She sees me the same time I see her, and her perfect face freezes. She goes rigid for half a second before her eyes narrow just a little. She honestly looks like a fucking mean girl with how she is scowling at me like I did something wrong.
I just stand there with my jaw clenched trying not to feel the things I am currently feeling. I don’t even want to admit to the level of jealousy coursing through me because it’s so fucking pathetic.
Jealous that she was probably in his room, in his hoodie, in his lap. Jealous that she gets to touch him, laugh with him, press her body against his, kiss his neck and hear his sleepy voice and be the person he lets into his space when he’s worn out from practice and just wants someone to be close.
And what the fuck does she do with that?
She throws it away. She lies. She cheats. She fucks around behind his back, and she still gets to be the one who’s with him. She gets to sit next to him at bars, wear his jersey, be the name in his phone with hearts and emojis next to it. She gets his affection.
I hate her for it.
And even worse?
I hate myself for hating her. For wanting what isn’t mine. For catching myself watching Griffin laugh and smile and be the kind of golden, good-hearted guy people write songs about and thinkingGod, please don’t let him stay with her.
She keeps walking, faster now, clearly wanting to be out of my sight line and probably also out of the blast zone of my judgment. She doesn’t say anything, which is probably smart. She just shoots me a sharp look and stomps off down the driveway, heels clicking.
And I just stand there.
Like a fucking idiot.
Feeling like a hypocrite, a coward, and a heart-eyed cliché all rolled into one hoodie-wearing, emotionally constipated mess.
I should have called her out or told her that she was a terrible person or…something. But I didn’t. Fuck me.
I shake it off.
Or at least, I try to. I grit my teeth and force myself to act like a normal human. This isn't about her. It's about the project. It’s about school.
I make my way up the porch steps and knock on the heavy red door.
No answer.
I wait a beat and try not to let my brain run wild before knocking louder this time.
Still nothing.
I exhale through my nose, slow and sharp, and just as I’m about to mutter “fuck this” and turn around to leave, the door swings open.
And there he is.
Griffin.
Shirtless.
And listen. I’ve seen him shirtless before, obviously. But this? This is a different beast entirely.
Because he’s standing there with sleep-creased cheeks and pillow marks on his goddamn shoulder, hair a chaotic halo of curls that look like they’ve been tumbled around by eager hands and maybe even bitten. His skin is golden and flushed. And he’s built, not in that overly veiny gym-bro way but in that sculpted, naturally athletic way. He has a broad chest and cut abs. That fucking Adonis belt peeking out of low-slung sweatpants.
I actually lose track of what I’m supposed to be doing for half a second.
Just long enough for a shitty thought to slam into me like a truck.
Sabrina. Her stupid red lipstick. Her fingers.
Had she just been here? Was she the reason his hair looks like it got tugged and pulled? Did she run her claws through it and whisper in his ear and…
My jaw tightens.
