ENZO
TRISTAN.
THE NAME cracked through the haze like a bullet, sharp enough to tear me out of whatever drunken fog I’d been drowning in. My chest locked. For a heartbeat I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t think.
My arms were full of heat, of a body that didn’t belong to me, and my rut was already simmering close enough under my skin that I couldn’t tell if the burn in my blood was lust or memory. I’d reached without thinking, chasing something I shouldn’t, and for a fleeting second it had felt almost right.
Then I saw the mirror.
Not Tristan.
The boy staring back at me wasn’t him. It was Tate—jaw tight, hands fisted on the porcelain sink, his chest rising too fast as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. His eyes cut into mine through the reflection, furious and confused, and
