Daisy's Diner
 

She liked the way the diner looked at night—moody and half-forgotten, like it had a secret to tell but needed someone reckless enough to ask. The neon buzzed low behind them as Benji pulled into the lot, and she slid a glance his way, lips painted to match the sin in her silk dress. Blood red. Intentional. A little cruel. A little perfect.

The lot was nearly empty. Good. That was the whole point.

No Sunnyvale whispers. No Shadyside stares. Just the two of them, tucked into the soft underbelly of nowhere, where a girl could wear thigh-high star-patterned stockings and a leather jacket without someone asking who she thought she was trying to be.

The diner looked like it hadn’t changed in decades, and neither had the door’s janky bell when Benji opened it for her. Gentleman, she thought, smirking as she stepped through. A gentleman wrapped in a bad boy package. She was beginning to realize that was her weakness.

Inside, the warm scent of fried something and coffee hit her like nostalgia in a bottle. Booths of cracked red vinyl, a counter lined with chrome barstools, and walls papered with old black-and-white photos of a Shadyside that looked almost polite. Almost safe.

She let her fingers trail along the back of a booth as they walked, a low hum of flirtation in her movement. Not for show. Not for anyone else. Just for him.

They slid into a corner booth—same side, her favorite kind of power move. She crossed her legs slowly, her dress riding just high enough to be noticed. One arm draped casually behind him, the other reaching for the sugar caddy like it held secrets.

She didn’t care about the menu.

She cared about this.

About the boy beside her. About the way his presence made her forget to look over her shoulder. About the fact that—despite everything—tonight felt like something real.

Heather Goodwin didn’t do soft.

But God, something about this already felt like gravity.

Benji had never believed in fate. Not really.

But sitting there, in a diner that smelled like burnt coffee and second chances, with her—legs crossed, lips painted like a warning, eyes full of heat and danger and something terrifyingly close to trust—he started to think maybe fate didn’t need his belief. Maybe it just needed him to show up.

And he had.

He watched her fingers toy with the sugar packets like they were tarot cards, like she could read their future in the sweet and the spilled, and God help him, he wanted to be whatever answer she found there. She didn’t need to flirt. Didn’t need to angle her body toward him or let her thigh brush his under the table. But she did. And it wasn’t for power, not really.

It was for him.

Benji leaned in, one arm resting behind her, fingertips grazing the back of her neck. Not a claim. Not control. Just connection. Just contact.

“You look like a sin I don’t want forgiven,” he said, voice low and warm and only for her. His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, where a strand of hair had fallen loose. “And this place? This whole vibe? Kinda feels like we’re already in the story people tell after.”

He turned slightly, close enough that their knees knocked, their shoulders touched, their world shrunk to this little glowing corner of the universe where nothing else existed but neon and heartbeat and her.

“So tell me, Goodwin,” he murmured, a smile playing at his mouth. “You gonna make me sit here and fall harder, or you gonna kiss me in front of that waitress pretending not to watch?”

A pause. His hand slid down, fingers resting lightly on her bare thigh, just above the stars.

“Because either way, I’m not leaving this booth without knowing if this—” he leaned in closer, nose brushing hers, breath shared like a secret “—feels the same outside of trailers and curses and midnight confessions.”

He didn’t rush it. He never did.

He just waited.
Wrecked and willing.
Ready if she was.

Oh, he was good.

The way he said her name like it was a dare. The way his fingers danced on her skin like they already knew the rhythm of her pulse. The way he looked at her—not like she was a prize, or a problem, but like she was it. The main event. The fire he wanted to burn for.

Heather bit back a grin, sharp and slow, like the kind of smile that made boys flinch in locker rooms and girls lower their eyes. But not him. Never him.

Benji didn’t flinch.

He leaned in like he knew. Like he’d already decided that whatever this was—it was worth the fall.

God, she was obsessed with him.

And not in the way she’d been with glossy, gold-collared Sunnyvale boys who kissed with their eyes open and loved her like a secret. No—this was something else. Something deeper. Dirtier. More dangerous.

This was the kind of date that rewrote standards. That laughed in the face of Sunnyvale’s polished rules and said, “Try again, sweetheart.”

Because yeah, it was a rundown diner in a cursed town.
Yeah, her dress cost more than anything on the menu.
Yeah, her mother would drop dead if she saw them right now.

But none of that mattered.

Because it was him.
And everything with Benji Burroughs felt right in a way nothing else ever had.

So when he whispered like that—like a spell wrapped in sin—Heather didn’t hesitate. Didn’t tease. Didn’t stall.

She turned toward him, one hand slipping up his thigh beneath the table, fingers grazing denim like a promise. And then—

She kissed him.

Slow at first. Deliberate. A queen claiming her king.
Then deeper, sultrier—like she was showing him and the gods and the poor waitress trying not to look that this wasn’t pretend. This wasn’t hidden.

