Gorgeous (Editing)

chapter 2.

“Here—come with me. I know this place.”

The words barely reach me before the ground slips away.

Strong arms lift me with a certainty that steals my breath, and suddenly I’m no longer part of the chaos spilling through the house. I’m carried down a narrow hall and pushed into a dark room, the door closing behind us with a soft click that sounds far too final.

I freeze.

Small spaces have always terrified me. They compress my thoughts, squeeze the air from my lungs until breathing becomes something I have to remember how to do. The darkness presses in, thick and intimate, and for a moment I’m no longer here at all.

My mind latches onto something stupid, something cruel.

How can someone lift a body like mine that easily?

I hate myself for thinking it. For letting that thought exist at all. But tearing myself down has always come easier than defending myself—it’s a habit I learned young and never quite unlearned.

“Thank you,” I say after a beat, my voice quieter than I want it to be. “For helping me. I mean.”

He nods once, brief and sharp, but doesn’t look at me.

That somehow makes the silence worse.

My eyes adjust slowly, and I become aware of him in pieces. Tattoos first—dark ink curling over his skin, deliberate and unapologetic. Then shoulders. Arms. Big ones. The kind that don’t just look strong but are strong.

Those arms carried me.

The realization sends a strange shiver through me.

He’s massive in a way that feels both grounding and dangerous, like standing too close to the edge of something you know could hurt you but still wanting to look down.

Okay. He’s hot.

That doesn’t mean I’m crushing on him.

It absolutely means I’m crushing on him.

I roll my eyes internally, already annoyed with myself. I don’t do men like this. I don’t do troublemakers, or men who look like they belong in dark rooms and bad decisions. I used to go for safe. Polished. The kind of men my family approved of.

That girl feels like someone else now.

His skin looks soft despite the tattoos. His hair is dark, slightly messy, falling into eyes that are a deep, unsettling green. And his body—no. I stop myself there. I don’t let my thoughts go further.

I already don’t know how to function around attractive men. This one feels unfair.

“This is… kind of awkward,” I say, attempting lightness I don’t feel.

It’s not that I mind the closeness. It’s that I didn’t choose it. I don’t like surprises anymore, especially not the kind that trap me in small rooms with men I don’t know.

We both try to create space between us, but the effort is pointless. The room barely allows us to stand without touching. Heat radiates off him—or maybe it’s just my nerves.

“I was about to get laid,” he says suddenly, irritation sharp in his voice. “Hot blonde. I’m horny. So excuse me if my dick’s hard as a motherfucking rock, princess. It’s not for you. Relax. I wouldn’t touch you.”

Princess.

The word lands like a punch.

My chest tightens, my stomach twists, and suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely—somewhere darker, smaller. Somewhere I don’t let myself go anymore.