The sound of the door slamming breaks something in him.
He moves without thinking, his body operating on pure instinct, pure need, pure desperation. His feet hit the stairs and he's taking them two at a time, three at a time, his hand sliding along the banister, his breath coming fast and hard in his chest. The Valium makes everything feel slightly disconnected, like he's watching himself from outside his body, but the urgency is real, the panic is real, the absolute certainty that he cannot let her leave like this is real.
He hits the front door and yanks it open and the evening air hits his face, cool and sharp, and he sees her.
She's already halfway down the driveway, moving fast in her red jumper and black pencil skirt, her dark hair swinging with each step, her purse clutched against her side. The skirt restricts her movement slightly, forces her to take shorter steps than she probably wants to, and there's something about that, about the way she's trying to run but can't quite manage it, that makes his chest ache.
"Gwen!" he calls out, his voice rough and desperate and too loud for this quiet suburban street.
She doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Just keeps moving, her shoulders tense, her whole body radiating the need to get away from him, to put distance between them, to escape what just happened in his room.
He runs after her.
His sneakers hit the pavement and he's sprinting now, closing the distance between them, and he can hear his own breathing, harsh and ragged, can feel his heart pounding against his ribs, can feel the Valium making everything slightly surreal but not enough to dull the intensity of what he's feeling.
She reaches the sidewalk and turns left, heading toward the main road, and he's gaining on her, getting closer with every step.
"Gwen, wait!" he shouts again, and this time she does glance back, just for a second, and he sees her face, sees the tears streaming down her cheeks, sees the mascara smudged beneath her eyes, sees the expression of pure anguish, and it nearly stops him in his tracks.
But it doesn't. He keeps running.
He catches up to her three houses down from his own, his hand reaching out and grabbing her arm, not hard, not rough, just enough to make her stop, to make her turn around, to make her face him.
"Don't," she says, her voice breaking on the word. "Ben, don't."
But he's already pulling her toward him, his other hand coming up to cup her face, his thumb brushing away the tears on her cheek, and she's looking up at him with those green eyes, those beautiful, devastating green eyes, and he can see everything in them. The fear. The desire. The confusion. The love. The guilt. All of it, right there, laid bare for him to see.
"I can't let you leave like this," he says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears, thick with emotion, rough with need.
"You have to," she whispers. "Ben, you have to let me go."
"No," he says simply. "I don't."
And then he kisses her.
His mouth crashes against hers with an intensity that surprises even him, his lips pressing hard against hers, demanding, insistent, desperate. His hand slides from her cheek into her hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands, gripping, holding her in place, and his other hand moves to her waist, pulling her body flush against his.
For a moment, she's rigid against him, her body tense, her mouth unresponsive, and he thinks she's going to push him away, going to slap him, going to run, but then something breaks in her, something gives way, and she's kissing him back.
Her mouth opens beneath his and he tastes her, really tastes her, and it's better than he remembered, better than the brief kiss in his room, better than anything he's ever experienced. She tastes like mint and something sweet, something uniquely her, and he wants to drown in it, wants to lose himself completely in the sensation of her mouth moving against his.
His tongue slides against hers and she makes a sound, a small whimper that goes straight through him, that makes his body respond in ways he can't control. His hand tightens in her hair and he angles her head, deepening the kiss, taking more, needing more, and she lets him, her body melting against his, her hands coming up to grip his shirt.
He can feel every curve of her body pressed against him. The softness of her breasts against his chest, separated only by the thin fabric of her jumper and his t-shirt. The way her hips align with his, the way she fits against him like she was made for this, made for him. The warmth of her, the reality of her, the absolute perfection of having her in his arms like this.
His hand slides from her waist down to her hip, his fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt, and he pulls her even closer, eliminating any space between them, and she gasps into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
The kiss is messy, desperate, all-consuming. Their teeth clash slightly and he adjusts, his mouth moving over hers with more precision now, more control, and she follows his lead, matching his intensity, giving as good as she gets. Her tongue slides against his and he groans, the sound low and guttural, and he feels her shiver in response.