This was real.

And Heather Goodwin didn’t do halfway.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were a little smudged and her smile was wicked. She licked her bottom lip like she was tasting victory. Her voice, when she spoke, was velvet and wildfire.

“There,” she murmured, just loud enough to carry. “Now the whole damn diner knows I’m yours.”

As if on cue, the waitress shuffled over—middle-aged, unfazed, chewing pink bubblegum like it had seen more action than her love life. She cleared her throat, studiously avoiding eye contact like she hadn’t just witnessed a kiss that could steam up every window in the place.

Heather glanced at her, all glossy lips and unapologetic smirk.

“Relax,” she said breezily, flicking her hair off her shoulder. “We’re not gonna start a fire. Not unless the pie’s flammable.”

She winked, then leaned back against the booth like she owned the damn thing—her hand grazing Benji’s thigh one last time before it slid away.

“I’ll let him order,” she said, voice low and loaded. “He’s got good taste.”
And she wasn’t talking about the coffee.

Then she turned toward the wall of black-and-white photos, pretending to study them with all the innocence of a girl who hadn’t just kissed a boy like he was her new religion. But the slight curve of her mouth betrayed her.

Because this date?

Yeah. It was already perfect.

Benji sat there—kiss-drunk, grinning, and absolutely, irreparably gone.

She’d kissed him like she meant it. Like they meant something. Like she wasn’t afraid of being seen, not here, not like this, not with him.

And then she said it.

Now the whole damn diner knows I’m yours.

He was gonna need a second. Maybe a week.

The waitress muttered something about needing a minute to grab her pen and vanished, bless her heart. Benji didn’t even spare her a glance. His eyes were still on Heather, tracking every smug flick of her hair, every slow graze of her hand as it slipped away from his thigh like a goddamn thief.

He leaned back into the booth, one arm stretched behind her like a claim, even if she’d already made it for him. He was buzzing. Not just from the kiss—though that was enough to write songs about—but from her. The way she looked in this light. The way she said we’re not gonna start a fire like it was a lie and a prophecy in one.

Benji licked his bottom lip, tasting her still, and shook his head slowly.

“You’re out here kissing me like it’s your full-time job,” he said, voice rough with leftover heat, “and expecting me to focus on pie?”

He leaned in, low and close, voice right in her ear.

“Just so we’re clear, Goodwin, if this place does burn down—you started it. And I’m not sorry.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her again, eyes flicking over her silk dress, her smudged mouth, the wicked curve of her smirk like she was always one step ahead of the game and daring him to catch up.

He was trying. God, he was trying.

The waitress reappeared just as he turned to her, barely keeping a straight face.

“Two coffees,” he said, still watching Heather. “Black. And whatever slice you’d regret not getting if the world ended tonight.”

The woman blinked, scribbled something, and walked off muttering something about “teenagers with too many hormones and not enough shame.”

Benji turned back to Heather, grinning like the trouble she was.

He bumped her knee under the table.

“You know that was the best kiss of my life, right?”

Then, more serious—barely a breath, just for her.

“And I’ve got a feeling it’s only the beginning.”

He didn’t need the stars to align.

She was right here, in thigh-highs and fire and a dress that made liars of lesser men—and Benji Burroughs? He had no plans of letting her go.

Not now. Not ever.

God, the way he looked at her.

Like she was the answer to every bad decision he’d ever made. Like he’d do it all again just to end up in this booth with her, firelit by cheap pendant lights and soaked in the scent of stale coffee and second chances. He looked at her like she wasn’t just his—but like she was it. The spark. The siren. The storm.

Heather practically purred under the attention, all glossy confidence and silk-wrapped sin. Her legs crossed and recrossed, deliberate and smooth, the slit of her dress falling just enough to tease. Her fingers toyed with the edge of his jacket now, then the curve of his collarbone, brushing skin like she was sketching him from memory.

He didn’t look away.

Not once.

She loved that about him. That he could drink her in with that smirk of his—kiss-drunk and reverent—and still look like he’d offer her the whole world if she asked nice enough. Or not nice at all.

And yet—beneath the heat, beneath the hunger—there was that flicker of softness in her chest again. That ridiculous little ache she never planned for. Because he wasn’t just some boy to burn through. He was the match she hadn’t meant to keep.

She leaned in—slow, deliberate, letting her breath skate across his cheek, her lips just barely brushing the shell of his ear.

“Careful, Burroughs,” she whispered, voice like red velvet and warning. “Keep looking at me like that and I might just devour you.”

And then—teeth.

A quick, playful nip to his earlobe that made his breath catch and his eyes darken.

She pulled back with a wicked grin, fingers trailing down his arm before settling on his thigh again, more possessive than teasing now.

“Best kiss of your life?” she echoed, pretending to consider it. “Huh. And here I thought I was going easy on you.”

