do trust you, Edward. I trust your judgment and your heart. But you're eighteen. No matter how mature or rational you are, you're still young, and you're still vulnerable to missteps. It's my job to help you avoid them, even when you think you don't need me." His hand tightens slightly on my shoulder. "You're too close to this, too caught up to see what I see. Take a moment to really look inside yourself. When you're ready, we'll talk again."

His tone drops lower, more serious, his expression darkening.

"But don't you ever raise your voice to me again, young man." The warning is quiet but resolute. "I'm here for you—always—as your friend and confidant. There's nothing you can't ask or share with me. But don't forget, Edward, I'm still your father."

The anger drains out of me instantly, leaving only embarrassment in its place. My cheeks burn, and I lower my head.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I murmur, my voice subdued. "I didn't mean to disrespect you. I'm just…"

"I know," he interrupts softly, pulling me into a firm embrace. His arms wrap around me, grounding me in a way I didn't realize I needed. "Just do what I said. Tell him as soon as possible, and it'll be okay."

"Why am I so scared, Dad?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "And why am I so angry? Why does it feel like I've done something wrong?"

He pulls back, holding my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. His expression is unreadable, his voice quiet but unwavering.

"You have the answer. You just need to let yourself see it."

A shiver runs through me, cold and strange, leaving me feeling more lost than ever.

"Go back to your room, to your boyfriend," my dad says, his tone softening. "Get some sleep. You'll see things more clearly in the morning."

I nod slowly, though clarity feels impossible right now. As I make my way back to the bedroom, I feel adrift, my thoughts spinning with questions I don't want to answer.

.

.

.

Luke sits across from me, his broad shoulders relaxed as he flips through his notebook, pausing occasionally to underline something. His black hair is sleek, falling just past his shoulders, and catches the dim light with every slight movement. It shifts as he tilts his head, a stray strand brushing against his neck, and my gaze lingers there—on the smooth line of his skin, on the way his pulse seems steady and unbothered, unlike mine.

I glance back at my textbook, trying to focus, but the words blur together, their meaning lost. I shift in my seat, tapping my pen against the table, but it doesn't help. I keep noticing things I shouldn't—the shape of his jaw when he rests his chin on his hand, the curve of his lips as he reads, the faint crease that forms between his brows when he's deep in concentration.

His hazel eyes flick toward me for a moment, and my chest tightens unexpectedly.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice casual but soft, like he's genuinely concerned.

I nod quickly.

"Yeah. Just zoning out, I guess."

He hums in acknowledgment, turning his attention back to his notes. The room feels quieter now, the sound of his pen moving across paper somehow louder than it should be.

I try to focus again, but his scent reaches me—clean and sharp, like cedar and faint mint. It's subtle, not something I would have noticed if we weren't sitting this close. I shift slightly in my chair, the scent grounding me in a way I don't understand, pulling me deeper into this uncomfortable awareness.

Luke leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and gestures toward the textbook with his pen.

"I think this part connects back to the diagram we looked at earlier. See?"

I nod vaguely, though I haven't looked where he's pointing. My attention is fixed on the way his voice dips slightly when he explains things, how easy it is to listen to him even when I don't want to.

My eyes betray me again, falling to the curve of his neck where his collar dips just slightly. I wonder—just for a fleeting, reckless moment—what it would be like to lean closer. To press my lips there, feel the warmth of his ivory skin, and let myself be consumed by the question that keeps circling back in my mind.

What would it feel like to kiss him?

The thought sends a sharp jolt through me, and I shift back, forcing my gaze to the page in front of me. The question burns in my mind, unwanted but persistent.

Luke, oblivious, pushes the textbook toward me.

"Does this make sense to you?"

I look at the diagram he's pointing at, forcing my mind to focus.

"Yeah," I say, though my voice comes out a little hoarse. I clear my throat and hope he doesn't notice.

He smiles faintly, brushing his hair out of his eyes, and it takes everything in me not to stare.

"Good, because I was about to give up if you said no."

I laugh quietly, the sound strained. He doesn't notice. Of course he doesn't. Why would he?

