He always looks unbothered, smooth, like nothing fazes him. But right now, with his voice rough against my lips, I finally see the crack in his composure. And it thrills me to no end.
The words unravel something inside me. My fingers fist in the front of his sweater, pulling him closer until I feel every line of him, solid and real. My pulse races so fast it drowns out the distant voices.
“We’ll get caught,” I murmur, though I’m not pushing him away.
“Then let’s make it quick,” he whispers and kisses me again, deeper, like he has no intention of stopping. His hands skim down my sides, firm and sure, before he finally drags them back up, cupping my jaw, framing me like I’m something he can’t let himself lose sight of.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, the world outside this alcove feeling too far away to matter.
“We should go,” I manage, though my voice is wrecked and my lips are tingling.
He smiles, quick and wicked. “Lead the way.”
My chest is tight with laughter and panic both. We’re walking back like nothing happened, but the taste of him lingers, sweet and dangerous, and I know I’ll never get through lunch pretending I’m unaffected.
26
CONNOR
“Don’t look down.”
The mountain air cuts colder out here, sharper than in the ice tunnel and hitting my skin like tiny little knives. It hits the back of my throat like glass shards as we spill onto the ridge, the group funneling towards the modern-looking suspension bridge strung between two peaks over the largest cliff I’ve ever seen in my life.
They talked about it on the way here, and I half listened while Banks rattled off fun facts. I was too focused on the way Manuela looked—her hair down around her shoulders and a mustard-color cardigan loosely draped on her body under her coat. I should have been paying more attention to the words because now I’m paralyzed at the edge, unable to move one single step forward.
“Connor.” I vaguely hear my name being called from behind me, but I can’t turn to look. Her voice threads through the roar of wind, steady and low, and it’s the only thing keeping me from bolting back into the restaurant and parking my ass on a table far from here. “Connie.”
Every sway of the cables shudders through me like aftershocks. My stomach knots, hard and fast, and I have to lock my jaw to keep myself from showing my panic. George bounds first, stomping his boots on the slats, making them jump.
“See? Rock solid.”
He bounces once more for good measure, his laugh echoing across the gorge. Nicole and Hannah giggle behind him, both phones pulled out and recording his shenanigans. I should follow. I know I should, my brain knows it should. Easy—one foot, then the other. Pretend like it’s nothing.
I can’t.
“Hey.” Manuela’s voice again, closer. Her shoulder brushes mine as she eases in right next to me, her body slotting into the small space I’ve made by freezing up. “Eyes on me.”
I drag my gaze from the drop to her face.
Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her breath fogging soft in the air, strands of hair blowing in the breeze and tangling across her face. She doesn’t look impatient or even surprised. She looks steady and anchored right here next to me.
The breath that escapes me is shallow, harsh. “I can’t do it,” I say, the words dragged out like a confession.
And Manuela doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease me for being a panic-stricken man. “Then we don’t.”
The relief punches through me so fast I almost sag against her.
She loops her hand around my arm and backs us away from the bridge, angling her body between mine and the others, shielding me like it’s second nature. We slip past a railing and toward a wooden bench tucked against the building where we just came from. The crunch of our shoes fades under the whistle of the wind as the group drifts farther out over the gorge, completely unaware of what’s happening here on solid land.
I sink onto the bench, my palms slick with sweat as I drag them through my jeans. My heart still thuds like it’s trying to break out of my chest, and my knees feel weak. The feeling is so similar to that night I ended up in the emergency department… And the worst part is how fast my body remembers. How quickly the old panic slots back in, like it’s been waiting for an opening.
I told myself I’d change after that night. That I’d slow down, take care of myself, draw a line somewhere. That’s the reason behind the failed hobbies.
But nothing really changed—not the hours, not the expectations, not the way I keep pushing long past the point my body begs me to stop.
It’s not just the work, either. It’s how easily I disappear into whatever people want from me. The role. The image. The version of me that looks steady and untouchable even when I’m crumbling underneath it.
I’ve never admitted that out loud. Not to my parents. Not to my friends. Definitely not to the people at the office who still joke about how “unflappable” I am.
