Hughie hums in this annoyingly knowing way and doesn’t say anything else. But he doesn’t have to. The look on his face says it all: You’re in so much trouble and I’m letting you dig your own grave.
I huff out an annoyed breath and move to lace up my chucks.
Hughie’s still staring at me, which I ignore for a grand total of five seconds before I snap.
“What?” I huff, adjusting the hoodie like it’s done something personally offensive.
He shrugs, all casual, like he’s not dissecting my soul with his eyes. “Nothing. Just… watching you get ready for your little crush study date.”
I freeze mid-step and then I pivot on my heel and glare at him.
“It’snota crush,” I say, way too fast, which is exactly the wrong move because now he’s grinning at me.
He lifts one brow again. “Jacob.”
“I’m serious,” I say, trying to sound calm and failing miserably because I’m one misplaced heartbeat away from spiraling. “It’s not… I mean, he’s just nice. And smart. And…fuck off.”
Hughie just laughs. Like full-belly, smug-ass older brother laughter. “It’s so obvious.”
My stomach twists, not from panic but from straight-up embarrassment. I’m not embarrassed that Hugh knows. I mean, please, the guy has known for years that I’m bi. He was the first person I ever told, and he took it with his usual goalie-level calm like I’d just told him we were out of milk.
Nothing about my identity has ever made him look at me differently. Not once.
Which is maybe why I feel extra exposed now. Because if he’s noticing something? Then it’s definitely a thing. Oh god….
“Obvious to who?” I mutter, now busying myself with shoving my laptop into my bag, trying to keep my voice low enough to mask the heat crawling up my neck.
He rolls onto his side, propping his massive head on one hand. “Just me. Maybe Terry, if he’s being creepy and observant. Mack’s too dense. But yeah, it’s only obvious to people who know you.” He pauses, then says it again, softer this time. “Who really know you.”
I hate that that makes me feel both seen and wildly attacked. Because I can lie to literally anyone else, but not to him. Not when he can read my bullshit before I’ve even opened my mouth.
Hughie watches me in silence for a beat, his expression shifting; dropping that teasing glint and settling into something softer and more careful. Which I hate, because I already know what’s coming. I can feel it in the way he exhales, slow and low, like he’s trying not to piss me off.
“Jake…” he starts gently, which is already a red flag because he only ever uses that tone when he’s trying to let me down easy. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, alright? Griffin… he’s straight.”
The words land like a punch to the chest. Not because I didn’t know, but because hearing it out loud feels like someone poking a bruise I wasn’t ready to admit I had. It’s not like I expected anything. I’m not delusional. I know how this works. I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s not available in any capacity.
But still, just hearing it in that careful, padded tone like I’m something fragile just fucking stings.
“I’m not stupid, Hugh,” I snap, sharper than I mean to, but the words fly out before I can stop them.
He blinks, clearly a little startled, but doesn’t say anything right away. Probably because he’s waiting for me to calm down.
“I know he’s straight,” I continue, shouldering my bag a little too roughly. “I’m not sitting around doodling his name in the margins of my notebook. We’re working on a project. I’m allowed to think he’s hot and still function like a normal person.”
Hughie’s lips part like he might argue, but I don’t give him the chance. I yank my headphones off the dresser and shove them into my bag, zipping it closed like it insulted my intelligence.
“I’ll be back later,” I say, already halfway to the door, not even waiting for a response.
I’m halfwayup the steps, fingers curled tight around the strap of my backpack, when the door swings open andshewalks out.
Sabrina Allen.
Looking every inch the Barbie dream girl in a tight white top that hugs all the curves God probably carved with an X-Acto knife, and black leather pants that shine. Her hair is curled to oblivion, all gold and bounce and effort, and her makeup is perfect.
Her lipstick? That same dangerous, blood-red shade she wore the night she was fucking Connelly.
And for one solid, infuriating second, I have to fight the urge to say something. Anything. Because seeing her here, at this house, where Griffin lives, where his bedroom is, wherehe sleeps and eats and maybe kisses her like she hasn’t been crawling out of Connelly’s bed…it makes me want to yell.