She sipped from the water the waitress had dropped off in her brief escape, her lipstick leaving a perfect red mark on the rim. Then, resting her chin in her hand, she gave him that look—equal parts smolder and challenge.

“So,” she said, tilting her head, her fingers tapping lightly against his knee, “you planning to top it before dessert… or are we saving the best for last?”

She didn’t care about the pie.
She was already starving—for him.

Benji didn’t stand a chance.

Not when she looked at him like that—like he was the dessert, the dare, the disaster she wanted to savor bite by bite. Like she’d decided the rest of the world could wait because this was the main course.

And God, maybe he was.

He didn’t move for a second, just stared at her, stunned and aching and halfway to ruin. That smile—feral and soft, wicked and hers—was already undoing him in ways he didn’t have language for. Her voice still echoed in his ear, velvet-edged and dangerous: I might just devour you.

Good.
He wanted to be devoured.

His hand slid under the table, curling lightly around her wrist where it rested on his thigh, thumb brushing her pulse. Slow. Steady. Grounding. Possessive, but not in the way anyone else had ever been with her. Not claiming—keeping.

He leaned in, lips just grazing her cheekbone—not a kiss, not yet, just a breath’s worth of closeness.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, rough and low and laced with heat, “if that was you going easy…”

A pause. His lips finally met her jaw, reverent

Benji’s voice dropped further—gravel and sin soaked in reverence.

“…then I’m in real fucking trouble.”

His thumb pressed against her pulse point, feeling it race beneath his skin, and it made his next breath stutter. Just slightly. Just enough to betray how badly she had him.

He turned his head, just enough to let his lips brush the corner of her jaw, slow and lazy like he had all night to ruin her. And maybe he did. Maybe he would.

“I could kiss you right now,” he said, barely above a whisper, “slow and messy, until you forget why we even came here. Until you forget your own name and remember only mine.”

His hand moved—down, then up again—finding her knee and then sliding higher, just beneath the table’s edge, fingertips ghosting along the top of her stocking like he was writing a secret only she’d be allowed to read. His voice, when it came again, was molten.

“Or I could wait.”

A beat.

“Wait until we’re out of this booth. In my car. Or back at my place. Where I can take my time figuring out just how easy you were trying to go on me.”

He leaned back then, slow and smug and flushed with want, just to watch the effect—just to see if her smirk cracked or deepened.

It deepened.

Of course it did.

Because Heather Goodwin didn’t crack. She shattered expectations.

Benji dragged his gaze down her, from kiss-wrecked lips to the barely-contained thigh slit and back up again, eyes dark and full of worship wrapped in wickedness.

“Pie’s gonna have to be real damn good to compete with that thought,” he muttered.

Then—hand still on her leg, heart pounding, voice softer now, like it was just for her—

“But I’m not in a rush, Heather.”

He met her gaze again, steady and quiet and completely undone.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time. I can wait another hour.”

A beat. His smile flickered, a little crooked, a little raw.

“Hell… I’d wait a lifetime if it meant you’d still kiss me like that.”

Because this? This wasn’t just hunger.
It was worship.
It was wildfire.
It was real.

And Benji Burroughs was already hers—body, breath, soul.

All she had to do was keep reaching.

Oh. Oh, he was good.

The moment the word sweetheart left his lips, her pulse jumped like it had been waiting for it all night. She’d never liked pet names. Not really. Not when they came from the mouths of shallow boys who thought saying babe was enough to earn their place beside her.

But Benji? When he said it?

It curled around her spine like heat and honey. And it wasn’t just sweetheart. It was his sweetheart.
Soft on the surface, but wrapped in that rough, reverent voice that made her want to melt and bite something at the same time.

And God, the way he played the game.

Every touch, every word—measured but loaded. He pushed, she pulled. She teased, he tempted. Like they were dancing with fire and daring it to burn them both. And he never rushed it. Never begged. Just waited. Smirking. Letting her set the pace while still managing to be the one with his hand on the wheel.

Heather didn’t speak—not right away.

That was part of the game too.

Instead, she tilted her head just slightly as he leaned in, offering that kiss to her jaw like a benediction. Her breath hitched—not from nerves, but from want. From the patience in him. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to win because he knew he already had.

And when he said he’d wanted her for a long time?

She almost laughed.

A long time?

He had no idea. She’d made boys wait years to even get within touching distance. Made them grovel, pine, break themselves just for a chance to orbit her flame. And then here was Benji—showing up a few months ago with rough hands and broken edges, looking at her like she was a wildfire he didn’t want to survive.

And now?
Now he had her under his thumb and on his thigh and damn near wrapped around his finger.

He didn’t even know how dangerous that was.

Her hand moved then—slow, deliberate—up his chest and to the back of his neck, nails trailing lightly against his skin just beneath the edge of his collar. She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear again, voice low and lush.