I tell myself it's just exhaustion. Stress. A strange flicker of curiosity that doesn't mean anything. But the tension in my chest won't ease, and as Luke turns back to his notes, I can't help but wonder what's wrong with me.

.

.

.

The classroom empties around me, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of footsteps fading as students file out. I sling my bag over my shoulder, barely paying attention, until Luke's voice cuts through the noise.

"Got a break before the next one?" he asks, falling into step beside me. His shoulder brushes mine lightly.

"Yeah," I say, keeping my tone casual. "About half an hour."

We head to the café, and I let him talk. I'm not really listening, though. My focus splinters—partly on him, partly on the way his movements catch my eye. It's nothing specific, just small things: the way he tilts his head when he talks, the easy sway of his steps. It's maddening how I notice it all.

Coffee in hand, we find a bench in the courtyard. Luke sits first, just a normal seat, knees together, cup balanced on his leg. I don't think about it when I swing my leg over the bench to straddle it, the position familiar, casual. It should feel normal.
It doesn't.

From this angle, I'm hyperaware of how much shorter Luke is than me, how he seems to fold into himself a little. It hits me in a strange way, this urge to protect, to close the gap. My hands itch, fingers curling against the bench as if holding myself in place is the only way to stop them from wandering.

"You always sit like that," Luke says, his tone light, teasing. He's not looking at me when he says it, but the corner of his mouth quirks upward. "All spread out."

I snort softly.

"Because it's comfortable."

"Uh-huh." He glances up then, his hazel eyes catching mine, and there's something in his expression—something too knowing.

My chest tightens. He's trying to make it sound like a joke, but there's a weight to his words, an edge that cuts too close. My grip on the bench tightens instinctively, fingers curling into the wood.

He mirrors me then, swinging his leg over the bench so we're facing each other. Closer now. Too close. The movement shouldn't mean anything, but it does.

Luke leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, coffee cradled in his hands. There's something about his posture—soft, open, vulnerable. It shouldn't make my stomach clench, but it does. He's so... reachable.

I notice the faint line of his neck, the way the collar of his shirt dips just enough to show smooth, pale skin. My eyes linger, unbidden, and the thought hits me like a punch: I wonder what it smells like.

No.

"You know," Luke starts, breaking the quiet, his tone light, teasing. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to intimidate me with that whole..." He gestures vaguely toward me with his coffee cup. "Wide stance, towering-over-me thing you've got going on."

I raise an eyebrow at him, playing along despite the way my pulse quickens.

"I'm just sitting. It's not my fault you're so... compact."

"Compact?" He grins, his nose scrunching slightly. "Rude. Try 'efficiently sized.' Besides, you've been sitting like this since day one. First day of class, I remember thinking, 'This guy probably dreams about winning staring contests with his own reflection.'"

I laugh despite myself, shaking my head.

"That's what you thought of me?"

He shrugs, his grin widening.

"I wasn't wrong. You're very... self-assured."

"Or maybe I just don't need to overthink how I sit," I shoot back, but my smirk fades when I catch the way his gaze lingers on me for a beat too long.

Luke tilts his head, tapping the edge of his cup against his knee.

"No, you're definitely overthinking it. Sitting there like you've got something to prove. Or..." He pauses, a slow smile creeping up his face. "Like you're waiting for me to notice."

I freeze. It's a joke—at least, it's meant to sound like one. But the shift in his tone, the way his voice dips just enough to betray something deeper, sets every nerve in my body on edge.

"Luke," I say, my voice firmer than I intend.

His smile falters.

"What? I'm just messing with you."

"You know I have a boyfriend," I remind him quietly, watching for his reaction.

The lightness in his expression fades, replaced by something more serious. He doesn't look away, though, holding my gaze like he's trying to read the space between my words.

"I know. And I wasn't... I didn't mean anything by it. Not really."

Not really. The words twist in my chest. I force a short nod, shifting back as if that distance can ease the tension still buzzing in the air.

"Good," I say, aiming for nonchalance. "Because you don't need to go making things complicated."

