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Maysilee is falling behind.
Her and Merrilee have just turned nineteen. They’re finally aged out of the reaping, a gift she’s thankful to be graced with.
Life is stagnant. Still forced to work at the sweet shop, she’s feeling stuck. ‘A stagnant life is better than a forever death,’ she’d tell herself, grasping desperately at anything that could somehow make her life less boring.
Her best friend, Asterid, is always busy with Burdock, and Merrilee somehow allowed their mother to set her up with some town boy. An Undersee. He’s the only boy in the family, and luckily for Merrilee, he seems kind enough.
Maysilee isn’t lonely, per say— or, maybe she is. In all her life, she’s never felt the need for a romantic companion. It was a waste of time. They date, get married, then what? What if they end up hating each other? Divorce was extremely frowned upon in the districts. Even worse, what if she got set up with some boy she never even liked in the first place? And now that she thinks about it, does she have any real options? Her reputation isn’t exactly great, and most people tend to stay away from her.
It’s a lost cause.
Now, she sits in a circle outside the square.
It’s one of those rare occasions in Twelve where the smog isn’t so suffocating. Despite the annoying frizz it gave to her hair, the warmth held a nice breeze today.
Observing the familiar scenery around her, she tuned out the chatting of her friends. On this particular day, it’s just her, Asterid, Merrilee, Burdock, and Haymitch. Haymitch is babbling on about the next time Lenore Dove’s performing, assuring everyone will be there to hear her play. He talks about her beautiful voice. Although, according to him, she becomes too shy to sing in public, so her tunebox works just fine.
It only makes Maysilee feel more lonely.
Being in love is an unfamiliar feeling to her.
She’s snapped back into the conversation when Haymitch makes a noise of disgust, clearly eyeing someone.
“What is it?” Maysilee asks, leaning up to his height in an attempt to get a closer look.
“The boy walking into the bakery,” Haymitch says as he turns Maysilee’s head for her, pointing straight in the direction of the boy.
Shamelessly, the first thing Maysilee notices are the mystery boy’s biceps. Wow. In Maysilee’s humble opinion, for every hundred beautiful women, there’s one beautiful man. This beautiful boy is quite the rare find. Her gaze drifts up to the black hair sticking out of the back of his paperboy cap. Another thing she appreciates is a good hat. He held a blank gaze, and she found herself squinting at him to get a look at those dark eyes. Maysilee noted how black they were, no reflection of light. It’s something she’s never seen in Twelve, usually used to the light amber or blue eyes of the Merchant folk, and the silver eyes of the Seam people. Judging by the too big button up shirt and all the coal stains, this strange boy was definitely from the Seam.
Once he leaves her line of sight, bakery door closing behind him, Maysilee slowly turns her head to Haymitch, “Well, why’d you make that noise of disgust? His outfit isn’t that bad—“
Haymitch quickly shakes his head no, “When has anyone other than you ever cared what people wear ‘round here? His family’s scum.”
Maysilee just gives him a skeptical look. Out of Asterid’s new friends she’d acquired from Burdock, Maysilee had gotten closest to Haymitch. And in the time she’s now known him, she knows Haymitch typically knows all the district gossip.
“No, really, Maysilee,” Haymitch insists. “Cayson McCoy, my neighbor, he was talkin’ about how he was in the back shed at the Hob— where they do all the gambling and stuff. That guy’s whole family bets on everything. Including the Games.”
Merrilee leans into the conversation, eyebrows shooting up, “Like The Hunger Games? Ew. Who in their right mind bets on that stuff?”
Haymitch fervently nods, solidifying his statement, “Yep. His whole family. He’s got brothers who really get into it.”
“Have you ever even spoken to him?” Maysilee scoffs. “You can’t make an assumption about someone you’ve never even interacted with.”
“He’s always in the shed with them,” Haymitch pushes. “I’m telling you. What else would he be doing in there?”
“I don’t know! Maybe his family makes him, or something!” she attempts to reason, brows strung high as they do whenever she gets passionate about something. “Plus, I’ve never even seen him there. Trust me, I would’ve remembered.”
“Then come tonight,” says Haymitch. “Trust me, he’ll be there.”
“Fine,” Maysilee agrees with a small eye roll.
She hates the hob. The air is always thick enough to cut through, humidity making everyone smell like alcohol, puke, and wet dog. Not a good combination. Being around a bunch of drunk miners is definitely not how she wants to spend her Friday night. But then again, what else would she be doing?