“Careful, baby,” she purred, “I might start thinking you actually mean it.”

Her teeth scraped his earlobe again, soft but enough to make him feel it, and when she pulled back, her smirk was lethal.

Right on cue, the waitress returned with their coffee and pie—two steaming mugs and slices that looked halfway decent, though Heather barely glanced at them.

She was already full on the electricity between them.

The waitress muttered something about “enjoy” and all but threw the check down before vanishing, her face flushed. Probably regretting coming back.

Heather didn’t even blink. She turned back to Benji and picked up her fork with deliberate grace, fingers brushing his in the process like it wasn’t an accident. Her thigh shifted against his palm beneath the table.

Then she took a slow bite of the pie. Chewed. Swallowed. Licked her lips—just to make a show of it.

And smiled like a girl who knew she’d already won.

“Lucky you,” she murmured. “Looks like you get to have both.”
A beat.

“Pie… and me.”

And this time, when her foot slipped out of her heel and up his calf, slow and suggestive, she didn’t look away once.

Benji nearly choked on his own heartbeat.

She was merciless.

Absolutely.
Fucking.
Merciless.

And he loved every goddamn second of it.

That foot? That smirk? The way she said baby like it was a loaded gun pointed at his sanity?

He should’ve been prepared. Should’ve known what she was doing when her fingers brushed his collar, when her voice dipped into that low, wicked place that turned every word into a weapon. But he wasn’t prepared. Not really. Because nothing could prepare him for Heather Goodwin at full power.

Not the silk. Not the lipstick. Not even the little laugh she almost let slip when she felt him tense beneath her touch.

Benji’s fingers flexed on her thigh under the table. A warning. A thank you. A plea. All wrapped into one slow press of his palm against star-dotted stockings and skin that could end wars.

He didn’t look away either.

Didn’t blink as she licked her lips like she knew what it did to him. Like she’d written the damn manual on temptation and decided he’d be the first one to fail every test.

His coffee sat untouched. The pie cooled in front of him like it had been sacrificed in the name of seduction.

And still—still—Benji managed to smile.

Low. Lethal. Lips parted just enough to make his voice rougher when it landed.

“Pie and you?” he echoed, eyes raking over her slowly, like he was trying to memorize the way she looked when she decided to undo him. “Guess I’m the lucky one tonight.”

Then—he leaned in.

Close.

Close enough that the world outside their booth didn’t matter anymore.

And this time?

He didn’t whisper.

“You really think I don’t mean it?” he said, voice thick with heat and something heavier. “That I don’t lie awake most nights trying to figure out what the hell I’d do if you ever actually chose me?”

His fingers slid higher—just enough to make her breath catch, just enough to remind her that this was his game too.

“I’ve meant it since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t afraid of you.”

He picked up his fork then. Took a bite of pie like she hadn’t just scorched the air around them. Like he wasn’t seconds from losing it. Like the sugar on his tongue could somehow settle the storm she’d set loose in his blood.

He chewed. Swallowed. Looked her dead in the eye.

Then—soft, dangerous, full of everything he hadn’t said yet:

“You can tease me all you want, Goodwin.”

He leaned back in his seat, legs spread just enough that her foot still fit between them.

“But you are mine.”

A beat. A smirk. A dare.

“Dessert’s just a bonus.”

Benji grinned—slow, wolfish, the kind of grin that didn’t just promise trouble, it delivered.

Heather had pushed him right to the edge, and she knew it. The silk. The smirk. The way her foot was still teasing its way up his calf like she had all the time in the world to ruin him.

Fine.
Two could play that game.

He set his fork down with deliberate care, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned to face her fully, arm resting along the back of the booth, thumb grazing her shoulder like a casual afterthought. But his eyes? His eyes told a different story. One that involved no pie, no coffee, and absolutely no regrets.

“You know what I’m thinking?” he asked, voice thick with charm and smoke. “I’m thinking this isn’t a date anymore.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her temple—not a kiss, not quite—but just enough heat to make her breath catch.

“This is foreplay.”

His fingers slipped down her arm, slow and featherlight, until they reached her hand. He laced their fingers together beneath the table, palm to palm, skin on skin.

“And you?” he added, mouth close to her ear now, a whisper that felt like a sin, “You’re not dessert, Heather. You’re the whole goddamn meal.”

Then he pulled back just enough to see the heat flicker behind her eyes. His smirk deepened. Lazy. Wicked. Worshipful.

“I should be taking notes,” he said, head tilted, gaze dragging over the lipstick smudge on her water glass like it was something sacred. “You’re out here redefining every fantasy I’ve ever had.”

He lifted their joined hands and brushed his lips across her knuckles like a gentleman in a world that didn’t deserve her.

“I swear, if I get to keep kissing you and eating pie in the same night, I’m gonna start thinking I died and went to Goodwin-shaped heaven.”

