The smell hits next: sweat, grass, and old effort soaked so deep into the padding that it never washes out.It smells like training sessions, bruises, and wanting something so badly you break yourself for it.It smells like a version of me that used to believe in things.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up my boots.
I lace them up slowly, fingers steady, heart anything but.The leather creaks as I pull the laces tight.
They still fit.That shouldn’t matter, but it does because it means a part of me never really grew out of this.It never let go, not even when I told myself I was finished.
I lie back on the mattress, arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling fan that hasn’t worked in years.It hangs there, useless, blades frozen, a perfect match for everything else in this house.
I agreed to this.
For Sam and what I saw in that hallway, the way jealousy lit me up and pushed me forward before I had a chance to think.
Lying here with these boots still on my feet, the room silent except for my breathing, I wonder if that’s the whole truth.If I really did it because of the way she smiled at that asshole.
Or if I said yes to myself, for the version of me that once believed he was good at something.
For the kid who believed effort mattered and still yearns to feel that adrenaline again, even if it’s clothed in pain.
I stare at the fan until my eyes burn, knowing there’s no taking it back now.
Whatever the reason was, I opened that door myself.And tomorrow, I will find out what it costs.
Chapter 9
Sam
Thelibraryisdeadquiet.
I sit across from Reece Wilson, a thick textbook open between us, pretending it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.My pen taps against my notebook in a slow, uneven rhythm.I haven’t written a damn thing in the last five minutes.
Neither has he.
He hasn’t said a word since he dropped into the chair opposite me, long legs stretched out, those fuck off broad shoulders taking up more space than any one person has a right to.His mouth is curved into that usual lazy smirk.
I avoid looking at him.I refuse to give him that satisfaction.But fuck, he’s close.
Too close.
Every time Reece shifts, his arm brushes against mine.His knee bumps into mine when he stretches.Each small touch sends a spark straight through me, lighting up spots I really wish would calm the fuck down.
And his cologne.
God.
It’s wrong for a school library.Something earthy and out of place among dusty shelves and old carpet.The smell wraps around me.It sinks into my lungs and settles somewhere dangerous.Each inhale fucks with my head.
This is supposed to be project time.
Research.Notes.Boring, safe, normal shit.
I’ve highlighted the same sentence three times.I know because the page is almost glowing at this point.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Reece lean back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, his posture loose and frustratingly relaxed.He looks comfortable.It’s as if this isn’t torture for him.He seems blissfully unaware of how close his thigh is to mine or how his presence fills my space, making it impossible to breathe normally.
I risk stealing a glance.
Huge mistake.
