Always Was, Always Will - Part Two: Section One: Under Watchful Eyes

Some loves are safe. Some loves are steady. And some are the kind you’re never supposed to touch—because they’ll burn you alive.

Almost Was, Always Will is a forbidden love story about coming home, facing the past, and the dangerous pull between comfort and fire.

Part Two – Section One: Under Watchful Eyes

Two brothers. One forbidden choice. And a past that refuses to stay buried.

Everly

By the time the weekend rolls around, it feels like the entire town knows I’m back. I wasn’t planning on showing up anywhere just yet, but Matt caught me in the kitchen last night, leaning against the counter after I cleaned my dish, with that easy grin, and said I had no choice. “You’re coming to the cookout, Evie. Rite of passage. Everyone will want to see you.”

And now here I am, paper plate in hand, surrounded by the same faces who watched me grow up on this lawn.

It’s exactly how I remember it, paper plates bending under the weight of potato salad, kids chasing each other barefoot across the grass, music spilling from an old speaker that crackles at the high notes. The same families are here, the same neighbors who watched me grow up here. Only now they’re watching me with a different kind of interest.

“Doesn’t it feel just like old times?” Mrs. Carmichael beams at me, eyes darting between me and Matt like she’s already writing our love story all over again. “You two always were the perfect pair.”

I smile politely, but the words land heavy. Perfect pair. Like it’s that simple. Like years and choices and heartbreak don’t matter when the town wants a fairytale ending.

I catch the tilt of heads, the not-so-subtle smiles, the way someone elbows Matt like they’re in on a joke. Everyone here already knows the ending they want for us.

Matt doesn’t seem to mind. He slips his hand lightly against the small of my back, steering me toward a group gathered around the grill. He laughs easily, filling in the blanks when I falter, like he’s determined to prove we still fit together. And the truth is… we do. At least on the surface.

But every time I glance across the yard, I find Dean.

He’s not mingling, not laughing. Just leaning against the porch rail with a beer in his hand, watching the chaos with that same unreadable expression. His eyes flick to mine once, brief but enough to make my stomach knot. He doesn’t look at me like the rest of them do. Not with nostalgia or with expectation. His gaze is sharp, questioning, as if he knows exactly what I’m trying so hard to pretend.

The weight of the stares presses down harder than the summer heat. I can play the role they want, Matt’s girl, the happy ending they’ve been waiting for, but I feel the crack in it already.

Because Matt may be the story they all believe in.

But Dean is the secret I can’t stop remembering.

Matt finds me by the drink table, rescuing me from a conversation with Mrs. Carmichael about how many kids she thinks I would have by now if Matt and I were still together. He slides in beside me with a wink, handing me a bottle of water like he’s been doing it my whole life.

“You still hate sweet tea, huh?”

I smile, twisting the cap. “Some things don’t change.”

“Plenty of things do,” he says, leaning back against the table, close enough that our arms brush. “Remember the summer you swore you’d leave this place and never look back? Said you’d rather choke on city smog than ever drink sweet tea again?”

I laugh, the sound surprising me. “That was your fault. You and Lila thought it was hilarious to dare me to chug that gallon jug.”

His grin is boyish, unguarded. “I don’t regret it. You turned purple. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The memory warms me more than it should. It’s easy with him, always has been. The years between us blur when he looks at me like that, like no time has passed.

He reaches for my hand without thinking, thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that feels achingly familiar. “Feels like you never left, Evie.”

For a second, I let myself believe it. The chatter around us fades, the laughter and clatter of plates dissolving until it’s just him and me, the boy I once thought I’d marry.

The music shifts, something slow drifting from the old speaker, and Matt leans in just a little closer. His lips graze my cheek, too near my mouth to be accidental. My pulse jumps, and before I can stop it, he closes the space, soft, tentative, a kiss that tastes like memory.

His hand slides to the small of my back, holding me in place as if afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. For a moment, I melt into it, into the familiarity of his mouth, the gentleness of it. I remember long drives with his hand tangled in mine, whispered promises in the dark, the future we planned without ever questioning it. It’s all here, wrapped up in this kiss.

Maybe this is the future they all imagined for me, the kids Mrs. Carmichael imagined, white picket fences, but even with Matt’s lips on mine, it doesn’t feel like enough.

It’s sweet. Safe. Everything I thought I wanted once.

But when he pulls back, smiling like he’s just reclaimed something lost, all I can think is how it doesn’t burn.

It’s almost right. Almost enough.

And almost is cruel, because it makes me wonder if I could live on safety alone, if I could trick myself into believing comfort is the same as fire.

And almost isn’t what keeps me awake at night.

The night winds down with the usual small-town rhythm, kids collected, folding chairs stacked, casserole dishes returned with promises of “next time.” I slip away from the chatter, stepping onto the porch. The air is cooler out here, thick with cut grass and charcoal smoke, still heavy with summer. I drag in a breath anyway, lungs tight, like even the night knows I’m not supposed to be here.

I’m not alone.

Dean leans against the railing, half in shadow, the glow from the porch light catching the edge of his jaw. He doesn’t move when I step out. Doesn’t even look at me right away. Just takes a slow sip from his bottle, eyes fixed on the yard like he’s waiting for me to speak first.

“You always were the broody one,” I say, aiming for lightness. My voice wavers anyway.

Finally, his gaze cuts to mine. Sharp. Direct. It pins me in place, like he’s peeling back every excuse I’ve rehearsed since I got here. My fingers curl tighter around the railing, nails pressing into the wood I can’t seem to let go of. 

