Wonderland | ✎

04 - almost midnight

1 1 : 5 9  P M

     Wyatt and I stared at each other.

     Those same honey-coloured eyes I'd been infatuated with years ago. But he looked older. Sharper. The clenching of his jaw, the lean muscles on his arms, the taut expression on his face at the sight of me. Gone was the scrawny, easy-looking boy.

     What the hell happened in the last two years?

     (Everything. Everything could happen.)

     Then my gaze dropped.

     I gulped. "W-what happened to your hand?"

     He blinked. Then, as if just remembering the injured state of his knuckles, gave a winced smile. "I, uh, got into a fight. Punched someone in the face."

    "I can see that." Without even thinking, I stepped forward and grabbed his hand. Ignoring his sharp inhale and the electricity in my bones. "Jesus, Wyatt," I muttered, almost to myself. "What'd you punch, a brick wall?"

     (Are you okay?)

     When silence met my words, I looked up and had to catch my breath when I realised he was staring at me. At our hands together. Like he couldn't believe it was real. This close together, I could see his long lashes, the way it flickered to every part of our skin touching.

     It suddenly registered to me how warm his hand felt. How calloused his skin was under my fingertips. It used to be so soft...

    "You're here," Wyatt breathed, then his eyebrows furrowed in that cute way of his. "How are you here?"

     I swallowed. "I got an invite."

    "From Laney? I didn't even think you knew each other."

    "We don't."

    "Then where—" he stopped as his eyes widened, and a slow, satisfying smile spread from his mouth, showing a dimple. "You saw my Instagram post?"

    "Doesn't matter." I forced my gaze down as my cheeks heated, hoping he didn't remember how easily prone I was to blushing. I dragged him towards the sink. "What matters is your bleeding hand."

    "Sydney, it's fine, I can—" he hissed as the water met his skin.

     Wyatt didn't protest anymore.

     All while rinsing his hand, I felt him watch me. Rake his eyes over me. Like he, too, was noticing how much I'd changed. How long it'd been.

     The tension in the air was so sharp, you'd cut a bitch. Breathing became an exercise. I felt the stiffness in his body; the way his muscles tensed and how his breathing faltered every time I turned his hand over. But his bruised knuckles taunted me. How did this fight happen? The Wyatt I knew could talk himself out of any problem, and would never result to fist-fighting unless it was an absolute last resort. He was civil. That all-around good neighbour kid. 

    "It's hard to explain," he murmured, looking down at our hands together. "It was something stupid."

    "I wasn't going to ask."

    "Yes, you were. You scrunch your nose a bit whenever you want to ask a question you're not sure you want the answer to."

     I sucked in a breath. Didn't dare say anything else.