What If We Tried Again: Chapter Three - Cornered in the Dark

The wedding is a blur of noise and strangers, but in a shadowed alcove away from the prying eyes of their friends, the "What Ifs" finally catch up to them. No more running.

Chapter Three

Cornered in the Dark

 Jude

The world narrows down to the rough silk of Hayes’s tie clenched in my fist and the heat radiating off him. I don’t think. I can’t think. If I let a single logical thought into my brain, I’ll remember the eighteen months of silence. I’ll remember the way I stared at my phone for hours, waiting for a text that never came. I’ll remember the hollow, echoing sound of my apartment after he packed his cameras and his restlessness and left.

But right now, the only thing that matters is the way he looks at me—like I’m the only thing in this overcrowded ballroom that isn’t a blur. His eyes are dark, searching, and filled with a desperation that mirrors my own.

"Stay," I whisper, the word catching in my throat. "Don't you dare stop, Hayes."

I don't wait for him to bridge the gap. I pull him those last few inches, and when his lips finally crash against mine, it’s not the soft, tentative reunion I’ve seen in movies. It’s a collision. It’s a desperate, messy attempt to reclaim everything we lost. It’s a riot of need that has been suppressed for over five hundred and forty days.

Hayes groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire frame. His hands slide from my face to my waist, his fingers digging into my sides, pulling me so flush against him that I can feel the erratic, thundering of his heart. It’s the same rhythm as mine. It always has been. He tastes like the expensive champagne and the peppermint he always chews when he’s nervous. It’s the taste of my entire twenties—the taste of every late-night argument and every early-morning apology. It makes my knees go weak, and for a second, I’m grateful for the wall at my back.

I pull him further into the shadows of the alcove, wanting to hide us from the three hundred people just a few feet away. My hands leave his tie and find his hair, my fingers tangling in the dark strands I’ve spent a year and a half trying to forget the texture of.

He’s here. He’s solid. He’s mine, even if just for this stolen, frantic minute.

"Jude," he gasps against my lips, his grip on my hips tightening until it’s almost painful. "God, J."

The nickname should sting. It should feel like a violation of the boundaries I’ve worked so hard to build. But right now, it feels like a brand. It feels like he’s reclaiming the parts of me I tried to bury, the parts I tried to give away to people who didn't know how to hold them.

We’re both breathless when he finally pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and blown out. His tie is a mess, his hair is ruffled, and his lips are swollen from me. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—a masterpiece of ruin that I caused.

"We can't do this here," I say, my voice trembling, my lungs burning for air. I’m hyper-aware of the crowd again, the clink of glasses, the laughter that feels like it’s mocking the wreckage of my heart. "People are... they’re going to see. Chloe is already watching us like a hawk."

"Let them," Hayes says, his thumb tracing the curve of my bottom lip, his touch heavy and possessive. "I don’t care about Chloe or Leo or anyone else in this room. I’ve spent eighteen months caring about what I should do, what I was supposed to feel. I’m done with it."

"I do," I say, trying to find some semblance of the partner I’m supposed to be, the man who has a career and a life that doesn't revolve around a photographer with wanderlust. "I have a reputation to maintain, Hayes. I’m a professional. I don't get cornered in alcoves at weddings."

He lets out a short, huffed laugh, a flash of the old Hayes—the one who pushed my buttons just to see the sparks, the one who loved to see me lose my composure. "A professional? Is that what you call this? Because you look pretty unprofessional with your hands buried in my hair and your chest heaving like you just ran a marathon."

The teasing tone makes a different kind of heat flare in my gut. It’s the spark of the challenge. The right person, wrong time angst is still there, thick and heavy, but beneath it, the flirting—the sharp, possessive energy that always defined our best nights—is waking up. It’s a muscle memory I didn't know I still had.

"You’re an asshole," I mutter, though I don't let go of him. I slide my hands down to his shoulders, gripping the expensive wool of his suit.

"And you're a partner at your firm," he counters, stepping even closer, his thigh sliding between mine in a move that is purely, intentionally provocative. "Does the partner want to go back to Table Nine and watch Cami try to put her hand on my leg again? Does he want to watch her flirt with the 'realist' who doesn't do romance?"

