Chapter 57 The Kiss That Wasn’t
Malia’S POV
It is the Saturday afternoon and the library is quiet as most of the students are probably making use of their weekend to sleep in or go out rather than study. But Aiden texted earlier to ask if I’d meet him here — said he needed help with a Pack Law assignment and thought working together might be good for us.
A peace offering, possibly. A chance to close the gap I’ve been keeping away from everyone all week.
I said yes, in part because I actually do need to study, but mostly because I miss him. Miss all of them. The distance I asked for has become an abyss and I don’t know how to get across it any more.
I’m headed toward our usual spot, cutting through the shelves, my bag heavy with textbooks, when I see him.
Aiden is sitting alone, his ᑲᥣ᥆ᥒძᥱ hair is covering part of his forehead and he is frowning at what he’s reading on his laptop making him look extremely handsome even when he is obviously annoyed at whatever it is that he’s seeing.
When I see him, my heart does that dumb little flutter thing it’s always doing, the bond buzzing with recognition and want. I’m about to call out to him when movement catches my eye.
Lydia.
She steps out from between the stacks as if she were hiding, waiting for the right time to make an appearance. She’s carefully dressed — a fitted sweater that reveals just enough, her hair perfectly coiffed, makeup flawless. Everything choreographed to seem effortless when it’s really not.
I hide behind a bookcase, concealed but I can see their table clearly.
Keep walking, I keep telling myself. Go over there. Interrupt whatever this is.
But I don't. I stand frozen in place, watching like a car crash I can’t look away from. Lydia slides into the chair next to Aiden—not across from him, next to him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. He looks up, and while I can’t tell what he’s thinking from here, he doesn’t immediately tell her to go.
That hurts more than it should.
She says something I can’t hear, and he responds, his holderflat. Professional, perhaps. But she laughs anyway, her hand rising to touch his arm, her fingers resting on his bicep.
My chest tightens.
Pull away, I think frantically. Tell her to fuck off.
But he doesn't. He just sits there, holding her, and maybe I’m imagining things but does he tilt a little bit towards her? Is that interest in his posture or am I projecting my worst fears onto an innocent moment?
Lydia moves closer, angling her body toward his. She's animatedly talking now, and the free hand also rises to tuck her hair behind her ear in that calculated feminine gesture that exists to attract attention. Her lips are a perfect red and she keeps touching them while she talks making him look at them.
It's nothing, I tell myself. Just being polite, he’ll shut it down.
But he's still not pulling away.
My fingers curl underneath my bag strap, my nails digging into my palm between the layers of fabric. Every moment he doesn’t turn her down feels like validation for every toxic thing she’s whispered in my ear this week.
ᥒ᥆᥎ᥱᥣ𝗍ᥡ, ⍴һᥲsᥱ, wrong person. Step Missing phase misplaced identity.
Then Lydia leans in.
It’s slow so fast. Her hand runs up his arm to his shoulder as her body angles toward his. As she draws nearer to him, her eyes close slowly, her ruby red lips fluttering open just a little.
She's going to kiss him.
Time itself seems to stop. My heart stops, ᥱverything stops.
For one horrific, shattering second I think he’s going to give her. For one shattering, horrible second I think he will let her. His body is turned towards hers, he hath not drawn back, he hath not withstood her.
He hadn’t once pulled back, hadn’t stopped her. The library is so silent I can hear my breath, raw and panicked as I watch her edging closer, closer— Then Aiden moves.
He pulls his head back suddenly as his chair scrapes the floor in a chilling noise through the silent library. He is up in a two seconds flat, putting space between them, and I can hear his voice clearly all the way to where I’m standing.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” But I don't get to hear the rest of the line. I cannot . Because all I was looking at was that second, that infinite, horrifying second—when I thought he might actually let her kiss him. Where Lydia’s words appeared to solidify in front of my eyes.
He will return to someone worthy. Someone like me.
So my logical mind tells me to wait. Need to hear his rejection, see how this plays out. Need to trust him.
But the louder, more insistent part, the part that’s been pummeled by a week of relentless abuse and hateful language and growing anxieties — that part is screaming run away.
So I do.
