But I feel him.
Will’s eyes follow me all the way to the door, like the weight of his stare is stitched into my spine. I hold it together until the cold night air hits me in the face and I’m helping Liam into the passenger seat of my truck while Carl fumbles his way into the back.
Only when I slide behind the wheel do I let myself breathe. Just once.
Because even though I left the bar behind that moment—Will’s body shielding mine, his voice full of gravel and fire, his eyes burning with something he wouldn’t say—that didn’t stay inside. It followed me. Like a question waiting to be answered.
Liam leans his forehead against the passenger-side window and murmurs, “I miss her, Phern.”
Carl snorts from the backseat, but when I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror with a glare that could slice through denim, he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
“I bet she misses you, too,” I say softly. “You should call her.”
Liam lets out a long sigh, the kind that sounds like it’s carrying more weight than his shoulders can hold. Then, not even a minute later, he’s out, his snores loud and uneven, rattling through the cab like a sad lullaby.
I almost let myself feel the quiet.
Almost.
But then Carl leans forward, beer-soaked breath filling the space between us. “Stop encouraging him. He’ll get over that girl soon enough.”
My fingers grip the steering wheel tighter.
“He’s in love with her, you ass,” I bite out, low and furious. “Maybe it’s you who needs to back off.”
He grunts and slouches again, but I keep my eyes on the road. Because if I look at him, I might say something I can’t takeback. And even if I hate him, he’s still family, and my dad would be so upset if he knew we were falling apart without him.
It takes a bit to get Liam and his father settled on the couch. Liam is mumbling something about love and Carl already half-snoring by the time I toss a blanket over them. By the time I pull up in front of Sam’s house—my childhood home—it’s nearly two in the morning.
I slip through the back door like muscle memory, shoes in one hand, every creak in the floorboard still mapped in my brain. I make it to my room without waking anyone, close the door behind me, and finally exhale.
I’m just pulling back the covers when my phone buzzes with an Instagram notification.
I glance at the screen and my breath catches.
Will Flowers sent you a message.
It’s just one thing. A phone number. No words. No explanation. I stare at it for a solid thirty seconds, heartbeat loud in my ears. Do I call him? Text him? Did he even mean to send it to me?
I bite my lip, heart pounding, then open my contacts and add the number. And then, because I’m apparently a glutton for emotional chaos, I send him a message.
Will Flowers
Hey, this is Phern. Did you mean to send me your number?
His reply is instant.
Of course I did. Who else would it have been for?
I blink at the screen, stomach flipping.
You’re a former PBR star. I’m sure your DMs are wild.
There’s a pause. Long enough for my nerves to start buzzing again.
Maybe.
Make it home ok?
