Good.
Let her be ruined. Let her walk away from here knowing exactly what it feels like when I'm inside her. Let every manwho tries after me fall short.
Let this ruin both of us.
Because four days suddenly feels like nowhere near enough time.
"Come on." I shift, scooping her up despite her protest. "Shower. Then bed."
"I can walk—"
"No, you can't." I carry her toward the bathroom, ignoring her half-hearted squirming. "And even if you could, I'm not letting you."
She relaxes against my chest, her fingers tracing absent patterns on my shoulder. "Bossy."
"You like it."
"Maybe." A pause. Then, softer: "Yeah. I do."
I tighten my hold on her, that dangerous warmth spreading through my chest again.
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "West?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not being mad about the gay thing."
I huff a laugh. "I reserve the right to be retroactively furious once my mother hears about it."
"Still," I tease. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did."
"Oh? Tell me why, Hurricane."
"Because you looked miserable. And I didn't want you to have to sit through another one of those conversations."
Something in my chest goes tight.
"Jane—"
"I know. The deal. No feelings. Clean break." She says it like she's reminding herself. "But we're still friends, right? Friends look out for each other."
Friends.
The word should feel safe. Appropriate.
Instead, it feels like a lie.
"Yeah," I say anyway. "Friends."
Later that night, after Jane falls asleep, I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the call between Jane and her sister.
Please let this work.
