The rental Mom and I were staying in carried a silence that wrapped around you and whispered all the things you didn’t want to hear. Normally, that would’ve been fine—better, even. But tonight it taunted, as if it knew what I’d done. And what I wanted to do again.
Luke King kissing me was not supposed to happen.
But it did. And now I couldn’t stop replaying it. The sound of his breath catching. The way his hands curled into my shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. The heat. The ache. The way the world dropped out from under us and nothing else existed.
My phone lit up again. I glanced at it.
Avery:Come on, it’s just us. You need out of your head.And I promise no more Simon.
I smiled, a small huff of a breath slipping out. But I didn’t answer. Instead, I texted my mom.
Me:You home tonight?
I wasn’t expecting much. She usually worked late. Or didn’t answer. Or gave me a vague timeline that meant nothing. But two minutes later:
Mom:Just finishing up. Be home in ten. Got stuff for pizza :)
My chest tightened. She hadn’t cooked in weeks. Not real cooking. Not homemade pizza with burnt cheese edges and flour on the floor and music blaring, loud enough to drown out the rest of the world.
When the door opened, she breezed in as if she’d never left. Coat slung over one arm, grocery bag in the other. She looked gorgeous, of course. She always did. A slightly older, more polished version of me—but much prettier. High cheekbones, wide eyes, and a smile that could melt or manipulate depending on her mood.
“Hey, baby,” she said, dropping the bag on the counter. “Hope you’re hungry. I got everything for pizza. Real pizza. None of that frozen cardboard crap.”
I blinked. “You okay?”
She laughed, already pulling her dark hair into a loose bun. “Why? Can’t a mom cook dinner without it being a red flag?”
“Not usually.”
She shot me a look but grinned. “Fair. Get the flour, will you? Bottom cabinet.”
We moved around the kitchen as though we hadn’t forgotten how. She tossed me an apron—I caught it midair. I dusted the counter in flour, too much probably, and she shook her head but didn’t comment. She found the old cutting board and started chopping vegetables like it was second nature. Somewherebetween arguing about pineapple on pizza—absolutely not—and burning the first crust, something in my chest eased.
We danced to an 80s pop playlist. Sang off-key. Laughed too loud. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And I hadn’t had that with her in too long.
After the third mini pizza, she gestured to the living room. “Pick a movie. Something ridiculous. We deserve it.”
I picked a rom-com. One with a predictable plot and pretty people pretending heartbreak was something you could solve in ninety minutes. We curled up on the couch, plates balanced on our laps, and for a while, it felt similar to before.
Until it didn’t.
I couldn’t sit still. My leg bounced. My fingers picked at the crust until the edges crumbled.
Mom paused the movie then turned toward me. “Okay. Spill. You’re squirming like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
I hesitated. “It’s… about a few things.”
Her smile dropped into something quieter. Still soft, but focused.
“The principal,” I said. “The one who’s giving me the scholarship for the academy. You’re still seeing him?”
She nodded. “Until you graduate.”
“Is it real?”
She gave a dry laugh. “Real? No. Strategic? Definitely.”
I watched her. Tried to read beyond her practiced response. “But is he a good guy?” She said he wasn’t dangerous. I wanted to make sure.