He walks her backward until her back hits a tree on someone's front lawn, the rough bark pressing against her through her jumper, and he presses his body against hers, pinning her there, his hips pushing forward instinctively, and she can feel him, he knows she can feel how hard he is, how much he wants her, and instead of pushing him away she arches into him, her body responding to his in ways that make his head spin.
His mouth moves from her lips to her jaw, kissing along the line of it, and she tilts her head back, giving him access, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He kisses down her neck, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, and she moans, the sound loud in the quiet evening air, and he doesn't care, doesn't care who might hear, doesn't care about anything except the feeling of her skin beneath his mouth.
"Ben," she breathes, and his name on her lips sounds like a prayer, like a curse, like everything he's ever wanted to hear.
His hand slides up from her hip, moving over her ribs, and he can feel her breathing, fast and shallow, can feel her heart racing beneath his palm. His thumb brushes the underside of her breast through her jumper and she gasps, her body jerking against his, and he does it again, more deliberately this time, and she makes that sound again, that whimper that drives him insane.
He brings his mouth back to hers and kisses her harder, deeper, his tongue exploring every inch of her mouth, memorizing the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she responds to him. Her hands move from his shoulders to his hair, her fingers threading through it, gripping, pulling slightly, and the small bite of pain only intensifies everything he's feeling.
He can feel her body trembling against his, can feel the way she's pressing back against him, the way her hips are moving slightly, unconsciously, seeking friction, seeking more, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to slide his hand up her skirt, not to touch her the way he's been fantasizing about for months.
His hand stays on her waist, his fingers digging into her hip, holding her against him, and he kisses her like he's trying to consume her, like he's trying to make her understand through physical sensation alone how much he needs this, needs her, needs them.
When they finally break apart, they're both breathing hard, their foreheads pressed together, their bodies still tangled together against the tree. Her lipstick is smeared across her mouth and he knows his lips must be stained with it, marked by her, claimed by her.
"We can't," she whispers, but her hands are still in his hair, still holding him close. "Ben, we can't do this."
"We just did," he says, his voice rough, his breath hot against her lips.
"That's not what I mean and you know it." She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at him, and her eyes are still wet with tears, still conflicted, still scared. "This is wrong."
The word hits him like a physical blow. Wrong. She thinks this is wrong.
"No," he says firmly, his hands tightening on her waist. "Don't say that."
"It is wrong, Ben." Her voice is stronger now, more insistent, even as her body remains pressed against his. "We're cousins. This is... God, this is so messed up."
"I don't care," he says, and he means it, he means it with every fiber of his being. "I don't care what we are. I only care about how I feel about you."
"You can't just ignore reality because you feel something," she says, and there's an edge to her voice now, frustration mixing with the fear. "There are rules, Ben. There are reasons those rules exist."
"Fuck the rules," he says, and his voice is harsh, angry, desperate. "Fuck what people think. Fuck what society says is acceptable. None of that matters."
"It does matter!" She pushes against his chest now, creating space between them, and he lets her, his hands falling away from her waist even though every instinct is screaming at him to hold on, to not let her go. "It matters because we have to live in the world, Ben. We have families. We have futures. We can't just... we can't just do whatever we want without consequences."
"I'll deal with the consequences," he says. "I don't care what happens. I don't care if everyone finds out. I don't care if they hate us. I just care about you."
She laughs, but it's a bitter sound, hollow and pained. "You say that now, but you don't understand what you're saying. You don't understand what it would mean."
"Then explain it to me," he challenges, taking a step toward her. "Tell me exactly what's so wrong about two people who love each other being together."
"We're related, Ben!" Her voice rises, sharp and anguished. "We share DNA. We grew up together. Our parents are siblings. That's what's wrong with it."
"That's just biology," he argues back. "That's just an accident of birth. It doesn't change how I feel. It doesn't make this," he gestures between them, "any less real."
"It makes it impossible," she says, and her voice breaks on the last word. "Don't you see that? Even if we wanted this, even if we both felt the same way, we could never actually be together. Not really. Not in any way that matters."
