“This is believable,” I murmur. “Hand-holding is high school.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb.
“Levi,” she warns softly.
“You set the terms,” I remind her.
Her fingers curl into the front of my T-shirt.
“Public affection,” she says.
I lean closer. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Her chin lifts in defiance. “You don’t intimidate me.”
“No?”
My thumb drags slightly along her hip. Just enough to test.
Her breath stutters. “Not even a little.”
“Liar.”
We hold the stare one beat too long.
She steps back first.
“Practice over,” she says lightly.
But her voice is not steady.
By the end of the week, we’ve developed a rhythm.
Parking lot hand-holding.
Shared coffee cups from The Devil’s Bean.
Inside jokes resurrected from the ashes of high school.
“You still hate mushrooms,” she says one evening as she steals fries from my plate at the diner.
“They’re fungus.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re still bossy.”
She grins. “You loved that.”
I don’t answer. Because I did. I still do. That’s the problem.
The town gossips and firehouse crew watches everything. Every brush of her fingers against my arm. Every time I automatically move closer when someone bumps into her.
Sawyer corners me near the lockers.