He hesitates, then offers a small, tentative smile.

"I wouldn't. I just..." He trails off, hesitating for a beat before his voice softens. "Forget it. It's nothing."

I clear my throat, breaking eye contact.

"We should probably head back."

Luke glances at his phone and nods.

"Yeah, class'll be starting soon anyway."

There's a pause, just long enough for the tension to settle into something quieter, heavier. He leans back against the bench, the soft curve of his smile returning.

"You know, you're pretty easy to mess with when you're all serious like that."

I huff a laugh, shaking my head.

"I'm not that easy."

"Sure," he says, drawing out the word with a grin. "Whatever you say, big guy."

I glance at him again, and for a split second, it's easy to forget the tight coil of restraint pulling me in two directions at once. But the moment passes, like it always does.

"Come on," I say, standing and brushing off my jeans. "Let's go."

Luke follows with an easy grace, the moment fading into a semblance of normalcy. But it lingers, sharp and unspoken, in the edges of my thoughts.

It's not love. I know that. It's not even feelings, not really. It's something base, ugly, clawing at me. And the worst part isn't wanting it—it's knowing I shouldn't. Knowing I don't even want to want it.

I love Jasper.

The thought is sharp, grounding, but it doesn't erase the heat or the ache. It only makes it worse, like I'm somehow betraying him just by noticing Luke the way I do.

When I get home, the silence presses against me. Jasper is still at work, and the empty apartment feels like it's closing in on me.

I head straight for the shower, stripping quickly and turning the water as hot as I can stand. Steam fills the small space, but it does nothing to clear my head.

My hands grip the cool tile as the water pounds against my back, but the images come anyway. Luke's hazel eyes, the way he leaned forward, soft and open. The pale curve of his neck, the thought of what it would feel like under my lips.

I hate myself for it, but my hand moves anyway, sliding down, desperate for some kind of release. I bite down on my lip, choking back the sound as my body takes over, as the heat reaches its breaking point.

When it's over, I collapse against the wall, water running cold now. My chest heaves, and my throat tightens with a wave of guilt so strong it almost drowns me.

I love Jasper. I love him.

But I feel trapped. And worse, I feel like he deserves better than this—better than me.

.

.

.

The air outside feels suffocating, sticking to my skin like a second layer I can't peel off. My hands are buried deep in my jacket pockets, but the trembling won't stop. Every step toward Luke's building feels heavier, slower, like my legs are moving through quicksand. I can still hear it—every sound from Olympia crashing in my head. The slaps, sharp and loud. Jasper's stunned face, the way his tears caught the light. And then his father collapsing, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

The memory claws at me, wrapping tight around my chest until I can barely breathe. By the time I reach Luke's building, my lungs burn.

I press the buzzer harder than I need to, the sharp buzz cutting through the noise in my head for a split second. It doesn't take long for him to unlock the door, he's been waiting for me. The loud click echoes in the quiet, and I push the door open, stepping inside.

The elevator ride is excruciating. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. I tilt my head back, staring at the fluorescent lights overhead, trying to stop the shaking in my hands. But it's no use. There's something rising inside me, something hot and jagged and entirely out of control.

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms, but the trembling spreads. It's been months of this—holding back, locking everything down, convincing myself I'm fine. I'm not. And now, after everything that's happened, I feel like I'm about to break apart completely.

The elevator dings. I step out, barely noticing the beige walls or the hum of the hallway light. Luke's door is just ahead, and my legs carry me there on instinct.

When I knock, it's sharp and quick, like everything else in me—frayed and restless. The door opens before I can even pull my hand back.

Luke is standing there, looking at me, his hair a little messy and his expression curious, but I can't process any of it. All I see is the way his lips move when he starts to say something—"Hey—"

I don't let him finish. I'm moving before I can stop myself, my hand gripping the collar of his shirt, the other threading into his hair as I pull him into me. The kiss is fierce and frantic, all heat and desperation. Every ounce of restraint I've clung to is gone.

He freezes, his body going stiff against mine. His lips don't move at first, and I know I've startled him, but I can't stop.

