"Besides," she adds, voice honey-sweet but laced with venom, "I think you can create enough chaos in your life without any help from me." She snatches the bag from my grasp and strides into the house, every step a declaration of independence, screaming that she's not just capable of tearing me apart, but also perfectly willing to leave me bleeding in her wake.

We're just twelve minutes into day one of summer together, and I'm already drowning in the undertow of everything she is now—fierce, fearless, and absolutely fucking dangerous to every wall I've built. The realization hits me like a knockout punch, this summer isn't just going to be long; it's going to be the death of every defense I've ever had.

My throat still burns from Monty's grip, but it's nothing compared to the ache Nora's presence leaves behind. She's always had that power—to make physical pain feel like a fucking paper cut compared to what she does to me just by existing. And now she's here, breathing this same air, carrying all our history like a weapon she knows exactly how to use.

Standing in the shadow of our broken past, watching her disappear into the house that holds too many memories of us, I realize I'm not just screwed—I'm standing on the edge of an abyss I've spent two years trying to convince myself I didn't want to fall into.

Fuck my life indeed.

The summer already feels like a minefield, and Lenora Wells isn't just another explosive to dodge—she's the one with her finger on the detonator, and something tells me she remembers exactly where all my weak spots are.

The worst part?

Part of me wants her to press that button.

4. You’re Only Sixteen Once

CHAPTER 4

YOU’RE ONLY SIXTEEN ONCE

NORA

I wish I could claim I recovered gracefully after nearly face-planting into the pavement. In some perfect world, I would've flashed a radiant smile and maintained my composure while those piercing hazel eyes studied me. But any pretense of dignity evaporated the moment his arms encircled my waist, fitting there as naturally as if they belonged. My breath caught—a momentary lapse that probably starved my brain of oxygen long enough to short-circuit my common sense.

The world around me blurred into meaningless shapes the second our eyes met. Time stood stilled, and I found myself mapping the landscape of his face like it was territory both familiar and foreign—his deep mahogany hair shot through with threads of caramel and auburn, catching sunlight in a way that transformed him into something almost mythical. The strong cut of his jaw and those impossible lashes only added to the illusion. If not for that fleeting half-smile that curved his lips as he steadied me, I might have mistaken the intensity in his gaze for anger.