Then, eyes locked on hers, voice like heat and gravity:

“Tell me, Heather. How bad do you wanna see what I look like when I stop holding back?”

Because beneath all that teasing, he was fire, too.
And she’d just struck the match.

He was unraveling under her fingertips and making it look like devotion.
And maybe it was.

That mouth—saying things no one had ever dared to say to her. That touch—too reverent to be reckless. That voice—low and worshipful, promising things that felt dangerously close to forever.

Heather felt it, all of it, curling in her stomach like a fuse she’d lit herself. And God, she wanted to follow the fire. Wanted to slide across that booth, press her body into his, kiss him until the windows fogged and the world forgot their names.

But—

No.

Not yet.

Because if she let it go too far now—if she let that fire grow out of her control—it’d burn everything in its path. Including him.

And she wasn’t going to be the girl who gave Benji Burroughs her body before she gave him the truth.

So instead?

She played the game.

Heather let him finish his breath-stealing line—“Tell me, Heather. How bad do you wanna see what I look like when I stop holding back?”—and then she smiled.

Slow. Dangerous. Beautiful.

Like a queen accepting tribute. Like a girl who already knew the answer and wasn’t afraid to use it.

She leaned in—lips close, breath warmer than necessary—just enough to make him lean in, too.

Their mouths hovered, charged with everything they weren’t doing yet.

Then—

She kissed him.

But not the way he was expecting.

Not deep. Not possessive.

Just one, devastatingly soft press of lips to his. A slow, sensual promise sealed in red.

And then she pulled back. A heartbeat before he could chase her mouth. A flick of her fingers down his chest before they could reach for more.

Her voice, when it came, was low and full of velvet fire.

“You sure you can handle me, Burroughs?” she whispered, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, not quite kissing him again. “Because I’m starting to think I’m the one holding back.”

She licked her bottom lip, watching his eyes follow the motion like it might be the death of him.

Then she straightened in the booth, grabbed her coffee, and took a sip like she hadn’t just torn the world out from under his feet.

“No more kissing,” she said simply. “Not until you earn it.”

A pause. Then that playful glint again.

“And don’t pout. You’re still ahead of the curve. Most boys waited years to even hear me say their names.”

Her foot was still on his leg. Her fingers still toyed with his belt loop. Her eyes still burned like starlight soaked in gasoline.

But there was something else behind them now.

Something soft. Protective. Earnest.

Because if this was going to mean anything—really mean something—he had to know what she came from.
What her name used to be.
What curse she carried in her blood.

And he would.

Just… not yet.

For now?

She let him simmer.

Let him want.

Let the fire build between them—but on her terms.

And as she took another slow sip of coffee, eyes locked on his lips?

She smiled.

Because the next time she kissed him?

There’d be no holding back.
Not for either of them.

Benji didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move—except for the involuntary twitch in his jaw when her lips left his and took half his damn soul with them.

He sat there, dazed and wrecked and hopelessly turned on, staring at her like she’d just rewritten the sky. Because that kiss—that kiss—wasn’t just heat. It was strategy. It was a goddamn checkmate.

And she knew it.

Of course she did.

Heather Goodwin didn’t kiss boys to seduce them. She kissed them to own them. To brand her name into their chest and walk away with the match still lit. But this one—this kiss—had been different.

Soft. Subtle. Cruel, in the most addictive way.

It wasn’t a promise.

It was a warning.

And Benji? He was done for.

He stared at her as she sipped her coffee like it wasn’t a crime scene. As she smirked with that glossy, lethal mouth and delivered the line—“No more kissing. Not until you earn it.”

His hand curled around the edge of the table, grounding himself. Barely.

Then he laughed.

Low. Wrecked. Worshipful.

“Jesus Christ, Goodwin,” he muttered, voice husky and ragged. “You kiss like a prophecy and then pull a plot twist? That’s just mean.”

He shifted in the booth, like sitting still might actually kill him, and scrubbed a hand over his face before dropping it to rest on his thigh—dangerously close to hers, but not touching.

“Earn it,” he repeated, shaking his head with a slow grin. “You’re gonna have me doing backflips in the parking lot for one more taste, aren’t you?”

Then, his gaze dropped to her mouth again, eyes dark with a hunger he wasn’t even pretending to hide anymore.

“But alright. No more kissing.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his smile softening just enough to show something real under all that heat.

“I’ll earn it,” he said simply. “Every inch. Every secret. Every piece of you you’re not ready to give yet.”

A beat.

“But when you are ready?”

He let the words hang in the air between them, electric and inevitable.

Then he took a sip of his coffee, winced—too hot—and muttered, “Still not as dangerous as you.”

He sat back, one hand trailing down her arm as he stretched—leisurely, like he hadn’t just been hit by an emotional truck—and let their fingers tangle under the table.

