Jay closes the door, the lock snicking into place, echoing between us like the final bell of the school day.
“I’d better go check on our little chaos bundle,” I say, not wanting to move farther from him, but staying would only make it harder to pretend this is harmless.
“Yeah, sure,” he replies, but his face is unreadable.
I scurry away before I blurt something in true Liv fashion that’ll land me in hot water and retreat to my bedroom—dammit, his bedroom—where Nick Fury is licking his paws and already settling onto one of my pillows. “You’re a little scamp. If I knew better, I’d say you purposefully tripped me up so I’d fall into your daddy’s arms.”
Nick Fury just blinks at me slowly, then curls his tail around himself like the conversation’s over. I flop onto the bed beside him, my pulse still refusing to behave, and stare at the ceiling.
Across the hall, I can hear the faint creak of floorboards as Jay moves through the apartment, and it’s enough to send another ripple through me—proof that whatever just happened in that doorway isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and I hate it when my best friend is right. I do have a crush on my roommate.
Chapter twenty-four
Jay
Thenextmorning,I’mstill wired from last night. Didn’t matter how many times I flipped my pillow or changed positions, sleep wasn’t happening. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that doorway, her fists in my hoodie, breathing the air she exhaled.
We’d both disappeared into our rooms after. Well, after she showered, I remained on the couch, the sound of the water running while I sat there pretending not to think about it. About her. I insisted I wouldn’t touch myself, wouldn’t feed the obsession. I’m her roommate, her friend, not another creep who wants something from her.
By early sunrise, I’ve given up on sleep. My body is exhausted from the lack of rest, but the only way I can think to work it off is going for a run, to do something besides haunting the apartment when she’s sleeping. I tell myself I need to run this one alone, not because I’m avoiding her, but because I need to get my head on straight before seeing her again.
I make a coffee while my laptop powers up, and I scroll through job listings, only to find one that stands out like a flashing beacon.
Staff Photographer — Valkyries Women’s Rugby, California.
My pulse kicks.
The listing is everything I could imagine. Capture match-day coverage for league and sponsor media. Provide behind-the-scenes content for socials and campaigns. Travel required (domestic season schedule, with possibility of international tournaments on occasion). Must demonstrate experience in sports, live-action, or event photography.
I scroll further. Strong sports portfolio. Ability to deliver on deadlines, collaborate with players, coaches, and media staff. Basically, everything I’ve been grinding toward, everything I already have in my portfolio.
And yet, I hover over the apply button, old doubts gnawing. What if my portfolio isn’t enough? What if this ends like every other rejection? But the thought of walking away from it feels worse. I want this, and it feels too good to pass up.
I breathe out hard, click, and start uploading my portfolio. All the games I shot for the Wildcats, Jaguars, the campus features, even the personal series that’s been gathering dust on my hard drive.
I hit send, and a buzz ignites under my skin. It feels like standing on the edge of something, and it makes me feel alive.
With more confidence than I’ve felt in a while, I pull on jeans, sling my camera bag and gym gear over my shoulder, and scribble a note for my roommate.
Meet me at the art studio. 7 p.m. Jay.
If I’m going for things I want, then there’s another thing on that list. And she’s still asleep down the hall.
Chapter twenty-five
Liv
NickFuryisanight owl, and according to the creaks of the sofa bed, so is my roommate. I’d heard him moving around before sunrise, and when I heard the click of the front door, I thought about getting up, too, but my body decided it needed another three hours of sleep.
When I finally shuffle into the kitchen, the cat’s sprawled across the counter, tail flicking in lazy arcs. Next to him is a folded piece of paper propped against the coffee machine.
Meet me at the art studio. 7 p.m. Jay.
A quiet pulse of energy runs through my veins, stirring something restless inside me.
I slide the note into my pocket and pour an iced tea, telling myself it’s not a big deal. Except it is. Because the idea of painting again, with him there, watching, is making my chest tight and my palms itch.
By the time I’m halfway through my first cup, I’ve already replayed the doorway moment from last night three times, andall I can think is how close I came to kissing him… and then I catch the time on the oven clock.