"Why not?" he demands. "Why can't we?"
"Because!" She's crying again now, tears streaming down her face, her whole body shaking. "Because we'd have to hide it forever. Because we could never tell anyone. Because every family gathering would be a lie. Because we could never get married, never have a normal life, never just... be."
"I don't need normal," he says, and he takes another step toward her, closing the distance she created. "I just need you."
"That's not enough, Ben." She wipes at her tears with the back of her hand, smearing her mascara further. "Love isn't enough when everything else is stacked against you."
"Yes it is," he insists. "It has to be."
"You're high," she says suddenly, and there's accusation in her voice now. "You're high right now, aren't you? That's why you're talking like this. That's why you chased me down the street and kissed me in front of God and everyone."
"I'm not that high," he says, even though he can still feel the Valium in his system, can still feel the slight disconnect between his thoughts and his actions. "And even if I was, it doesn't change anything. I've felt this way for months, Gwen. Long before I took anything tonight."
"That doesn't make it okay," she says. "That doesn't make it right."
"Stop saying that," he says, and there's anger in his voice now, real anger, hot and sharp. "Stop calling it wrong. Stop acting like what we feel is some kind of sickness."
"Isn't it?" she asks quietly. "Isn't that exactly what it is?"
The question hangs in the air between them, heavy and terrible.
"No," he says finally, his voice low and intense. "No, it's not. What we have is... it's the most real thing I've ever felt. It's the only thing that makes sense in my entire fucked-up life. And I refuse to believe that something that feels this right could actually be wrong."
"Feelings aren't facts, Ben," she says, but her voice is softer now, less certain. "Just because something feels good doesn't mean it is good."
"And just because society says something is wrong doesn't mean it actually is," he counters. "People used to think interracial relationships were wrong. They used to think same-sex relationships were wrong. They were incorrect about those things, and they're wrong about this too."
"That's not the same thing," she protests. "Those are completely different situations."
"Are they?" he challenges. "Or are they just different flavors of people being told they can't love who they love?"
"We're related," she says again, like if she repeats it enough times it will make him understand, make him agree, make him let her go. "That's not just a social construct, Ben. That's biology. That's genetics. That's real."
"So what?" he says. "So we share some DNA. So what? That doesn't change the fact that I love you. That doesn't change the fact that you love me too, even if you're too scared to admit it."
"I'm not scared," she says, but her voice wavers. "I'm being realistic."
"You're being a coward," he says, and he knows it's cruel, knows it's unfair, but he says it anyway because he's desperate, because he's losing her, because he can feel her slipping away and he doesn't know how to hold on.
Her hand comes up and slaps him across the face, hard, the sound echoing in the quiet street. His head snaps to the side and his cheek burns and for a moment they just stare at each other, both breathing hard, both shocked by the sudden violence.
"Don't you dare," she says, her voice shaking with rage. "Don't you dare call me a coward for trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing," he repeats, his hand coming up to touch his stinging cheek. "The right thing is walking away from me? The right thing is pretending this doesn't exist?"
"Yes," she says firmly. "Yes, that's exactly what the right thing is."
"I don't believe you," he says. "I don't believe you actually think that."
"I don't care what you believe," she says, but there's no conviction in her voice, no real strength behind the words.
"Yes you do," he says, taking another step toward her. "You care what I think. You care what I feel. You care about me, Gwen, whether you want to admit it or not."
"Of course I care about you," she says, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "You're my cousin. You're my family. I've known you my entire life. Of course I care about you."
"That's not what I mean and you know it," he says, echoing her words from earlier.
"I know," she whispers. "I know what you mean."
"Then say it," he demands. "Say you love me. Say you feel the same way I do."
"I can't," she says, shaking her head. "Ben, I can't say that."
"Why not?" he asks. "Is it because it's not true? Or is it because you're too scared to admit it?"
"Both," she says quietly. "Neither. I don't know. I don't know what I feel anymore. You've confused everything. You've made everything so complicated."
"I didn't make it complicated," he says. "It was always complicated. I just stopped pretending it wasn't."
