“They really like you,” he observed, slapping one off his own forearm.
“Apparently I’m delicious.” The words tumbled out before my brain could intervene, heat flooding my face.
Jackson's step faltered for just a moment. “Yeah?”
Roots and shadows conspired against me. My foot caught on something invisible in the darkness, sending me pitching forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. Jackson's reflexes were faster, his arm wrapping around my waist and hauling me back against his chest before I could face-plant into the tropical undergrowth.
Time crystallized. His breath was warm against my ear, his heart beating against my back through our sweat-damp shirts, and his arm felt like a band of heat around my middle. Every point of contact burned like a brand, and for one dangerous moment, I let myself lean into him, let myself imagine this was real.
“You okay?” His voice rumbled through me, his lips so close to my ear that I felt the words as much as heard them.
No. Not even slightly okay. Breaking apart, actually, one touch at a time.
“Fine.” The word came out strangled. “Just... fine.”
His arm tightened fractionally, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go either. “Oliver—”
Panic shot through me like lightning. Whatever he was about to say, whatever that soft tone meant, I couldn’t handle it. Not here, not now, not when every defense I’d built over seven years was crumbling.
Shoving out of his arms took more willpower than I’d known I possessed. “We should head back. These mosquitos are getting worse.”
“What's wrong?” Jackson stepped closer, and I stepped back, nearly tripping again.
“Nothing's wrong.”
“Bullshit.” His voice carried an edge now, frustration bleeding through. “You’ve been weird for weeks. We barely hang out anymore unless Matt's there. Did I do something?”
“No.” The word came out too fast, too sharp.
“Then what? Because I’m standing here trying to figure out what made you back off, and I've got nothing.”
My feet were already moving, carrying me away from this conversation, away from him. “Just drop it, Jackson.”
“No.” His footsteps followed, crunching through the underbrush. “We can't fix whatever this is if you won't tell me what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice cracked on the last word.
“Then why are you running away from me?” Not angry, just... hurt. Confused. “Come on, Ollie. Talk to me. Please.”
The please nearly undid me. Jackson never begged, never pushed, but here he was following me through mosquito-infested darkness because he thought he'd somehow ruined our friendship.
Each step felt heavier than the last, weighted down by seven years of unspoken words.
“I’m trying to save our friendship, okay?” The words burst out, too loud in the humid night air.
“Save it from what?”
My feet stopped moving. My whole body stopped, actually frozen between running and turning around. Behind me, Jackson's breathing sounded uneven, like he'd been running instead of walking.
“From what, Oliver?”
Spinning around took every ounce of courage I possessed. “From you!”
His face in the moonlight shifted from frustration to confusion “Me? What did I—”
“You exist!” The dam broke, words flooding out in a rush of frustration and exhaustion. Years of careful control finally snapped. “You exist, and you’re...you’re you, and I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend that every time you touch me it doesn't burn. Can't pretend that watching you date women doesn't feel like swallowing glass. Can't sit across from you at lunch and act like I’m not memorizing every detail because I know that's all I'll ever get.”
Silence stretched slowly, broken only by the buzz of insects and my ragged breathing.