I turn away from the table, from Aiden’s furious voice, from whatever this is between him and Lydia. I’m practically sprinting through the stacks, making no effort to hide the scowls of irritation I’m gathering from students on my way.
The fall air slaps my face when I come running out of the doors of the library. The air is crisp, too crisp for my lightweight jacket, but that’s about all I notice. I am too occupied in trying to control the rising panic and stifling burn in my throat — tears are close.
He pulled away, I remind myself. He spurned her. I saw that.
But I also saw him not pull away immediately. Saw him let her touch him, lean into him. Caught that air of hesitation that seemed like it would last forever.
What if next time he doesn’t turn to run? What if Lydia is right and I’m just a phase, a novelty that people get excited about until they get bored? What if—
In my pocket, my phone buzzes. But I ignore it.
It buzzes again. And again.
With trembling hands, I take it out.
Aiden: Where are you? I thought you were gonna meet me.
Aiden: Malia?
Aiden: If this is about what happened just now with Lydia, it’s not that.
So he knows I saw. Or suspects, at least.
I should text back. Should let him explain, should be rational about this.
Instead I slide my phone back into my pocket and walk on.
Conscious-or unconscious-intent I find myself back in the Moonfall suite without really thinking about it. Muscle memory, perhaps; or it is the bond that leads me to the place that has the scent of all three of them, the scent of security no matter what because when everything else is Chaos.
The suite is empty—Rowan is probably at the greenhouse, Cian mentioned a something like a study group. I have the place to myself.
I lock myself in my room—Aiden's room, to be specific, with his scent embedded into every inch of it. It should be comforting. Instead it makes everything worse.
I plop down on the bed, jacket and shoes still on, and allow myself finally to feel it. All of it. The hurt and anger and fear and doubt that i have been building up for days and days.
Lydia tried to kiss Aiden. And for just a second—just one terrible second—I thought he might let her.
That second is enough to undo me.
Because if I can't trust him, if I'm always on the lookout for indications that he might be losing interest, that they might be losing interest—how is this really supposed to work? How on earth am I supposed to create anything authentic with three people when I’m this anxious wreck, this fragile mess from just a few weeks of harassment?
You're not enough for them, Lydia’s voice rings in my mind. You'll never be enough.
My phone won’t stop buzzin’ at all.
I take it out and see a string of messages:
Aiden: Please answer me.
Aiden: She tried to kiss me. I stopped her. That’s all.
Aiden: Malia, I would never—
Aiden: I’m coming to the suite.
That last one was sent two minutes ago.
I should get up, rule the door, let him explain. But I can’t seem to move. I just sit there on his bed, surrounded by his scent, trying not to cry and failing miserably.
The tears come hot and fast, carving trails down my cheeks. I’m crying for a whole lot of things—the broken trust, the ever-present burden of not being enough, the tiredness of having to fight for everything on every goddamn front.
For the increasing likelihood that Lydia was going to be right about me. I hear the suite door open. Hear footsteps cross through the living room, coming right for this room. Did he fly down here?!
"Malia?" Aiden's voice is muffled on the other side of the door. "Baby please. Let me in."
I swallow, I can not answer with a lump in my throat.
“I saw you.” His voice is rough, urgent. “In the library. I saw you go out. Please, let me explain what takes place.”
“You don't have to explain," I say at last, my voice croaky. “You pulled away. I saw that.”
“Then why don’t you open the door?”
Because I also watched right before he pulled away. The moment when he didn’t instantly turn her down. The moment that confirmed every fear I’ve been hiding.
“All I need is a little space,” I tell him instead.
“Space.” He pronounces the word as if it were a bitter taste in his mouth. “You’ve had space all week, Malia, I certainly can’t give you any more! And all it’s done is put more distance between us. Please. Just let me in. Let me see you.”
“Not right now.”
Silence. Then the noise of him sliding down the door, coming to rest on the floor outside my room.
“All right,” he says softly. “Okay. I’ll wait here. Take the time you need. But I’m not going. Not until you talk to me.”
New tears spill over at the resolve in his voice, the dogged unwillingness to back down even when I’m literally pushing him away. I sag onto his bed, clutching his pillow to my chest, and cry my eyes out while he stands on the other side of the door.
Waiting for me to be prepared to hear what I’m not sure I want to know.