When he finally pulls back, it's only enough to speak, his breath brushing against my face.

"Wow—Edward, what's happening?"

I don't give him time to think, to question. I push him inside the apartment, the door slamming shut behind us as I kick it closed without looking back.

"I'm kissing you," I say, my voice rough and unsteady. "So just shut up and kiss me back."

I don't think. I don't think about anything as I lead Luke into his bedroom. There are no rational thoughts left in my head, just a rush of heat and chaos, a clash of instincts too loud to ignore. Desire. Guilt. Shame. They tangle together like a storm, both suffocating and propelling me forward. But I can't stop, can't even want to.

I push him onto the bed, the movement sharp and urgent. His eyes widen, astonished, but I know this—he wants this. He wants me. It's there in the way his breath hitches, in the heat building between us. He won't stop me. Not now. Not when everything in me is screaming to move.

I tear off my clothes in a blur, the fabric ripping against my skin as I get down to just my boxer briefs. I approach him, my steps unsteady with raw need. Luke's sitting at the edge of the bed, speechless, and I know it's not just shock. It's that he's waiting, wanting me to do this. Waiting for me to push him past whatever remains of hesitation.

I grab his legs and spread them apart, stepping in between them to claim the space as mine. My hands grab at the hem of his shirt, pulling it off before he can even react. He's still frozen, his body tense, but I feel the pulse of his need, of his response to mine.

"Are we really doing this?" he asks, dazed, like the words are struggling to break free from the fog in his head.

I don't answer right away. Instead, I grip his sweatpants and start pulling them down his legs.

"Yes," I say, my voice low, rough. I can feel the fire rising in me, burning everything clean.

I stand over him, my pulse thundering in my ears, my breath jagged. I push my boxer briefs down, and as I stand there, exposed, I glance down at him. His eyes flicker to my erection, and I smirk, the surge of power not lost on me.

"Unless you don't want to," I say, my voice a twisted tease, a challenge. But as my gaze lingers, I can see him, his body telling me everything I need to know. The way his chest rises, the way his breath falters. "Your body's telling me you do," I add, unable to help myself.

Luke nods, eager, the confirmation in his eyes cutting through whatever uncertainty he still had left. I step forward, pulling his sweatpants the rest of the way off, tossing them to the side without a thought.

"Have at it," I say, and the words barely leave my mouth before he's on me. He takes me into his mouth, and the world shifts. The fire inside me explodes, rolling through every inch of my body like a wildfire, relentless and unyielding.

It's too much. It's too overwhelming to process. The sensations crash over me in waves: the heat, the pressure, the freedom, the defiance. It's like everything inside me—everything I've held back—has just been set loose.

It feels wrong. It feels so, so wrong.

And yet, I can't stop. I don't want to stop. It feels too good. It's a rush, an impulse, a primal need, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't care about the consequences. I don't care about the guilt that claws at my insides. I don't care that this is a betrayal of everything I told myself I wanted.

The thrill of it, the defiance, the feeling of freedom—of being so completely out of control—spreads like fire through me. I'm consumed. And it thrills me.

God, it thrills me more than I care to admit.

Luke's eagerness feeds something inside me, something dark, something that takes over with a power I can't ignore. It's not about the physicality, not about the pleasure anymore. It's about the release, the need to feel something—anything—to break free from the weight of everything I've done.

I'm far from the edge, far from the point of climax, but I feel the pull of it—the hunger for more, the dirty need building inside me. It's like I'm unraveling, and the more I let go, the more I crave. But the reality of it—the guilt—is still there. It eats at me, clawing at the edges of my mind. The thought that I'm hurting him, that I'm tainting something pure… But I don't care.

It feels like I'm turning evil, like I'm embodying everything I've always feared I am. I deserve this, don't I? All the pain I've caused, the lies, the destruction. I've destroyed the one thing that mattered, the one person who could've made me feel like maybe I wasn't completely lost. But it's too late for that. I've already done the damage.

I don't deserve him. I never did. It doesn't matter what I do, I'll lose him anyway. So why fight it? Why fight who I am, what I've become?

