My chest tightens. “Wilder, stop. That fight would cost us everything. My internship. Your friendship with Kamden. Your career. My future.”
“Then we don’t tell anyone,” he says instantly. “Not until we know what this is.”
He reaches for me, pulling me against him, his arms strong and certain around my back. The contact sends heat racing through me, betraying every ounce of logic I have left.
“Some things are worth the risk,” he murmurs.
I shake my head, even as my body leans into his. “It’s a dangerous game. Sneaking around never ends well. Someone always gets hurt. You always get caught.”
A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. “That’s because you haven’t done it right.”
The way he says it, with confidence makes it painfully clear he isn’t only talking about secrecy.
My breath catches.
His lips brush against mine, barely there, and my entire body lights up like it’s been waiting for this moment.
“Tell me you don’t feel what I feel,” he whispers, forehead resting against mine, “and I’ll walk away.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I bite my lip, my pulse roaring in my ears, every scar and every promise I ever made to myself screaming at once.
He exhales softly. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses me again. Slower this time, devastating, like he knows exactly what it costs me to stay. I melt into him, my resistance crumbling under the weight of everything I feel for him.
I give in.
Fully aware that whatever this becomes, whatever we’re risking, keeping it a secret is almost guaranteed to end badly.
And yet, I don’t pull away.
Because sometimes knowing the ending doesn’t stop you from wanting the story.
TWELVE
Wild
The crowd is loud tonight, rowdy, electric, the kind of energy that hums through your bones and sharpens every instinct. I’m locked in on the mound, breathing steady, arm loose, body doing what it’s done a thousand times before.
I’m pitching great.
Fastball painting the corners. Curve dropping like gravity remembered its job. Kamden’s glove snaps with each catch, our rhythm flawless, the kind that only comes from years of trust.
Then, between pitches, I lift my eyes.
And see her.
Amelia is in the stands.
My pulse spikes so hard it almost throws me off balance.
She’s tucked a few rows up behind home plate, hair down, jacket pulled tight against the evening air. She’s not trying to be noticed, not dressed like she’s making a statement but fuck if she isn’t one anyway.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