“And you always filled the silence. Guess some things don’t change.”

The words shouldn’t sting, but they do. I cross my arms, leaning beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. The distance between us hums like a live wire.

“You could at least pretend you’re glad I’m back,” I murmur.

Dean’s laugh is low, humorless. “Glad? That’s one word for it.”

My stomach knots. I want to ask what the other words are, but the look in his eyes already answers. Complicated. Dangerous. Forbidden.

A moth beats against the porch light, frantic wings tapping glass. Dean shifts closer, his hand brushing against mine on the railing. The touch is accidental, it has to be, but neither of us moves. His knuckles graze mine, rough and warm, and the heat of it shoots straight through me.

My body betrays me, swaying toward him before my brain can stop it, as if the space between us has its own gravity

 My pulse ricochets in my throat, my breath stutters, and still I don’t pull away. It feels indecent, standing here with his hand pressed so close to mine, like we’ve already crossed a line even without kissing.

“Evie.” My name in his mouth is different, rough, threaded with something unspoken.

His breath ghosts across my cheek, warm and unsteady, carrying the faint bite of beer. I swear I can feel the shape of his mouth before it even touches mine, the air between us so thin it hums. For one dizzy second, I want to close the gap, to taste the fire I’ve denied for years.

But I don’t. He doesn’t.

Dean pulls back first, jaw tight, eyes darker than the night around us. The space between us floods with everything we didn’t say.

Inside, I can still hear Matt’s laugh, steady and safe.

But out here, with Dean’s heat lingering on my skin, safety feels like the last thing I want.

The house is quiet after the crowd leaves, only the faint hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence. I slip into the kitchen to rinse my glass, grateful for a moment to breathe. My nerves are frayed from smiling too long, pretending too much.

I sense him before I see him.

Dean steps out of the shadowed hallway, moving with that same controlled tension that always makes me feel like he’s holding back more than anyone realizes. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, gaze pinned on me like I’m the only thing left in the room.

My fingers fumble with the glass, slippery under the water, and I set it down harder than I probably should. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he says, voice low, roughened by something that doesn’t sound like anger.

I turn, and suddenly he’s closer than I expect, close enough that the counter presses against my back, close enough that his scent wraps around me: soap, beer, the sharp edge of something entirely him.

“Dean—”

The word barely leaves my lips before his mouth is on mine.

It’s nothing like Matt’s soft, tentative kiss. Dean devours. His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been starving for years, and I’m the only thing left to feed on. His hands frame my face, calloused thumbs dragging against my jaw as if he’s memorizing the shape of me, branding me into his skin.

My gasp parts my lips, and he takes full advantage, tongue sliding against mine, rough and unrelenting. The taste of him, beer, heat, and want floods my senses until thought is impossible.

I should stop him. Push him away. Remind us both of the line we can’t cross. But I don’t. My fingers curl into his shirt instead, clutching fabric like I’ll fall apart if I let go.

The counter digs into my hips as he presses closer, chest solid, heartbeat pounding against mine. His body cages me in, a wall of muscle and heat, leaving me nowhere to run and no desire to try. One hand drops, skimming down my side with deliberate slowness, each inch of contact sparking fire in my veins. He grips my waist, hard, like he owns the right to hold me this way. The pressure makes me whimper, a sound that betrays everything I swore I wouldn’t feel.

Heat unfurls low in my stomach, molten and consuming, every nerve lit and screaming more. His teeth catch my bottom lip, biting just enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue, and the sharp contrast sends a rush straight between my thighs.

When I moan into him, it’s reckless. His hand slips beneath the hem of my shirt, palm hot against my bare stomach. The rough drag of his skin over mine makes me shudder, arching into him before I can think better of it. His fingers splay wide, traveling upward until they brush the edge of my bra, and my whole body jerks like he’s found the secret I’ve been hiding.

It’s raw. Needy. Messy. The kind of kiss that isn’t just want… it’s a confession. It’s years of silence and denial breaking all at once.

And then he rips himself away, forehead pressed to mine, both of us gasping like we’ve surfaced from drowning. His breath scorches my lips, still close enough to steal another kiss, and I almost do.

“You think you can keep pretending,” he rasps, voice shredded, eyes burning into mine. “But I’ve wanted you all along.”

My chest heaves, lips swollen, skin still buzzing everywhere he touched me, and I can only watch as Dean tears himself away, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen without another word.

Matt is safe. Matt is steady.

But this—Dean—is fire.

I grip the edge of the counter after he’s gone, knuckles white, chest heaving like I just ran a race I never agreed to. My lips still throb, swollen from his kiss, and my skin hums with every place his hands touched. The air feels thick, clinging, impossible to breathe.

I should hate myself for letting it happen. For wanting it. For leaning into every forbidden second. But instead I stand here, trembling, wishing he hadn’t stopped.

The kitchen feels too small, too full of memory, so I force myself back into the living room. Matt is there, easy smile still in place as he collects empty cups and folded napkins. He looks up at me like nothing in the world has changed.

But it has.

I cross my arms to hide the way my body still shakes, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from tasting Dean on my lips. Matt brushes past me with a plate in hand, steady and familiar, and for a fleeting second I almost believe I can step into the life everyone wants for us.

Almost.

But when I sink onto the couch, I feel it, the scorch of Dean’s hands still imprinted on my skin. The sound of his voice in my ear, ragged and raw, refusing to fade.

Something broke tonight.

And I know deep down there’s no way to piece it back together without shattering everything else.