The way she didn’t tell me to stop.
My chest tightens—not because I think the kiss meant something simple.
Because it means something complicated.
Because it means I crossed a line Cameron Rhodes would probably die defending.
Cameron doesn’t play about his sister. He never has. He’s not the kind of guy who throws threats around, but he doesn’t have to. He’s built like a college athlete and raised by a man whotaught him how to hold his ground. Cameron’s loyalty comes with teeth.
And I’m his best friend.
Which means I’m supposed to be safe.
I’m supposed to be the guy who shows up with food and dumb jokes and a steady presence when his family is falling apart.
Not the guy who kissed his little sister in the kitchen while Pops slept down the hall.
Jason’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Shift back. Slow.”
I do, relief washing through me so hard it’s almost nauseating.
He marks something on his clipboard like he’s documenting a crime. “Again.”
I glare. “You’re sick.”
“Correct,” he says. “Let’s go.”
By rep eight, my whole body is shaking with effort. My knee feels like it’s vibrating with a warning, but it holds.
Then Jason nods toward the open space between the bars. “All right. Step.”
My stomach drops.
“Jason—”
“You’re between the bars,” he cuts in. “I’m right here. One step. Then we stop.”
My throat burns. I hate that I’m scared of a step.
But fear doesn’t care about logic. Fear cares about memory—about the pop, the collapse, the way my senior season felt like it got snatched out of my hands.
I load. Lift my good foot. My surgical leg trembles but holds.
I place my foot down.
Pain spikes. My body pitches forward, and the bars catch me as Jason’s hand hovers near my chest without touching—ready.
“Breathe,” he orders. “You did it.”
“That was a terrible step,” I rasp.
Jason’s grin widens. “It was a beautiful step. Again.”
We do it again.
And again.
By the time he finally calls it, my shirt is damp with sweat, and my knee feels like it’s packed with broken glass. The weirdest part is—beneath the pain, there’s something like pride. Something like proof I’m not done yet.