The mention of Cami makes my vision go red for a second. I remember the way she looked at him, the way she assumed he was available just because there wasn't a ring on his finger or a person by his side. She saw the surface; she didn't see the scars he left on me.

"She was very interested in your perspective," I say, my voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, dangerous thing. I let my hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard, familiar muscle beneath the charcoal wool. I linger over his heart, feeling it jump under my palm. "Maybe you should go back and tell her more about Berlin. I’m sure she’d love to hear about all those ghosts. Maybe she can be your new ghost."

Hayes grins, a slow, predatory thing that makes my stomach flip. He knows exactly what I’m doing. He knows the jealousy is a confession. "Are you jealous, Jude? It’s a good look on you. Makes your eyes go dark. Makes you look like you might actually bite."

"I’m not jealous," I lie, my fingers finding the top button of his waistcoat and giving it a sharp, meaningful tug. "I just think she has terrible taste in men. And I hate to see a perfectly good wedding ruined by bad taste."

"Is that so?" Hayes leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, his stubble grazing my skin. His breath is hot, sending a shiver straight down my spine that settles deep in my marrow. "Because you used to tell me my taste was the only thing about me that was perfect. Especially when it came to you. You used to say I was the only one who saw the real you."

The arrogance of him should be annoying, but it’s so familiar it feels like home. I lean my head back against the wall, looking up at him through my lashes, challenging him to keep going. The "what if" is still screaming, but for the first time, it’s not a question of if we can do this. It’s a question of how much we can burn before we get caught.

"I might have been biased," I whisper. "I was young and impressionable. I didn't know any better."

"You were never impressionable, Jude," Hayes says, his hand sliding up my side, his palm flat against my ribs, feeling the way I expand and contract with every ragged breath. "You were always the boss. You just let me think I was in charge because it kept me entertained."

He’s right. We were a power struggle that neither of us wanted to win because the fight was the only thing that made us feel alive. We were two fires trying to outburn each other.

The music changes again—something fast and loud, a bass-heavy track that brings a roar from the dance floor. It’s the cue for the "younger" crowd to really start drinking, for the ties to come off and the decorum to vanish.

"Jude! There you are!"

We both jump, springing apart like teenagers caught behind the gym. I feel the cold air rush into the space between us, and I hate it. It’s Leo, looking slightly disheveled and very drunk, swaying toward us with a bottle of beer in his hand and a lopsided grin on his face.

"Hey, Leo," I say, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I try to smooth down my hair with one hand while Hayes frantically adjusts his tie, looking everywhere but at our friend.

"I was looking for you guys," Leo says, grinning broadly. He doesn't seem to notice the charged, electric atmosphere or the fact that we’re standing in a dark alcove together, looking like we just stepped out of a storm. "Table Nine is a ghost town. Cami is looking for you, Hayes. She wants to do shots. She says you’re intriguing."

Hayes clears his throat, his face a mask of polite indifference that I know is a total lie. "Actually, Leo, I think Jude and I were just about to head out. The noise is getting to be a bit much."

Leo’s eyes go wide, his brows shooting up into his hairline. "Already? The party’s just starting! We haven't even done the late-night poutine bar yet. You can't miss the poutine, man."

"I have a... headache," I say, reaching for the first excuse I can find. I rub my temple for added effect. "The lights. Too much champagne. And Hayes was just being a gentleman and offering to call me a car. He’s always been... helpful."

Hayes looks at me, a flicker of genuine amusement—and something hotter—in his eyes. "A gentleman. Right. That’s me. Always looking out for the welfare of others."

Leo looks between us, his drunken brain finally catching on to the static in the air, the way we’re standing just a little too close, the way our eyes keep snapping back to each other. A slow, knowing, slightly mischievous smile spreads across his face. "Oh. Oh. Right. A headache. Yeah, those are the worst. Very sensitive things, heads. You guys should definitely go. Get some... rest. A lot of rest."