"Maybe that was a mistake," she says. "Maybe some things are better left unsaid."
"No," he says firmly. "No, that's bullshit. Honesty is never a mistake."
"Even when it ruins everything?" she asks. "Even when it destroys relationships and breaks families apart?"
"It doesn't have to destroy anything," he argues. "We can figure this out. We can find a way to make it work."
"There is no way to make it work," she says, and there's finality in her voice now, a resignation that terrifies him. "There's no version of this where we get a happy ending, Ben. There's no version where this doesn't end in disaster."
"You don't know that," he says desperately. "You can't know that."
"Yes I can," she says. "Because I've thought about it, Ben. I've thought about it a lot. I've imagined what it would be like if we actually tried to be together, and every scenario ends the same way. With pain. With loss. With regret."
"You've thought about it," he repeats, latching onto that admission. "You've imagined us together."
She closes her eyes, like she's realized she's said too much. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything," he says. "It means I'm not crazy. It means this isn't just one-sided. It means you feel it too."
"Feeling something doesn't mean you should act on it," she says, opening her eyes again. "Adults learn to control their impulses. Adults learn to make responsible choices even when they don't want to."
"I don't want to be an adult if it means giving you up," he says, and he knows how childish it sounds, how immature, but he doesn't care.
"That's exactly my point," she says. "You're not thinking clearly. You're not considering the consequences. You're just... reacting. Feeling. Acting on impulse."
"And you're overthinking everything," he counters. "You're so busy worrying about what might happen that you're not letting yourself feel what's actually happening right now."
"What's happening right now is a mistake," she says. "What's happening right now is something we're both going to regret."
"I won't regret it," he says. "I could never regret this."
"You say that now," she says sadly. "But give it time. Give it a few days, a few weeks, and you'll see. You'll realize this was just... temporary insanity. A moment of weakness. Something you can move past."
"No," he says, and his voice is hard, unyielding. "No, I won't. This isn't temporary, Gwen. This isn't going away. I've tried to make it go away. I've tried to ignore it, to suppress it, to pretend it doesn't exist. And it doesn't work. It just gets stronger."
"Then you need to try harder," she says. "You need to find a way to get over this."
"Get over you?" he asks incredulously. "Just like that? Just decide to stop loving you?"
"People do it all the time," she says. "People get over unrequited love. People move on. People find other people."
"This isn't unrequited," he says. "You kissed me back, Gwen. Both times. You didn't push me away. You didn't say no. You kissed me like you meant it."
"I did mean it," she admits, and the confession seems to cost her something. "In that moment, I meant it. But that doesn't mean it was right. That doesn't mean we should do it again."
"Why not?" he asks. "If we both want it, if we both feel it, why shouldn't we?"
"Because wanting something doesn't make it okay," she says. "Because feelings aren't enough to justify actions. Because there are consequences to everything we do, and the consequences of this would be devastating."
"To who?" he demands. "Who would it hurt?"
"Everyone," she says. "Our parents. Our families. Ourselves. Everyone we know."
"Only if they find out," he says, and he knows it's the wrong thing to say even as the words leave his mouth.
"So your solution is to lie?" she asks. "To sneak around? To hide what we're doing from everyone we love?"
"If that's what it takes," he says. "Yes."
"That's not a life, Ben," she says. "That's not a relationship. That's just... prolonged suffering."
"Being without you is suffering," he says. "Everything else is just details."
"You're being dramatic," she says, but there's no heat in it, just exhaustion.
"I'm being honest," he corrects. "Maybe for the first time in my life, I'm being completely honest about what I want."
"And what you want is impossible," she says. "What you want is me, and you can't have me. Not in the way you're imagining. Not in any way that would actually work."
"I can have you," he says. "I just did. I kissed you and you kissed me back and for those few minutes, you were mine."
"That's not the same thing," she says. "A kiss isn't a relationship. A moment isn't a future."
"It's a start," he argues. "It's proof that this is possible."
"It's proof that we're both weak," she says. "It's proof that we both made a mistake."