And for the rest of the night, he didn’t kiss her again.

But he looked at her like he already had.
And like he was counting down the minutes until he’d get to again.

Because Benji Burroughs?
He was patient.

And she was worth the wait.

"What gave you the impression that I was nice?”

The words dripped off her tongue like cherry syrup over broken glass—sweet, sharp, and meant to wound in the most delicious way. And the look in her eyes?

That wasn’t a girl playing coy. That was a storm in red lipstick, daring him to chase her straight into the wreckage.

Heather didn’t do nice. She did unforgettable. She did unforgettable in thigh-highs and silk with a grin that made boys nervous and a tongue that could slice through diamond. And Benji?

He wasn’t nervous.

He looked at her like he wanted to drown.

And goddammit, she already wanted to break her own rule.

One kiss. Just one. A flick of her fingers, a lean across the booth, a taste of that mouth again—

No.

No.

She was stronger than that. She had to be. Not because she didn’t want him—she did, with a kind of hunger that had her blood humming—but because she respected him too much to give him a lie by omission. She wouldn’t let him fall into bed with her without knowing the truth of where she came from.

So she breathed.

Sat back. Smoothed her fingers over her dress like she hadn’t just imagined yanking him into her lap and making the entire booth tremble.

Instead, they ate.

Slow. Easy. Careful.

Her fork dragged through the pie in lazy swirls while his thumb brushed hers under the table, just once in a while—like a secret pulse line connecting them. She sipped her coffee, let the bitterness settle under her tongue while he blew on his and pretended not to wince again. She smirked. He smiled. It was the most ordinary thing she’d done in months—and it felt extraordinary.

Every bite was a stall tactic. Every sip a silent reminder: not yet.

But even in the silence, even in the stillness—he never looked away. That part undid her the most. The way he looked at her like he saw her, not the version she wore like armor, but the girl underneath. The one with a cursed last name and too much fire in her chest.

By the time the last crumbs of pie were gone, her pulse had steadied, but only just.

She pushed the plate away. Leaned back in the booth. Watched the steam curl up from her half-drunk coffee and felt her heart starting to crack under the weight of everything she hadn’t told him.

He deserved to know.

And if it made him leave?

So be it.

But he wouldn’t be leaving because she lied.

Her voice was quieter when she finally broke the calm. Still sharp, still Heather—but layered now. Real.

“Benji,” she said, letting his name settle between them.

She turned her head to look at him fully, hair falling over one shoulder, eyes steady and unflinching.

“I have a confession.”

A beat. A breath.

“My last name isn’t Goodwin.”

The words tasted foreign on her tongue. Ancient and bitter.

“It used to be Goode.”

She watched his face, her own unreadable—but her fingers under the table tightened just slightly around his.

“It was my family that cursed this town.”

There it was.

Out in the open.

No kiss. No tease. Just truth.

Because this boy—this man in a bad boy package—deserved to know exactly what kind of fire he was playing with.

Benji didn’t flinch.

Not even a little.

He just sat there, fork resting on his empty plate, coffee cooling between his hands, and looked at her like he had all the time in the world to listen. Like she hadn’t just dropped a legacy soaked in blood and brimstone between them. Like she hadn’t just told him she came from the same name that had made Shadyside bleed.

Goode.

Of course.

The moment she said it, something in him clicked. Not horror. Not disgust. Just understanding—like a puzzle piece finally slotting into place. Like every dream, every shadow, every thread he’d been pulling on since the curse started crawling back into their lives suddenly had a name. Her name.

And she had chosen to give it to him.

Chosen.

Benji stared at her, at the girl sitting across from him with stars on her thighs and wreckage in her bones, and he felt something deep and sharp settle in his chest.

Not fear.

Awe.

She had looked him dead in the eye and handed him her truth like a weapon. Not expecting mercy. Not asking for forgiveness. Just laying herself bare because he deserved it.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that. Soft. Even.

He reached across the table again, fingers finding hers with no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth. Just anchor.

“I figured it was something like that,” he added, voice low but steady. “The dreams. The way you talk about the curse. The weight in your eyes when you think no one’s watching.”

He shrugged—almost gently.

“Didn’t know the name. Doesn’t matter.”

He gave her hand a squeeze, like punctuation.

“I’m still here.”

His thumb brushed the back of her hand again, and his eyes softened in a way that made her throat tighten. Like he wasn’t just seeing her. He was choosing her, curse and all.

“You think that changes the way I see you?” he asked, leaning in slightly. “Because it doesn’t. It just explains why you’ve been carrying the weight of this town like it’s yours to fix.”

A beat.

“But it’s not just on you, Heather. It never was. You inherited a name. I chose you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Then—because it was still Benji, and because she’d just shattered every wall between them—he smirked, crooked and adoring and so damn him.

“Besides,” he added, voice dropping to that low, wicked place she could never resist, “I’ve always had a thing for dangerous girls.”