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Come sundown, Maysilee’s in an ivy green dress, blonde hair pulled into pigtails accompanied by cream colored ribbons. She refuses to go into the sweaty Hob environment with her hair down. That’d be an absolute sensory nightmare. Her shiny black flats clack against the floor as she meets Haymitch at her front door.
“Where’s Lenore Dove?” Maysilee asks as she steps out into the night air, already having to swat mosquitos off her.
It’s only May, but the humidity feels like it’s increased tenfold this year. As if it were coming with a vengeance after the rough, snowy winter.
“She’s already at the Hob,” Haymitch explains, worn boots crunching the dirt path beneath them. “She’s gotta help her uncles with all the setup stuff—I said I’d help, but her uncles still gotta grow on me.”
Maysilee’s brow ticks up at that, “Haven’t you been together since y’all were ten?”
“…It’s a work in progress,” Haymitch mumbles, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
Outside the Hob, Haymitch points to one of the sheds, “That’s the gambling shed. Don’t go in alone, I’d imagine the guys in there are rough,” he warns. “Like, I’m talking big burly guys who are all smokin’ something and are all overly drunk—whatever, point is, if you’re gonna check it out, grab me or Burdock to go with you. Or even Cayson, I’m pretty sure he’s here tonight.”
Maysilee just nods, heading straight into the crowded Hob. She grimaces at the scent, nose scrunching in disgust. A man brushes past her, reeking of sweat and alcohol. His bare arm was sticky against hers, making her want to gag.
Yuck.
Haymitch guides her over to the group’s usual table, only consisting of Burdock and Asterid as of now.
“Wow. I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Asterid says, her soft voice and light blue dress a contrast to the environment around them.
Maysilee slides into the seat across from her, shrugging, “I said I would.”
About twenty suffering minutes go by before Maysilee can’t take it anymore. She really hates the Hob. Standing up, she pushes through the crowd of drunken men and women, finally making her way outside. Fresh air was a need. How could people enjoy it there? Is it really enjoyable, or is it just a distraction from their everyday life? If so, could they not find any better distraction? Maysilee does not get the appeal.
She leans against the side of the Hob, twiddling her thumbs, enjoying the fresh scent of the outdoors.
If by chance, the Callow boy she’d been ogling at earlier slips out of the gambling shed. His head is down, glued to the dirt and grass beneath him. The stance he holds is anything but confident. It was almost as if he were trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, physically curling into himself. That can’t be great for his posture.
He wears the same outfit as earlier. The only real difference is the way his hair stuck to his skin. If it were bad in the Hob, it must be miserably hot in the shed.
Just as she’s about to approach him, another man follows him out of the shed, pushing him into the wall of the Hob. The force of the push is so hard, it causes his cap to fall to the ground.
Maysilee’s never seen the guy before, but he’s certainly bigger than the boy. Taller, more muscular, and a whole lot older too. Maybe in his forties.
The mystery boy winces, hand flying up to the back of his head.
“You and your whole family oughta’ pay me every single coin back for what I lost, Wyatt,” the man hollers, gripping tight onto the poor boy’s shirt.
Wyatt. So that’s his name. If she weren’t watching him being manhandled right now, Maysilee would probably spend too long thinking about how nice the name is. A handsome name for a handsome boy.
“I didn’t give you those odds. Kennedy did,” Wyatt winces, struggling against the guy’s grip. “You shouldn’t have listened to him, he can’t do math—“
He’s cut off by another slam against the wall, “He said they were your numbers!”
“They weren’t,” Wyatt insists, breathing heavily.
At that moment, Maysilee snaps out of her daze, picking a broken glass up from the ground. Probably left by one of the many drunkards. Impulse control flying far out the window, Maysilee flings the glass straight at the man, surprisingly hitting him head on. Literally on his head.
The man clutches his forehead with a sharp groan, “What the hell?!”
Wyatt takes the distraction to run away, and Maysilee, having nowhere else to go, quickly follows. She runs after him into the woods, attempting to keep her footsteps light despite her heavy breathing. Now thinking about it, being alone in the woods with a boy she’s never even spoken to is not the best idea. But when she stops short, snapping a twig, Wyatt stops as well. Whipping his head back, he steps towards her grasping onto her wrist, only taking her deeper down the path.
“Where’re we goin’?” Maysilee asks, not making an attempt to pull away from him.