I push the thought aside. This is who I am now.

"Enough," I rasp, and I shove Luke onto the bed. His body bounces on the mattress, but his eyes burn with something I can't place—anticipation, hunger, maybe even something darker than that.

I lean over him, voice low, almost guttural.

"Do you have condoms?"

Luke doesn't hesitate. He opens the drawer beside the bed, takes out a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms, and hands them to me. The weight of them in my hand, the simplicity of it all, makes my pulse spike. I need this. I need it so badly, it feels like my body is about to explode if I don't act now.

I take a breath, slow it down just enough to think.

"I won't be gentle," I say, voice rough with the tension inside me. "And this will be quick."

His eyes widen with a deeper eagerness, and he nods. That's all I need. He's not stopping me.

I prepare him, quick but not careless, almost arrogant in the control I still have, but it feels so damn good. His body responds, and I take in the sound of him—his gasps, the subtle tremor in his breath. It makes me feel powerful, in control of something, anything.

I turn him over, his back arching toward me as I guide him onto all fours. It's animalistic, urgent, and I can barely keep myself together long enough to put on the condom. My body burns, every nerve raw, and I know I can't hold back any longer.

In one swift move, I push into him, and everything else—the guilt, the doubt, the lingering thought of what I've already lost—shatters. It's all I can feel. The burn, the pressure, the force of it.

The whole thing is a blur, a rush. It's like I'm sprinting toward something—toward release, toward freedom, toward oblivion—but at the same time, I'm fighting against it. My body craves it, but my mind screams for restraint. It's a race, a collision of pleasure and pain, and I can't control either of them.

When the release comes, it's brutal. But not because of the pleasure—it's not just physical, it's everything crashing over me. It's like an avalanche, a heavy, crushing weight of all the things I've done wrong, all the guilt, the loss, the ache of what I'll have to let go. It tumbles over me, thick and suffocating, like tons of snow, ice, and stone.

I can't breathe. I can't think. All I can do is feel.

I collapse over him, my body still trembling with the aftershock of everything. I can barely feel anything except the aftermath—the weight of what I've done pressing down on me, the suffocating realization that I crossed a line, one I can't take back. I breathe, trying to ground myself, but it's no use. The guilt settles in, and I can't escape it.

Little by little, my senses come back, and with them, the full scope of what just happened crashes over me. It's a wave of shame, of self-loathing, of an ache that consumes every part of me. I push myself off of Luke, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling. My heart sinks, breaks, and I can barely breathe as the reality sinks in. The finality of it.

I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but it's no use. It's too real.

I feel Luke turning beside me, and my throat tightens. I open my eyes and find him looking at me, his gaze soft but filled with confusion. That look cuts through me like a blade. I can't handle it.

"I'm sorry," I rasp, my voice shaking. The words feel useless, like nothing can undo what's been done.

Luke shakes his head slowly, as if my apology doesn't even matter. He doesn't seem angry, doesn't seem hurt. But the tenderness in his eyes only makes the weight of it all heavier.

"I don't care if you used me," he says softly, his voice almost a whisper. "If it's an outlet you need, I can be that for you."

The words stab into me. He's right, and yet it makes everything worse. The emptiness in his voice, the resignation—it makes me feel like I'm worse than I thought.

A tear slides down my temple, and I can't stop it. The floodgates open, the guilt swallowing me whole. I don't deserve any kind of comfort, but I feel Luke's hand brushing my cheek, gently wiping the tear away. I flinch at the touch, but he doesn't pull back. Instead, he presses a soft kiss to the spot where the tear fell.

I let him. I let him console me, even though I don't deserve it. Because I'm not sure I know how to hold myself together anymore. Not after this. Not after everything.

Luke presses another kiss to my temple, gentle and soft, as if I haven't just shattered everything I claimed to stand for. I close my eyes and let the silence settle between us, but inside, my thoughts scream.

There's no escaping the truth anymore. I've ruined it all. For Luke. For Jasper. For myself.

And the worst part is, I'm not sure I regret it.