“You didn’t freak me out,” he said, almost fiercely. “You just…surprised me.”
I believed him. That was the worst part.
We stood there, still too close, still connected by his hand around my wrist, and yet suddenly miles apart. I could feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, because something fragile had been touched too soon.
The music surged. Someone bumped my shoulder. The party kept being a party.
Bennet didn’t let go right away. When he finally did, it was careful, like he was setting something precious down instead of pushing it away.
“I don’t want this to end,” he said quietly.
Neither did I.
But standing there with my heart fully out in theopen and his still catching up behind it, I had the sinking, familiar realization that I’d done it again.
Fallen first.
Fallen hard.
And no matter how gently he’d handled it, I was the one standing in the space afterward, wondering how to hold all of this without breaking.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
bennet
Smoke curled up in a lazy,swirling ribbon from the toaster.
I stared at it without really seeing it, one hand braced on the counter, my thoughts running in tight, unproductive circles. The party replayed itself in fragments: Jason’s face, his voice dropping, and the words landing between us like bricks.
I hadn’t slept well since.
The toaster gave a sharp, offended ding, and I still didn’t move.
“You trying to start a fire? It’s working,” Rowan said.
I startled so hard my shoulder knocked the cabinet. “Huh?” The smell hit me all at once, burnt bread, acrid and sharp. I lunged toward the toaster on instinct and grabbed the nearest thing on the counter.
A fork.
“Whoa, hey, hey, hey!” Rowan yelped, sprinting forward. “Are you mad?”
“Crap,” I blurted, freezing mid-motion as the reality of what I was about to do caught up with me.
Rowan slapped my wrist away and yanked the toaster’s plug out of the wall with unnecessary drama. “Jesus, Bennet. I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re reenacting a safety video.”
He shook the toaster over the sink. Two blackened slabs of toast popped up and immediately began shedding crumbs like they were disintegrating on contact with air.
I closed my eyes and scrubbed a hand down my face.
“What the hell are you thinking about?” Rowan asked.
“What do you think?” I said, opening the bread bag again like the last two hadn’t just died for nothing.
Rowan scoffed. “Seriously? You’re still hung up on that?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” I snapped, more sharply than I meant to. I shoved two new slices into the toaster and slammed the lever down like it had personally offended me.
Rowan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, striped pajama sleeves riding up. “I don’t know. Maybe someone who understands that when a hot, emotionally repressed football player says he loves you, the correct response isn’t to spiral for thirty-six hours and counting.”