“Far away from Alder,” Wyatt answers, weaving them through the dense trees. “He’s gonna kill us if he finds us. Though, I don’t think he’s much of a runner. Odds of him catching us are about eighty-to-one, but I’d still like to put enough distance between us.”
Maysilee stares blankly at him, deciding on not speaking while they’re still in motion. She had way too many questions and needed to save her breath.
Once they finally come to a halt in a small clearing, Wyatt gets a good look at her. He holds a stoic look on his face, not revealing any emotion.
Quiet consumes them. The only sound coming from either of them is heavy breathing. Wyatt looks to be analyzing her, not loosening his grip on her wrist. His brows twitch into a small, curious frown, staring at her outfit. Maysilee was self aware enough to know she’s out of place from those at the hob. With her many intricate necklaces, colorful outfits, hair accessories, shiny shoes. It wasn’t exactly her goal to outdress everyone, knowing people who can barely afford to breathe shouldn’t be judged on their fashion. Limited options. It’s something she had to learn as she grew up. Don’t point out what people probably already know, especially if they can’t help it.
“You lost your hat,” is the first thing Maysilee blurts, pulling her wrist away from the warm embrace of his hand to tighten her pigtails.
Wyatt’s hand slips up to his hair, clenching the dark strands between his fingers, “Oh…” he mumbles.
“I’m Maysilee,” she introduces, reaching up to swipe a stray leaf out of his hair.
“I know,” Wyatt swallows, still attempting to steady his breathing. “I’ve seen you at school.”
“No. We weren’t in the same class.”
“But I saw you in the hallways. And one of my cousins was on the soccer team with you.”
“No way. I was on the team for like a month before my mother made me quit,” Maysilee huffs, cheeks slightly flushing at the thought of him remembering her.
Wyatt’s eyes flicker to the glint of her golden heart locket before meeting her face again, “Still remember you.”
When her eyes finally adjust to the darkness, she takes in how pained his expression is. He’s still gripping his head, still breathing heavily. All the questions she had planned to ask have left her brain upon noticing how hurt he is.
“Does your head hurt? You slammed it pretty hard.”
Wyatt just nods, grimacing.
“Bend your head forward,” she orders.
Despite the confusion, he listens, tilting forward for her.
A delicate hand touches the back of his head. Maysilee winces in sympathy when she feels the huge welt that’s already formed.
“You might be concussed,” she sighs. “My best friend works at the apothecary. If you stop there tomorrow morning, she’ll be working.”
Wyatt nods, “Thank you,” he mutters. It’s clear he’s not one to speak up. “You’re nice.”
A funny look crosses Maysilee’s face. That’s something she’s never heard before. Especially not from someone who remembered her from her school days.
When she doesn’t give a response, Wyatt tilts his head, “What? Did I say something wrong?”
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Maysilee shakes her head no, “No. Just never been told that before.”
Now Wyatt looks even more confused, “Oh. That’s odd,” is all he says, leaving it at that.
Once Wyatt judges it’s safe enough to walk freely without bumping into Alder, they emerge from the woods.
Before Maysilee could get a chance to give a proper goodbye, Haymitch bolts up to her, dragging her away. He goes on and on, reprimanding her for leaving alone— especially with a Callow. Especially without telling anyone
But all Maysilee could think about was the next time she’d get to see Wyatt again.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
When Wyatt finally gets home, his face is frozen in shock. Whether it be from the probably concussion or Maysilee, he didn’t know. But his mother definitely noticed it.
The sweet woman herself, Delilah Callow, sat awake in the living room, working on patching up the plenty of holes that always made their way into her sons and husbands clothes. On nights where they’d go to the Hob, Delilah tended to stay awake until she was sure all her boys got home safe. All her sons were old enough to defend themselves now, Wyatt being the youngest, but she couldn’t help but worry. She knew all too well how rowdy it could get over there.
“There’s some leftover stew on the stove, sweetheart,” Delilah says softly as Wyatt kicks off his shoes. “I left some bread out as well. Some if it’s gone bad, but you can always just cut off the moldy pieces.”
Wyatt’s mother was a warm woman. A good type of warm. The type that curls around you like steam from a fresh cup of tea. And she was as warm as she was observant. Her dark eyebrow ticks when she notices his lack of hat on Wyatt’s head.
“Where’s your hat?” she asks, sitting up in the tattered but comfortable chair.
“Oh,” Wyatt reaches up to his sweaty head for what feels like the millionth time that night. “Left it at the hob on accident,” he explains dismissively.
