The Edge of Everything

Your breath brushed his lips.

That dangerous distance—barely a breath between you. Close enough to kiss.

Close enough to ruin him.

But you didn’t.

Your hand slid up his chest, slow and electric, fingers curling in the fabric of his hoodie.

You felt his heartbeat pounding, like he was trying to keep it together and failing hard.

He tilted his head slightly, just enough that your noses grazed. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, like maybe—just maybe—he thought this was it.

But you weren’t giving him that.

“You want me,” you whispered, your lips ghosting over his.

“But you don’t get to have me. Not yet.”

Your other hand dragged lightly along the waistband of his jeans, your rings cold against his heated skin where his shirt had ridden up. He shuddered. You felt it.

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something—beg, maybe. Or curse you out. But you pressed a finger to his lips.

“Uh uh,” you murmured.

“No words. Just feel it.”

You ran your nose along his jaw, your breath hot against the shell of his ear. His knees almost buckled.

Your fingers lingered at his waist, then slid to his neck, brushing through the ends of his hair as your lips hovered so close over his it hurt.

And then?

You pulled back.

Just like that.

You stepped away, leaving him standing there—flushed, breathless, and completely wrecked. His hoodie clung to him, skin damp, lips parted like he’d been starved and you’d just walked away holding the last bite.

You turned, already walking backwards, smirk carved across your face.

“See you at the gig, skater boy,” you called, voice like honey and fire.

“Don’t forget to bring that playlist.”

And then you were gone.

Leaving him in the middle of the skatepark…

Mourning. Yearning. And panting like you just ripped the soul out of him.

Scene: Next Day – Band Rehearsal, Black Stones Studio

You walked in late.

Deliberately.

Hair still messy from the night before. Hoodie not yours. Lip gloss smudged like sin.

And Seth?

He noticed.

He was already tuned up, fingers on his bass—but his eyes locked on you the second you stepped in.

Mark was arguing with Ryan about the new riff, but Seth didn’t even blink.

Didn’t say a word.

Just watched you.

Until you sat on your drum stool and said, deadpan:

“Let’s make it loud. I’ve got some rage to work out.”

Ryan snorted. “Trouble in paradise?”

You didn’t answer.

But Seth?

He dropped his pick. On purpose. Let it clatter to the ground. Then he looked at you as he slowly bent to pick it up, voice low, laced in that subtle venom you knew too well.

“Long night, Moon?”

You looked up. Met his eyes.

Unflinching.

“What’s it to you, Seth?”

He smiled.

But it wasn’t friendly.

“Just asking. Hoodie’s not yours. And you’re wearing that stupid smug look you get when someone gives you exactly what you want.”

Your heartbeat skipped, but you didn’t flinch. You leaned back, twirling your drumstick, voice smooth as silk and smoke.

“You think I look smug?

Or maybe it’s just guilt.

I do have a thing for stealing what was never mine to begin with.”

Mark muttered a “what the hell?” under his breath, but no one stopped you two. They never did.