“It’ll be fine. You’ll live.”
She meansshe’lllive without kissing me. I could push, and God knows I want to, but the way her pupils flare when she says it—the way her shoulders tense, then drop—tells me enough. Panic mixed with curiosity.
Back off for now.
“Fine.” I let a slow grin pull. “We keep it PG.” I pause. “I should walk you back after we meet up.”
“Okay. That’s easy optics.”
“Holding hands,” I add.
She tips her head, pretending to think. “When someone might see.”
“Obviously. What’s the point if nobody does?”
Her lips curve—playful, mischievous, that impossible dimple flashing. I want to bottle it. “Will you carry my backpack too?”
A laugh slips out. “What are boyfriends for if not hauling the heavy stuff? Do I get a kiss if I do well?” I tease.
“Keepdreaming,” she deadpans. “Also, a warning...my books are heavy.”
“Please. I peaked in middle-school romance. Nothing says ‘claimed and useful’ like manual labor.” I flex my bicep. “Make sure the rumor mill clocks the forearms, Marin. Critical for the data set.”
She laughs briefly, bright and helpless, and it hits low in my stomach. Her face turns serious just as quickly. I can almost see her weighing variables: risk versus reward, truth versus performance.
“Okay,” she says finally, swallowing hard. “We have a deal.”
I want to say something reckless.Have dinner with me. Stay longer.
I bite it down.
“Don’t gloat if it works,” she says, tugging on her coat. Her fingers miss the sleeve on the first try. Without thinking, I catch the fabric, guiding her arm through.
She goes very still.
I’m suddenly aware of how close I am. Close enough to smell her shampoo, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin. My hand lingers on her shoulder, just a second longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” she says, voice quiet.
“Anytime.” I step back, but something’s shifted. The air feels heavier.
When she reaches for her backpack, I beat her to it, slinging it over one shoulder. “Part of the service.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Of course.”
We head for the door, and when we step into the stairwell, I take her hand.
She startles, just slightly, then her fingers relax and curl into mine. Warm. Small. Fitting better than theyshould.
“Optics,” I murmur.
“Right.” She doesn’t let go, and neither do I.
She stays close, her sleeve brushing mine with every step. Her thumb traces my knuckles absently. Tiny, unconscious, devastating. I tighten my grip before she can pull away. Because I don’t want to let go yet.
Outside, the campus is gold-edged. She tucks her hair behind her ear, cheeks pink from the wind, and my attention drops—traitorously—to her mouth. I imagine warmth there. Soft. The faint taste of mint and coffee. I shut it down just as fast.
We start toward her dorm. Heads turn as we pass. A couple of teammates, a few girls from her program. The whisper starts before we’ve cleared the quad. Her hand twitches in mine like she’s second-guessing, and I tighten my hold.