"Stop calling it a mistake," he says, his voice rising again. "Stop diminishing what happened. Stop acting like it didn't mean anything."
"I'm not saying it didn't mean anything," she says. "I'm saying it can't mean what you want it to mean."
"Why not?" he asks again, and he knows he's repeating himself, knows he's going in circles, but he can't seem to stop. "Why can't it mean exactly what I want it to mean?"
"Because we're cousins!" she shouts, and her voice cracks on the word. "Because it's wrong! Because it's illegal in most places! Because it's taboo for a reason! Because even if we wanted to try, even if we were both willing to risk everything, it would never work! We could never be happy! We could never have a normal life! We could never just be together without constantly looking over our shoulders, without constantly worrying about who might find out, without constantly feeling guilty and ashamed!"
"I don't feel guilty," he says. "I don't feel ashamed. I just feel... alive. For the first time in months, I feel like I'm actually living instead of just existing."
"That's the drugs talking," she says dismissively.
"No," he says firmly. "That's you. That's what you do to me. That's what you've always done to me."
"Ben," she says, and her voice is pleading now, desperate. "Please. Please just let this go. Please just let me go."
"I can't," he says simply. "I've tried. I can't."
"You have to," she says. "For both our sakes, you have to."
"No," he says. "I don't. And neither do you. You can stay. You can give this a chance. You can stop running and just... be here. With me."
"I can't," she whispers. "Ben, I can't."
"Yes you can," he says, reaching for her again. "You just have to choose to."
She steps back, avoiding his touch. "I'm choosing to leave. I'm choosing to end this before it goes any further."
"It's already gone further," he says. "You can't undo what's already happened."
"I can try," she says. "I can pretend it didn't happen. I can move on. I can forget."
"You won't forget," he says with certainty. "Neither of us will. This is going to stay with us forever, whether you walk away now or not."
"Maybe," she concedes. "But at least if I walk away now, we'll both have a chance at normal lives. At normal relationships. At futures that don't involve hiding and lying and constant fear."
"I don't want a normal life if it doesn't include you," he says, and he means it, he means it so completely that it scares him.
"You'll change your mind," she says. "Give it time and you'll change your mind."
"I won't," he says. "I know myself, Gwen. I know what I want. And I want you."
"You want an idea of me," she says. "You want some fantasy version of me that doesn't actually exist."
"No," he says. "I want the real you. The you who laughs at my stupid jokes. The you who argues with me about everything. The you who knows me better than anyone else in the world. The you who kissed me back like you were drowning and I was air."
She flinches at that last part, like the memory physically hurts her.
"I have to go," she says, and she sounds exhausted now, defeated. "I have to go home."
"Don't," he says. "Please don't."
"I have to," she repeats. "This conversation is going nowhere. We're just going in circles. Nothing I say is going to change your mind, and nothing you say is going to change mine."
"Then don't change your mind," he says desperately. "Just... don't leave. Not yet. Not like this."
"How else am I supposed to leave?" she asks. "What other way is there?"
"There isn't," he admits. "But that doesn't mean you have to go."
"Yes it does," she says. "Ben, it really does."
She turns away from him, adjusting her jumper, smoothing down her skirt, trying to compose herself, trying to look like someone who didn't just have a breakdown on a suburban street.
"Gwen," he says, and his voice breaks on her name.
She pauses but doesn't turn around. "What?"
"I love you," he says. "I know you don't want to hear it. I know it makes everything harder. But I love you, and I need you to know that. I need you to know that this isn't just... lust or confusion or whatever you think it is. I love you."
She's quiet for a long moment, her back still to him, her shoulders tense.
"I know," she finally says, so quietly he almost doesn't hear it. "I know you do."
And then she walks away.
He watches her go, watches her red jumper disappear down the street, watches until she turns the corner and he can't see her anymore, and even then he stands there, frozen, unable to move, unable to process what just happened.
His lips still tingle. His body still aches for her. His heart still pounds in his chest.
And he knows, with absolute certainty, that this isn't over.
It can't be over.
He won't let it be over.