“You wouldn’t touch me. You wouldn’t look at me.”
His jaw tightens. "Sabrina—"
“You let every girl in Henderson throw themselves at you like I wasn’t standing right there.”
The car slows. Neon bleeds across the windshield.
Henderson Fun Park. The Ferris wheel turns lazily against the night sky, lights blinking like it’s holding its breath.
Jordan pulls up in an empty spot.
“I'm so not in the mood for rides.”
“I know. Just wait here for me.”
The air smells like popcorn and hot asphalt and sugar. Kids laugh. Couples wander hand in hand. Everything is too bright, too normal, too soft for the knot in my chest.
Jordan disappears for a few minutes then returns with a massive cloud of pale pink cotton candy.
He opens my door, offering a hand. I don’t take it, instead glare at the cotton candy. Is he seriously trying to pacify me with spun sugar?
“It’s not for you. It's for me.” He says when he sees my glare. "Come on."
Allow him to pull me out of the car.
“I'm craving sugar tonight,” he says, holding my gaze, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.
I grit my teeth and look away, not ready to let go of my annoyance. "Whatever."
He steps closer, caging me against the side of the car.
“Talk to me, Bree. What did you hate most about tonight?”
I roll my eyes, then say it anyway. “Everything. But mostly because you acted like I was your kid sister. Like is that how you see me—”
His hand braces beside my head, leaning in. His voice is low and steady.
“Sabrina, if I didn’t act that way, I would’ve done something I can’t take back.”
“Like what?”
He tears off a piece of the cotton candy and holds it up to my mouth. “Eat.”
Without thinking, I open. It melts on my tongue. Sweet and sudden.
He feeds me another piece, slower this time. The sugar sticks to my lips.
“Bree,” he says, voice rougher now, “I spent the last month thinking about you. Your eyes. Your mouth. The way you laugh when you’re nervous. The way your breath catches when I get too close.”
My pulse stutters.
“And then tonight,” he goes on, “after weeks of missing you, I walk into a house full of boys who think they’re entitled to you because they’re drunk and loud and in high school.”
I swallow hard.
He leans in again, closer this time, until there’s no space between us but air and heat.
“If I’d held you tonight the way I wanted to,” he murmurs, “you would’ve been the only thing people talked about come Monday.”
