I woke to the soft hum and warmth of Dare’s breathing.
His arm was slung over my waist, my back fitted to his chest. We were still tangled in yesterday, smelling of sweet grass and sex. My sketchbook lay half-open on the floor beside the bed, a corner of the page curling up. I must’ve dropped it before falling asleep, right after I finished drawing him.
I shifted, reaching for my phone on the side table. It was barely nine a.m., but I already had three notifications and one email.
Subject:Summer Mentorship – Final Interview Invitation
My pulse kicked up as I read.
Congratulations, Truen Jameson. You’ve advanced to the final round of interviews for our Summer Media & Arts Initiative...
I didn’t need to finish. I already knew. It was everything I’d said I wanted before him.
He stirred behind me and mumbled, “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said too fast, locking my screen and sliding the phone under the pillow.
He kissed the back of my neck like he always did when he was half-asleep and happy. “Come back to sleep.”
Sleep didn’t come. My mind was already running, chasing possibilities. Because now I had to decide—not just what to do about the internship, but what to do about us.
If I went, I’d leave him behind. If I stayed, I’d resent what I lost. Either way, something would break.
Sometimes I thought about the boy I used to be. The thingsI didn’t say. The love I didn’t fight for. And I wondered if I was still him, if I’d ever stop being him.
Later that afternoon, Dare was napping peacefully.
He’d crashed hard after practice, the kind of deadweight sleep only athletes and toddlers can pull off. He had one arm flung wide, his mouth open just enough to snore.
I sat cross-legged on my desk chair, sketchbook in my lap, watching him like a creep. Every few seconds, my gaze flicked to my phone, where the interview reminder still glowed:
Friday, 2 p.m. Video call. NYC rep.
I should’ve been thrilled. This was everything I’d worked for. But the truth settled heavily in my chest. I could see both futures clearly, and both hurt.
Setting the sketchbook down, I padded to the bed, careful not to wake him. He murmured something I didn’t catch, rolling toward me. My knees bumped the edge of the mattress, and I sank down beside him.
I traced a finger over his shoulder, the curve of his neck, the scar behind his ear. He was all fire and impulse, never much for planning, but he was trying. Meetings with his coach. Volunteering with kids. Building a life that meant something.
And me? I was lying by omission.
I slipped under the blanket, curling toward his warmth. Dare made a sleepy sound and wrapped his arms around me without even opening his eyes.
“Tru,” he murmured, voice rough. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m just cold.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.
He shifted, tucking me closer, his breath warm against my neck. “I got you.”
And he did. In every way that mattered.
Which was why I didn’t know how to tell him I might leave.
CHAPTER 37
DARE
