He laughs, but there's something hesitant in his expression.“Ally, I don't want you to feel like—”
“I'm inviting you up because I want to spend more time with you.”I hold his gaze steadily.“That's it.Unless you don't want to.”
“I want to.”The words come out fast, almost desperate.“Trust me, I want to.”
“Then come up.”
He doesn't need to be told twice.
The walk to my room feels different with him beside me.Charged.His hand finds the small of my back as we climb the stairs, warm and steady, and my heart is pounding harder than it should be for something as simple as walking down a hallway.
When I unlock the door, the first thing I notice is the roses.Kinsey put them in a mason jar on my desk with a sticky note that says:These are disgustingly romantic.I approve.
“She's something else,” Jay says, spotting the note.
“That's one word for it.”
I shrug off his jacket and hand it back to him, immediately missing the weight of it on my shoulders.He drapes it over my desk chair and looks around the small room—two beds, two desks, a mini fridge, and approximately three square feet of floor space.
“So this is where you live.”
“This is where I live.”I gesture at the cramped space.“Try to contain your awe.”
“I'm awed.”He picks up a framed photo from my desk—me and Kinsey at some campus event, both of us mid-laugh.“You look happy here.”
“I am.Mostly.”I sit on the edge of my bed.“When I'm not being tormented by hockey players with bad pickup lines.”
“That was one time.”
“It was a formative experience.”
He sets the photo down and turns to face me, and for a moment we just look at each other.The room feels smaller with him in it.Not in a bad way—just charged.
“Can I sit?”he asks, nodding toward my bed.
“Sure.”
He settles next to me, close enough that our shoulders brush.The mattress dips under his weight, and I'm acutely aware of how intimate this is.Jay Cross, in my room, on my bed, looking at me like I'm something precious.
“So,” he says.“What do you usually do on a Friday night?”
“Study.Stress eat.Watch trash TV.”I grab my laptop from the nightstand.“Speaking of which—have you ever seenThe Baseball Bachelor?”
“The what?”
“It's this ridiculous reality show where a baseball player dates like twenty women at once and eliminates them based on challenges like 'who can catch a fly ball in heels.'“ I pull up the streaming app.“It's objectively terrible and I'm obsessed with it.”
“That sounds...awful.”
“It is.You'll love it.”
I prop the laptop between us and hit play.The opening credits roll—cheesy music, slow-motion shots of a mediocre-looking guy in a baseball uniform—and Jay makes a sound of pure disbelief.
“This is real?This is a real show that exists?”
“Welcome to my world.”
We watch in silence for a few minutes, Jay's commentary getting increasingly incredulous.
