Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 46

“Get in the car,” she said.

It wasn’t a question. It never was with her. I stood. Rain running down my arms, shirt clinging like regret. I opened the door, got in. The passenger seat groaned under the weight of my soaked body. I didn’t look at her. I looked out at the streets, now blurred in golden streaks of lamplight and water. Like the world was weeping with me. Or maybe for me. It was hard to tell. She didn’t speak. Not at first. Olive never wasted words. She just… existed. Like a shelter. Like smoke.She held space like no one else ever could  not demanding, not prying. Just quietly holding the broken parts of me like they were hers to bear.

“Shall I drive you home?” she asked.

Her voice was soft. Steady. I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The word home tasted like a lie tonight. So I stayed silent. She didn’t push. She just drove. Wipers slicing the windshield like knives through silence. The world outside smeared and ghostlike. I pressed my forehead to the cool window glass. My soaked jeans stuck to the seat. I could still feel the sting in my knuckles. Still hear Betty’s voice. Still see her down next to Matt as I turned away. And Olive, she never looked at me. Just kept her hands at ten and two. Kept breathing steady. Kept being there. That was the thing about Olive. She never asked me to be whole. Never flinched at the darkness. Never tried to fix me. She just stayed. And tonight, that was enough.

Salt air clung to the windows. I could smell it, thick and briny, cutting through the leftover scent of rain. The rust on the door creaked softly behind us as it shut, like it had seen too many secrets sealed inside. We stood in the cabin’s hush, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ribs. I could still feel the ghost of her lips from the car. That hesitant, serpentine kiss. And now here we were, no excuses, no backpedaling. Just the moment. Just her.

Olive stepped closer. Her hair hung damp around her face like ivy in stormlight, framing the unwavering look in her eyes. The golden lamp buzzed overhead, casting us in soft shadow, like we were part of some old myth. Adam and Eve. Except this time, both of us were reaching for the fruit.

And yet, as I looked into her eyes, I saw the depth of her desire for me, the way she had always watched me with longing. It fed my ego, stroking the flames of my own pride and arrogance.

I reached out, my hand cupping her cheek, my thumb tracing the softness of her lips. She leaned into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed, and in that moment, I knew that I was going to take what I wanted, consequences be damned.

I swallowed. My voice barely came out.
“Are you sure?”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. She placed her palm flat over my chest, right over the part of me that wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Never have I ever been before,” she said.

Something in me cracked.

I pulled her to me like she was the last warm thing in a cold world.

When our mouths found each other again, it wasn’t apologetic. We kissed, our lips meeting in a clash of teeth and tongues, a battle for dominance that I knew I would win. She melted into me, her body pressing against mine, and I felt my own desire flare to life, hot and urgent. It was release,  all hunger, all ache. Her hands gripped my shirt, and I felt the quake in her fingers as I breathed her in. We didn’t rush, but we didn’t hold back. It was like praying with your whole body, chaotic, desperate, half-believing it could save you.

I walked her backwards, my hands roaming over her body, mapping the contours of her curves. She whimpered beneath my touch, her hands fisting in my hair, holding me close. We fell onto the bed, I ripped at her clothes, baring her skin to the soft light, to my hungry gaze. She cried out as I entered her, her body arching beneath mine, and I felt a sense of triumph, of power, that I had never known before. Clothes on the floor, forgotten. The sheets on the bed were cool, the wood creaked beneath us like it remembered a hundred other stories. But none like this. None like us. I chuckled darkly, my hand sliding down her body, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. I dipped my fingers beneath the waistband of her shorts, teasing the edge of her underwear. She moaned, her hips bucking against my hand, seeking more friction, more pressure. I obliged, my fingers sliding beneath the damp fabric, stroking her slick folds. She whimpered, her head nodding frantically. I grinned, my fingers plunging deep inside her, curling against that sweet spot that made her cry out.