I cross my arms, hugging them close. “Good. Because you don’t get a say. Especially when you’re over there letting Missy freaking Jones paw all over you.”
Will doesn’t flinch. He nods, once. Like he expected that. Like maybe he even deserves it. But then he turns his head, and his eyes lock on mine—steady, unreadable, but burning with something he’s no longer hiding.
“You’re right. I don’t get a say.” He pauses. “But it doesn’t mean I didn’t notice.”
My heart skips, like it’s been yanked mid-beat.
Something in my chest tightens, sharp and sudden, because that? That wasn’t about Missy. That wasn’t about Trey.
That was about me.
I swallow. “Notice what?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You. With him. Laughing. Saying yes.”
He exhales, like admitting that costs him something.
“It hit harder than I thought it would,” he adds.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Because what do you say when the man who called you kiddo turns around and tells you he noticed? When he admits he felt something without quite saying what it is? I blink and look away, because if I don’t, I might ask the one question I’ve been holding back for years. Why now?
Instead, I say, “You don’t get to care, Will.”
Another beat of silence.
“I know.”
But he still doesn’t walk away. And neither do I.
The silence between us stretches, dense and charged. His eyes search mine like he's looking for permission or something neither of us has ever been brave enough to say out loud.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
Then he steps closer.
Just one step. Close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him, smell the dust and sweat and whatever damn cologne he uses that always makes my knees go soft.
“Phern,” he says, my name low and rough like gravel scraped across velvet.
His hand lifts. Hesitates. Then brushes lightly against my jaw, fingertips just barely skimming the edge of my cheek. It’s tender. It’s nothing. And it’s everything.
My breath stutters. My eyes drop to his mouth, and that’s it. The dam’s cracked, the air’s gone electric, and I know he’s about to kiss me. I tilt my chin up, just a little. Our faces are inches apart.
And then?—
“Will?”
The voice slices through the air like a blade.
We both freeze. I don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. Missy freaking Jones. Her heels click against the dirt like gunshots. Then she appears, rounding the corner in a cloud of perfume and audacity, all swaying hips and firetruck-red lipstick.
“There you are,” she purrs, sliding right up to his side like she belongs there. “I’m ready to head back to your place.”
I take a step back like I’ve been slapped. The heat between Will and me vanishes in an instant, replaced with somethingcold and hollow. My heart nosedives, crashing somewhere near my boots.
And Will? He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move. And somehow, that hurts more than anything else.