Another beat.

His hand tightened around hers.

“So if you’re the fire that started all this…”

He leaned closer.

“…let me be the one who doesn’t burn.”

And just like that, he gave her what no one else ever had.

Not forgiveness. Not fear.

Faith.

In her. In them.

In the wildfire they’d become—together.

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until it came out in a slow, shaky exhale.

He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t pull back.
He didn’t look at her like she was poison.

He stayed.

That was what undid her—not just his words, not just the steady warmth of his hand around hers, but the fact that he didn’t even hesitate. No pause. No recoil. Just… okay.

It made something in her ache.

A deep, bruised place she didn’t let people near—because she was always too much or too dangerous or too complicated to risk loving. And now here he was, sitting across from her like she hadn’t just confessed to being the living legacy of Shadyside’s darkest nightmare.

Goode.

She’d spent so long hating the name that she forgot how much it hurt. How much it mattered. How many people had died—slaughtered, cursed, buried—because someone in her bloodline decided they were owed more than the world would give them.

And sure, she wasn’t that person.

But still.

Still, the weight of it sat on her shoulders like a crown of rot. A name written in screams. A history carved in stone and grief and graveyard silence.

She’d told herself she didn’t care. That it wasn’t her fault. That she was rewriting it.

But now, with Benji’s hand in hers and his eyes soft and steady and full of her—

The guilt crept back in.

Not because he was scared. He wasn’t. That was what made it worse.

He believed in her.

And all she could think about was how many lives had been ruined by a name she didn’t ask for but still wore like a scar stitched into her soul.

“I shouldn’t feel bad,” she murmured, not really meaning to say it out loud.

Her eyes dropped to their joined hands, watching the way his thumb moved over her knuckles like he was memorizing the shape of her strength.

“But I do.”

Heather swallowed. Her voice didn’t shake, but her heart did.

“All those people. All that blood. And maybe someone out there—someone with my blood—is still doing it. Still playing God. Still… carrying on the legacy.”

Her mouth twisted, bitter. She didn’t cry. She never cried. But there was something raw around the edges of her voice now. A crack in the mirror.

“I don’t know if I’m trying to break the cycle or just outrun it.”

She didn’t let go of his hand.

Couldn’t.

Because if she did, she wasn’t sure the weight wouldn’t crush her.

But then she looked at him—really looked—and there it was again.

That quiet, defiant belief.

Like he saw every shadow in her and chose her because of them, not in spite of them.

And just like that, the fire inside her steadied.

Not snuffed out. Just… contained. Held by something stronger than fear. Something that looked a hell of a lot like love—even if she wasn’t ready to name it yet.

She squeezed his hand back.

“You really are stupid for me, aren’t you?” she whispered, smirking through the haze of truth between them.

But her eyes?

They were softer than they’d ever been.

Because Benji Burroughs didn’t just see her.

He stayed.

Benji smiled.

Not the cocky one. Not the smirk he wore when he was trying to get her to roll her eyes or bite her lip.

This one was quieter. Slower. Like it had roots. Like it had been waiting for her.

He let the silence settle, didn’t rush to fill it with jokes or reassurances. He just kept holding her hand—thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against her skin—like he could ease the guilt out of her one breath at a time.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Sure. Undeniably his.

“Yeah,” he said, a hint of a laugh tucked beneath the wreckage in his tone. “I’m definitely stupid for you.”

A pause. His gaze searched hers—steady, open, unafraid.

“But not because I stayed.”

He leaned forward slightly, their foreheads almost touching now, the rest of the world fading into bad coffee and fading neon.

“I stayed because I know who you are, Heather.”

His hand tightened just slightly around hers, grounding.

“You’re not your name. You’re not your blood. You’re the girl who walked into the curse instead of running from it. Who looks hell in the eye and says not this time.”

Another breath.

“You’re fire, yeah. But you’re the kind that remakes things. That burns the rot out. That starts over.”

He smiled again, soft and ruinous and real.

“And me? I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by people too scared to feel anything real. So if you think I’m letting go of the one person brave enough to bleed in front of me—”

He shook his head.

“Not a chance.”

He looked down at their hands, then back up.

“So if you don’t know whether you’re breaking the cycle or outrunning it—okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And just when she thought he couldn’t possibly say anything more devastating, he added—quietly, almost shyly:

“I’m not going anywhere, Goode girl.”

Then, with a crooked grin and a wink that could only belong to him:

“…unless you make me pay for the pie. Then we might have to talk.”

And just like that, the heaviness cracked. Not all the way. But enough.

Because Benji Burroughs didn’t just hold her hand.

He held the weight.

And made her believe—for the first time in a long time—that maybe she didn’t have to carry it alone.

Her chest felt tight—not from pain, but from the way everything he said landed like truth she hadn’t known how to hear until now.

