Page 44 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“Alright, alright!” he yells over the music. “We’re playing spin the bottle. Get over here!”
A chorus of cheers follows. People surge inward toward the cleared space on the rug, the coffee table shoved aside with scraping legs and careless force.
Kadin glances down at me with raised brows. “You look like someone who wins at games.”
A strange chill slides through me at the word 'games'.
Across the room, near the doorway to the backyard, Silas straightens fully now. He no longer leans. He no longer blends.
He watches.
The bottle is set in the center of the circle as people begin dropping to the floor, knees bumping, laughter spilling. Someone grabs Kadin’s arm, pulling him toward the forming group.
“Come on Anderson!”
He looks at me again. “You in?”
The safe answer would be no.
The right answer would be absolutely not.
But the alcohol hums warm in my veins, the tension from earlier still coiling tight beneath my skin.
“Why not,” I say.
We move toward the circle together, bodies shifting to make room. Lowering myself onto the rug opposite the bottle, I smooth my jeans over my knees.
Silas steps inside last.
No one invites him.
No one has to.
He drops down across from me with slow precision, legs stretching out carelessly, one arm draped over his knee, the bottle siting between us like a loaded weapon.
The room grows louder as someone explains the rules unnecessarily. Couples laugh. Strangers scoot closer.
Silas doesn’t look at the bottle.
He looks at me.
Not the playful glance he wore earlier.
Not the mocking smirk.
His eyes narrow slightly, darkening in a way that makes breathing feel like a chore.
Not jealousy.
Strategy.
Something about the way he studies me makes my pulse stutter.
This isn’t him reacting anymore.
This is him deciding.
The bottle spins for the first round, clattering softly as it rotates. People cheer when it lands, a kiss breaking out somewhere to my left, laughter following.
