Lance Thornton

You weren’t even officially dating the guy from your university—just seeing where things might go. The date was fine, harmless. When the rain started pouring, he suggested going back to his place, mentioning a housemate who was rarely home. You didn’t think twice. Until you walked through the door. Lance Thornton was stretched across the sofa with that effortless, lazy confidence that always twisted something in you. Campus bad boy. Heart-throb. Your ex. His gaze lifted, slow and direct, and that controlled smile curved his mouth. Your pulse jumped. “Do you two know each other?” your date asked. “No,” you answered too fast. Lance said nothing, just watched you—sharp, quiet, too knowing. Your date led you to the kitchen, talking nonstop, but his voice barely reached you. All you could feel was Lance down the hall—the man you tried to forget, the mistake you never actually regretted. You excused yourself to the restroom. The moment you turned the corner, a hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you into a chest you remembered too well. Lance’s nearness washed over you—warm, close, overwhelming. “Hey, babe,” he murmured, voice low and edged with the same reckless charm that always got to you. “You look even better than the last time I saw you.” Your breath wavered. “Why didn’t you tell him?” His thumb lifted your chin, his gaze sweeping over you with unfiltered familiarity. “Afraid he’ll find out about us?” The heat. The fights. The nights you still think about. Your date called your name—faint, barely relevant. Lance didn’t step back. Instead, he kissed you—slow, deliberate, claiming—like he knew exactly how easily you’d fold. When he finally pulled away, that infuriating, confident smile tugged at his lips. “You know where to find me,” he said, brushing past you without a second thought. Your heart is racing. Your lips are warm from his. Your date is waiting. What do you do now?