A skeptical hum escapes Delilah’s lips, but she doesn’t push. She knows how easily Wyatt shuts down when pushed too hard.
Wyatt avoids her gaze and walks into the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of stew. He does as she says, cutting off the moldy pieces on the bread. It’s something they’ve always had to do. Something he’s used to, despite how gross it may seem. When you’re hungry, you’ll eat just about anything.
Later that night, once he’s settled in bed, he finds himself unable to fall asleep.
Wyatt’s window is wide open, letting in the crisp night air. The crickets were chirping around his small home. It’s the only sound besides the creaking of the old house.
Despite the fresh air, Wyatt feels as if he couldn’t breathe. Thoughts continuously drifted back to Maysilee.
He knew of her reputation. Practically everyone in Twelve knew of the Donner twins, and it was very rare for them to be known for positive reasons. Catty might be a good word to describe them. It was mostly Maysilee who received the brunt of the criticism. The extent of Merrilee’s crimes were just being a bystander to the things Maysilee did.
But even then, Wyatt’s never directly seen Maysilee act in a way that was as deplorable as people said.
It’s not like he’d care even if he had seen it. He knew how people liked to talk in Twelve. Knew how people liked to provoke others.
Wyatt had quite the reputation himself.
From a young age, the type of things people said to him stuck.
Both his brothers, Kennedy and Beau, being older than him made him an immediate target at school. The older kids all knew what his family did.
Unlike Maysilee, who kept her head held high, Wyatt closed in on himself.
He never had any friends—none that he could actually talk to. No one other than his family. His eyes stayed trained on the ground whenever he walked just about anywhere. He didn’t talk to anyone while working in the mines unless he absolutely needed to. Wyatt was socially inept. Quiet as a mouse.
It’s not difficult for him to admit to himself how lonely he is. Wyatt knows he’s lonely. How could he not be? All he did was work and sleep, and while he wasn’t friends with anyone his age, he wasn’t completely blind to everyone getting married. Constantly, he heard them talking about it while he worked. People in Twelve got married young. Had kids young. They were starting whole families while Wyatt’s never even hugged a girl.
Tonight was the first time he’s purposefully felt the warmth of another girl.
Sure, he only grasped Maysilee’s wrist because they were running from a violent drunkard, but he still felt her, nonetheless.
Wyatt’s biggest fear was being creepy to a girl. Very aware of how much of a weird kid he was, he really hoped Maysilee didn’t take anything the wrong way. She definitely didn’t seem to. But it was hard not to notice how beautiful she was. How cool she was. That’s the only way he knew how to describe it. She threw a glass at a grown man’s head to protect a boy she’s never even met. Surely, she had to know of his occupation, right? She was standing right there as he walked out of the gambler’s shed. And yet she still helped him.
His cheeks burned and his heart rate picked up. How was he meant to sleep in these conditions? He was pretty positive he liked her. Is this how it’s supposed to feel?
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Another month goes by before Wyatt sees Maysilee again.
It’s not that he didn’t want to see her— quite the opposite, actually. He dreamed of her all the time.
But unsurprisingly, she was never at the Hob.
Whenever his pa forced him to work, Wyatt would stop inside before proceeding to the shed. Deep dark eyes scanned the inside, searching and hoping for any splash of color against all the dulls that revealed Maysilee to be there. But, alas, nothing. Every time he was forced into that environment, he remembered how much of a fresh breath of air Maysilee was. Quite literally. She smelled of something floral. Sandalwood too. The best way he could describe it was rich. Despite only coming into contact with her once, he was already addicted to the scent.
The rational part of his brain kept reprimanding him. Maybe Maysilee was just bored that night. She was a wealthy town girl who had nothing better to do at the moment. And even if she did truly find an interest in Wyatt, there’s no way she’d let it go any further than being cordial with one another. Again, she’s a wealthy town girl. Wyatt’s practically in the slums compared to her. Always covered in a layer of coal dust and sorrow.
If Wyatt ignored his brain, though, he felt a deep sense of longing. Originally, it had buried itself in his chest, causing that familiar giddy feeling of his heart racing. Over time, it spread to his stomach, his legs, his head— up until he was entirely consumed by her.
On every occasion where he was able to ignore all logic, it was a good feeling.
When else would Wyatt get to have something that made him feel so euphoric?
Although he knew the odds of anything going further with her were extremely slim, he allowed himself to dream. At least just for a little while.
