By the time I pull into my apartment’s parking lot, my hands are tight on the steering wheel. I head upstairs, unlock my door, and step inside, the quiet hitting me all at once.
I pull out my phone.
Me:I’m going to take a rain check for tonight.
His response comes almost immediately.
Wilder:Too late. I’ll be there in a minute.
Fuck.
He left right after me.
I toss my phone onto the counter and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink, trying to cool the anger burning through me and the way my body is still wound tight from being near him.
There’s a knock at the door.
I open it and step aside, letting him in.
“No hello kiss?” he asks lightly as he crosses the threshold.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snap.
He stops short, clearly taken aback. “What are you talking about?”
He crosses his arms, watching me carefully.
“Tonight,” I say, the words tumbling out sharp and fast. “You think this is a joke? Throwing out the idea of all of us going out? It’s not funny, Wilder. I have everything on the line here. Everything.” My chest tightens. “If this is just some game to you, you can leave. I’m not playing it. I’m not going to lose everything because Wild Calloway wanted another notch in his bed.”
He stares at me for a beat.
Then, infuriatingly, he smirks.
“Damn,” he says. “You are hot as hell when you’re pissed.”
I shake my head and point to the door. “Get out.”
“Doc, come on.”
His voice isn’t teasing now. It’s low. Real.
“You think I take this lightly?” he asks. “You think I don’t get consumed by the fact that I could be the reason everything gets fucked up for you?”
He steps closer, and I don’t back away this time. His presence fills the space, steady and solid.
“This isn’t a joke to me,” he continues. “I’m not playing a game.”
Then his arms are around me. Firm, warm, grounding and despite myself, I sink into him. My forehead presses against his chest, my anger unraveling thread by thread.
“You said earlier we never talked about what this is,” he murmurs. “I don’t usually do relationships. It’s been easier that way.” He exhales slowly. “But I’ve never felt for anyone the way I feel about you.”
I stay still, listening.
“You don’t treat me like a star pitcher,” he goes on. “Hell, you don’t even call me Wild. You treat me like Wilder Calloway. Just a guy.”
Something in my chest softens.
The fight drains out of me, but I don’t let go of myself completely. “So what is this?” I ask quietly. “What are we doing?”