For so long, all she’d seen was the stain.
The name.
The legacy.
The rot.

She’d worn the guilt like a designer coat with the tag still attached—too expensive to justify, but too sharp to take off. She let it define her. Haunt her. Shove her into late-night obsession spirals and cursed books and case files that smelled like mildew and death.

She’d been so focused on the wrong—what her family had done, what had been taken, what had been damned—that she never stopped to look at the right.

The right being her.

Her, clawing her way out of a legacy built on graves.

Her, choosing truth over comfort.

Her, sitting here with a boy who could have run but didn’t.

The obsession with the murders had started like a dare. Something twisted and morbid and thrilling. A break from the polish and pretense of her old life—the cheer captain, the Sunnyvale darling, the curated lie. She’d loved the blood and the mess and the fact that it felt like something real.

But it wasn’t about the thrill anymore.

It was about solving it.

Ending it.

Not for her family. Not even for herself. For them. For the ones who never got a second date. For the ones who were buried before they could say I’m scared. For the ones who didn’t even know they were part of a curse until it swallowed them whole.

And yet—beneath the resolve, beneath the fire—something small and scared whispered inside her.

What if ending it means losing him?

She hadn’t let herself think about that before.

But now, sitting across from him with his fingers tangled in hers and that soft, ruinous smile still curling at the corners of his mouth… she couldn’t help it.

She wanted another date.
And another.
And another after that.
She wanted to argue over movie picks and steal his hoodies and kiss him in places that weren’t shadowed by secrets. She wanted to know what it felt like to fall in love without a ghost trailing behind her every step.

She wanted him.

And she didn’t want to lose him to the same legacy she was trying to kill.

But when she looked at him again—really looked—he was already there. In it. With her. Like he’d never even considered being anywhere else.

So she smiled, slow and dangerous, but real.

“This is our first date,” she said, and the words tasted strange and perfect on her tongue. “And normally? A gentleman should pay.”

She squeezed his hand, just enough to make him pause.

“But I’ve got some reparations to make.”

Her other hand slipped into her bag, pulled out her wallet, and dropped a few crumpled bills on the table like it was nothing. Like money could settle blood debt. Like it mattered, and it didn’t.

What mattered was that she wasn’t running.

Not from the past.
Not from the curse.
Not from him.

She stood then, tugging him up by the hand she still refused to let go of. Her heels clicked against the floor as she pulled him toward the door, her pace confident, her chin high—but her eyes?

Her eyes said thank you.
For staying. For seeing. For believing.

And just as they pushed through the door, the bell jingling above them, Heather glanced at him—lips smudged, heart hammering, hand still in his.

She leaned in close, breath skating over his cheek as she whispered, “You earned your kisses back.”

A pause. A wicked grin.

“All of them.”

Then, without waiting, she kissed him.

Not soft. Not shy.

A kiss full of everything she hadn’t said and everything she wanted to say. It was slow and unapologetic, the kind that made time bend and hearts race. One hand fisted gently in his shirt, the other still clutching his hand like an anchor.

When she finally pulled back, her lips barely parted, eyes still half-lidded, she added—voice low and soaked in certainty:

“That was just your down payment.”

And then she walked into the night beside him—cursebreaker, firestarter, girl in love—ready to burn it all down and build something better.

Together.

Benji stood frozen for a heartbeat, lips tingling, breath stolen, the imprint of her kiss seared onto his soul like a brand.

Down payment, she’d said.

Jesus.

He was done.

Absolutely wrecked.

Heather Goode—Goodwin, fire-forged and curseborn and unapologetically herself—had just paid the bill, kissed him like a woman claiming fate by the throat, and walked out into the night like she owned the stars.

And she did.

Every part of her, from the silk and heels to the rage and righteousness, was blazing. Beautiful. Unstoppable.

And Benji?

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t ruin it with a joke, even though his brain was short-circuiting in eight directions.

He just followed.

Not behind her. Beside her.

Because that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

She wasn’t his to protect. She didn’t need saving. She was the storm and the sword and the girl who smiled at legacy and said watch me undo you.

But he could walk with her.

Could hold her hand through the fire and remind her that she didn’t have to do it alone anymore.

The wind hit them as they stepped into the lot, lifting her hair like a spell in motion, and he glanced sideways just in time to see the moment her smile faltered—just for a second.

Soft.

Unarmored.

Real.

He tightened his grip on her hand, knuckles brushing hers as he said, voice low and full of promise:

“You’re not getting rid of me.”

Heather rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go.

And as they made their way toward his car—two silhouettes in the dark, one legacy running hot in her veins, the other waiting quietly in his chest—Benji knew it without needing to say it out loud:

This wasn’t just the beginning of a love story.

This was the beginning of the end.

Of the curse.
Of the silence.
Of the fear.

And maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something that finally felt like freedom.

For both of them.