On the day he actually got to see her, he was all jittery. Evidently enough, Wyatt wasn’t the best talker. What would he say to her? Part of him hoped she’d start the conversation.
The night prior, his pa paid him a pretty penny for oddsmaking. Having nothing better to spend it on, he opted for a bag of the specific chocolates he loved. The ones with the hazelnut filling.
As he walks through the door of the sweet shop, his eyes immediately catch onto Maysilee. She’s in a dashing pale yellow dress, a matching ribbon weaved into the small braid on the side of her head. An annoyed look was glued onto her face as she slowly organized jars of candies.
“Hi,” Wyatt utters, voice much less confident than he meant it to be.
Maysilee’s head whips towards him, eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “Wyatt,” she speaks, a bright smile tugging at her glossy lips. “How’s your head feeling?”
Wyatt’s own lips twitch upon seeing her angelic smile. He swallows hard before speaking, rolling his script coin between his fingers to help the right words find his tongue, “A lot better. ‘Was only really bad for about a week. I threw up nine times.”
He regrets saying that immediately. Was that too weird? It was definitely gross. The last thing Maysilee needed to know was how many times he puked because someone slammed his head into a wall. Okay, so not only is it gross, it’s embarrassing as well.
By some miracle, Maysilee isn’t weirded out. “That’s awful. My pa once got a concussion falling off a ladder in the storage room. From what I’ve seen, they’re anything but fun,” she says sympathetically. “Anyway! What’re you looking for?”
Wyatt rocks on his heels for a moment before answering, “Just a scoop of the hazelnut chocolates. Please.”
Maysilee nods, grabbing what he requested.
“You haven’t been to the Hob,” Wyatt stammers when the silence gets to be too much for him. Normally, quiet was a welcome gift. It allowed Wyatt to think, focus, and really do just about anything. It was rare too. His house was usually clattered with Beau and Kennedy’s loud voices, or his pa’s drunken rambling. But now, all he wanted to do was hear Maysilee’s voice. Commit it to memory and lock it away in his heart.
“Ugh, I hate it there,” Maysilee remarks, nose scrunching in disgust.
Wyatt takes in the freckles on her face before shaking his head, “I do too.”
That causes Maysilee to snort, “Then why do you go?”
“My pa makes me,” he responds, not wanting to delve any further.
To his delight, Maysilee doesn’t press, just hands him his bag of chocolates.
Wyatt gives a shy goodbye and turns to leave, instantly regretting not staying longer.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Haymitch is going to kill Maysilee when he finds out about this.
The sun is hanging low, providing a relief from the heat that consistently hangs over the district during summertime.
Maysilee’s lavender dress is flowing in the wind behind her as she rides her bicycle through the thick of the Seam.
She knows Haymitch means well. He’d rarely do anything to intentionally set her off, but she cannot stand his disdain for Wyatt. And it wasn’t just him—it was Burdock too. Cayson McCoy has a way about him. He’s loud and rowdy and gambles on the “right” things, but he’s charismatic. That boy can convince anyone of anything. It’s partially the reason Haymitch and Burdock disliked Maysilee so heavily at first. Sure, she told Cayson’s sister she looked as if she used coal dust as powder, but they were kids! And it’s not like she was wrong.
The point is, Maysilee sees herself in Wyatt. She couldn’t help but feel pity for the boy. And in this moment, she’s on her way to his house.
After managing to get the address of the Callow residence from Burdock, she decided she couldn't wait another month to see Wyatt in the sweet shop. And there was no way she was going back to the Hob. The stench still haunts her memory, causing her to gag at just the thought of it. Repulsive.
When she knocks on the door, Delilah Callow opens up. “Hello,” she answers, brows slightly furrowed.
“Hi,” Maysilee chirps, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “Is Wyatt home?”
Evidently, that’s quite a bombshell to Delilah. Her youngest son has never had anyone at the door for him. After the phase of initial shock passes, her eyes shine in delight. “He’s in his room taking a nap. I’ll go grab him for you, sweetie.”
While Delilah wakes Wyatt from his stupor, Maysilee takes in the exterior of the Callow home. One of the windows is broken, held together by some duct tape. The dark wood on the outside is peeling, and the porch Maysilee’s standing on is creaky and worn.
It was uncommon for Maysilee to ever go into the Seam. The only occasion being when she was sent by her pa to hand-deliver sweets.