He winks—an exaggerated, ridiculous movement—and claps me on the shoulder with enough force to make me stumble. "Good to have him back, man. Seriously. Don't let him get away this time. Some things are worth the fight."

The air leaves my lungs. Don't let him get away this time.

Leo stumbles back toward the dance floor, shouting for Chloe, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in his wake. Hayes doesn't look at me immediately. He’s staring at the spot where Leo was standing, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"He’s drunk," I say softly, the words feeling inadequate.

"He’s right," Hayes says. He turns back to me, and the playful, flirting energy is gone, replaced by something much more intense. Much more dangerous. The "What if we tried again" isn't a question anymore; it’s a demand. "I’m not running this time, J. I don't care about the car. I don't care about the poutine. I’m taking you home."

"Hayes—"

"No," he says, stepping back into my space, his hand finding the back of my neck and pulling me forward until our noses touch. "No more 'What Ifs'. No more 'Maybe later'. I’ve spent over five hundred days wondering what it would be like to have you in my bed again. I spent every night in Berlin staring at the ceiling and picturing this. I’m not waiting another five minutes."

The bluntness of it makes my blood roar. It’s the raw, unfiltered honesty I always craved from him. This is the Hayes I fell in love with—the one who knew what he wanted and went after it with everything he had, consequences be damned.

"I have a room," I whisper, the confession feeling like a total surrender of my pride. "In the hotel wing. Chloe insisted on booking it for the wedding party so we wouldn't have to drive. It’s... it’s just down the hall."

Hayes’s eyes darken, a predatory, hungry gleam taking over his expression. "Show me. Now."

We walk through the ballroom, but it feels like we’re moving through a different dimension. The lights are too bright, the music too loud, the people too many. I can feel everyone’s eyes on us, or maybe it’s just my own guilt screaming at me. I see Cami at the bar, looking around the room with a frown, but we’re already halfway to the glass doors that lead to the hotel corridor. We’re ghosts in the making.

The moment the doors click shut behind us, the noise of the wedding dies down to a distant, muffled hum. The hallway is long, carpeted in a deep burgundy that swallows the sound of our footsteps. The air is cooler here, smelling of industrial cleaner and stale air, but all I can smell is Hayes.

I reach into my pocket, my fingers trembling so violently I almost drop the key card. I don't look at him. I can’t. If I look at him, I’ll lose it right here in the hallway, and I still have a shred of dignity left. I can feel him behind me, a silent, powerful presence that makes every hair on my body stand on end. He’s like a storm front moving in.

We reach Room 412. I swipe the card. The light flickers green, a tiny beacon of permission.

The door hasn't even fully closed behind us before Hayes has me pinned against it.

The sound of the lock clicking into place is the loudest thing in the room. His hands are everywhere—on my waist, in my hair, gripping my shoulders as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s kissing me again, but this time it’s different. It’s not a question anymore. It’s possessive. It’s hungry. It’s eighteen months of starvation coming to an end.

"Tell me you want this," he growls against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right below my ear, sending a jolt of pure electricity through me. "Tell me you want me, Jude. Tell me I’m not dreaming this."

"I want you," I choke out, my head falling back against the wood of the door, my eyes fluttering shut. I reach for his jacket, pulling it off his shoulders, needing to get past the layers of wool to the man underneath. "I’ve never stopped wanting you, you idiot. Every single day."

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his breathing heavy and ragged. He looks like a man who’s finally found his way back to the light after a long, grueling journey in the dark.

"Good," he says, his voice a low, dark promise that makes my heart stop. "Because I’m going to make sure you never forget it again. I’m going to make sure you never want anyone else."

He lifts me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carries me toward the bed in the center of the room.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: One dance wasn’t enough. One kiss is a revolution.

The Trope: Secret Encounter / Jealousy

The Thought: This is where the power shift happens. The arrival of Cami forces Jude’s hand, turning his bitterness into a fierce, possessive need to reclaim what was once his. It’s the breaking point—the moment where the social expectations of the wedding party die and their private history takes over.

The Question: Is jealousy a "red flag" or a "green flag" for you when it’s written this intensely?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix