But it’s the smell that hits me first.
Cedar. Clean soap. Something warm. Familiar.
Leo.
My stomach flips so violently I actually stumble.
I keep my eyes down, move faster, pretend he’s not right there?—
Until a hand closes around my wrist.
I freeze.
Before I can even breathe, I’m tugged sideways, through a doorway, into the dim handicapped locker room. The door shuts. Locks.
It’s just us.
Again.
I exhale a shaky breath. “Leo, isn’t this getting old?”
He steps closer. Way closer. His shadow spills over me.
“You getting sick of chasing me?” I snap.
He shakes his head once, jaw tight, eyes dark.
“No,” he murmurs. “I’ll never get sick of chasing you,Gitanilla.”
His breath brushes my cheek.
It’s infuriating.
It’s intoxicating.
My arms go out to shove him away, but they land on his biceps instead — warm skin beneath the loose basketball tee, muscle shifting under my palms.
He inhales sharply.
And I feel it—the tremor that runs through him.
He’s shaking.
For me.
He dips his head. His lips graze the side of mine, then lower to my temple, then my jawline.
“Leo…” I whisper — more warning than permission.
But then his mouth finds the curve of my neck.
A moan escapes before I can bite it back.
He smells so good.
Feels so good.
And for one stupid second I just want to forget everything — the slime, the humiliation, the broken heart, the impossible choices, the college mess.