She wondered if the Capitol people could even survive three hours living in Twelve. And that’s on the rich side of the district. Sometimes, the off-duty Peacekeepers would trade Capitol magazines to curious people in the town square. Maysilee had taken a look at one, disgusted by not only the fashion, but the words in them. “New diet drink! Makes you vomit what you ate to stuff down more delicious food!” She wonders how the treatment of the districts doesn’t kill their appetite—the anger she feels surely kills hers.
Maysilee’s taken out of her thoughts when a sleepy Wyatt stands in the doorway. His hair is mussed, slightly curling from the heat. He must’ve been asleep for a while judging by the sheet creases in his face. The sight of embarrassment on his features makes Maysilee’s lips curve up in an amused smile. Wyatt’s dressed in a too big t-shirt and a pair of flour sack shorts. Regardless of the awful outfit, Maysilee still found him adorable.
“I have your hat,” Maysilee says, voice strained as she reaches over to grab the hat out of her bicycle basket.
Wyatt’s eyes flutter, long lashes fanning his cheeks. She wanted more than anything to reach out and trace every delicate feature of his face.
“Thank you,” Wyatt says. His voice was rough from having just woken up. He rubs his eyes before taking the hat from her. “…Do you wanna come in?”
Maysilee’s mouth falls open at his offer. Without thinking twice, she nods, following him inside.
Wyatt’s bedroom is small, but personalized enough to tell it was his. A bunch of notepads sat on top of his desk, organized in such a way that almost made Maysilee want to take inspiration for her own room.
“Your necklaces are really pretty,” Wyatt remarks, staring at the jewelry that draped her neck. “Where do you get them from? I never see people trading stuff that beautiful.”
The tips of Maysilee’s ears flush at the compliment. She took great pride in her jewelry craft, and knew good and well how talented she was at it. But it still felt nice to hear it. “I make them myself,” she says, fingers reaching up to fidget with her necklaces. “They’re how most people tell Merrilee and me apart nowadays.”
Wyatt frowns, “You’re slightly shorter than Merrilee. You also have more freckles. That’s how I can tell you apart.”
That’s a shock in itself. Maysilee’s unsure if Wyatt’s just lying to make her feel good, but having at least one person who cares enough to really give her individuality—it makes her feel like she’s soaring.
Wyatt’s standing close to her. Maybe he’s still half asleep and doesn’t realize what he’s doing, but he surely seems awake enough. There’s a slight shake in his hand when he reaches for the necklace with the heart shaped vial, “You’re really clever.”
“Thanks. That one’s for perfume touchups.”
Maysilee just about passes out when Wyatt’s dark eyes flicker up to her face. He really was a sight for sore eyes.
Then, her restraint snaps.
In an instant, her lips are on his.
It’s soft and inexperienced, most definitely not heated and heavy.
Wyatt’s warm, trembling hands fall onto her waist. His touch is light as a feather, as if he were scared to hold her any tighter. Though it's clear he wants to.
Maysilee’s hand slides up the back of his neck, gently tugging at the hair at his nape. She feels the goosebumps rise on his skin.
His lips are warm and slightly chapped, but move against hers in perfect fluidity. All she wants out of this moment is to melt into this boy completely.
Her free hand caresses the soft skin on his face, admiring the lack of facial hair.
Sometimes, Asterid would complain about Burdock’s stubble getting too long. It scratched up her face like crazy, and really drove her mad.
Upon pulling apart, Wyatt can’t help but press a few extra kisses onto Maysilee’s cheek, causing her to blush even more.
“I wanna see you more often,” Maysilee says, voice breathless.
Wyatt’s catching his breath as well, chest rising and falling in quick motions, “Are you sure? I’m— I work for the gamblers.”
“I know.”
“And I’m Seam.”
“I know.”
“Your parents will kill you.”
“My papa loves everybody.”
“And your friends?”
“They’ll live.”
“You’re sure?” Wyatt pushes, needing final confirmation that she’s actually okay with this.
Maysilee groans, “Yes, Wyatt.”
“I was just checking—“
His words are muffled by Maysilee kissing him once again, needing desperately for him to believe her.
She wants him more than she’s wanted anything in the world.
Maysilee used to dread the repetitiveness of everyday life. The lack of freedom was suffocating her. But Wyatt was the cure to it all. He was something she had a choice in. Something she desired so strongly, it didn’t matter where she was or what she was doing. As long as she was with him, she’d be happy.
It’s what she’s unknowingly been dreaming of her whole life.
And now she has him.