My heart stops.
Stutters to life, and then stops again.
I try to breathe, but in his proximity, my lungs are broken, punctured, desperate. His hair is wilder than usual, and his black hoodie emphasizes the dark shadows beneath his eyes.
I lick my dry lips, throat just as parched. “You forgot your orange juice today.”
Myorange juice.
You forgotme.
His throat works up and down, the response quiet but painfully clear. “I didn’t forget anything.”
Ouch.
The stupid words stab and twist. But at the same time, his voice paired with the rough edge of heartbreak in his eyes—they bury themselves deep inside me, stirring something foreign beneath the wound. It’s a layer of hope bubbling to the surface, cloudy and surreal. Hope for something I never thought I could have. Something permanent. Unshakable. Because I didn’t know anyone could feel so deeply for me to have their heart broken.
My pulse thumps in my ears. I open my mouth, and his eyes drop to my parting lips. Before I can say anything, his jaw hardens, and he turns and walks away.
I watch numbly as he packs up his books, stuffing everything into his backpack. He hikes his bag over his shoulder, pauses, and angles his head toward me, but not enough to meet my gaze.
Do it, I want to scream.
Look at me.
Talk to me.
Stay with me.
He clears his throat, turns his head, and leaves the room.
My fingers curl at my sides, anger and pain flooding me in hot, crippling waves. My stomach rolls, eyes burn. I need him. I need his attention like I need my next breath.
And fuck it. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.
Adrenaline fuels each step I take across the kitchen and up the winding staircase. Maybe I’m being childish, but that’s never stopped me before. I slowly pass his open door, but he ignores me, eyes on his phone.
Easton might own a part of me no one else does, but he’s still just a guy. And I know what guys want.
By the time I finish changing and checking my reflection in my vanity mirror, I’m feeling confident. In my element. Every girl has a little black dress; mine just happens to be “littler” than most. And tighter. And sheerer. Heels elongate my bare, tanned legs, heavy mascara gives my eyes a sexy bedroom look, and tinted lip gloss emphasizes my mouth.
My livelihood once depended on attracting the opposite sex. It’s something I do without thought. As I slink closer to Easton’s room, my heart pounds harder. I inhale, lift my chin. I force myself not to look in his direction. This shouldn’t feel wrong, doing what I do every day. I’ve spent years trying to get his attention by what I wear, what I do. Except this time, my relationship with Easton is more than it ever was. We’ve crossed lines I never thought we would. Confessed things so naked and delicate I no longer know how to act around him. But my need for him is loud. It thrums inside me with every beat of my heart, and I can’t stop.
I take my time walking past his bedroom, even stopping to “fix” my heel strap, andbingo. His gaze warms my body, sets my pulse off course. I continue down the hall, each step slow and deliberate. Nerves flare inside me when I reach the staircase, touch the banister, and he’s done nothing to interfere.
I swallow and stare down at the first step like the drop is miles deep.
Stop me, Easton.
My toes hover over the edge.
Stop me.
“Where are you going?”
Butterflies flutter in my chest, drunk and dizzy. Slowly, I shift my focus to the low timbre of his voice. He stands in his bedroom, leaning against the doorframe with his arms loosely crossed. His eyes are unreadable, but I don’t care. I just care they’re centered on me.
“Out,” I answer.
