I arched a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His next words came out slow and deliberate, like he was circling something fragile. “It means you like your characters complicated. Distant. A little dangerous.”
“Maybe I just relate to them,” I said, folding my arms. “Maybe I like the ones no one else understands.”
He was only a foot away, eyes narrowing just slightly with a tiny hint of a smile. “Maybe it’s because that’s whoyouare.”
My breath hitched, and he continued. “You come off tough,” he said. “Like nothing touches you. Like you’ve got it all figured out—”
“I don’t,” I said, too quickly.
“I know.” His voice softened. “That’s what makes you the antihero, isn’t it? You’re not trying to be loved—you’re just trying to survive. And somehow, that makes people want to love you anyway.”
I looked at him, heart pounding in my chest, my breathing shallow and quick. “And what does that make you?”
He smiled faintly, but he didn’t answer.
I couldn’t look away. Because he wasn’t wrong. And I wasn’t sure if that scared me more than it moved me.
“Clint Eastwood never let anyone stay,” he said, his voice low, the playfulness gone.
“Maybe he never believed he deserved them to.”
E’s jaw tensed, and he swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s why you keep running.”
His words didn’t land like an accusation. They landed like truth—like something I already knew but didn’t want to hear out loud. I dropped my gaze, afraid that if I met his eyes again, he’d see too much. Seeme.
“I don’t mean to,” I whispered. “I don’t know how to stop.”
E stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat off his skin. Close enough that I could smell the faint scent of cedar and laundry soap clinging to his shirt. “You don’t have to stop all at once,” he said. “Just… don’t run from me.”
The ache in his voice nearly undid me. He was right. I had been running. Not overwhelmingly, but enough. I’d been denying things I knew were true, and I didn’t know how to stop.
“I don’t want to run,” I said, and I meant it. I didn’t want to hide away from everything I felt for him anymore.
“But you will.”
My heart squeezed in my chest. I looked up then, finally meeting his eyes, and saw something I wasn’t ready for—something fierce and patient and quietly breaking.
Maybe I was the antihero. The girl with too many shadows, too many exits, always mapped out. But right now, in this room filled with records and old movie posters and the only boy who’d ever seen past the act—I wanted to try. Even if it ruined me. Even if it ruined him.
He stepped back then, and the air instantly lost its heaviness. I felt woozy, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the gallons of beer I had ingested or the intensity of the conversation we just had. He went to his dresser and tossed me a T-shirt and a pair of navy plaid pajama pants with a light smile, and I knew we were back. I held them up, looking them over as I smiled back at him.
“You wear pajamas?”
“No, but my mom always gets me a pair for Christmas, so I have a few.”
“That’s funny.”
He laughed. “She doesn’t think so. She’s always yelling at me to stop walking around in my underwear.”
An image of E walking around in nothing but his bare skin and boxer briefs flashed before my eyes. I imagined his toned, tan body. The curve of his chest. The thick imprint on his briefs… The heat that came over me was palpable, and I think he read my thoughts from across the room because they were written all over my face.
E cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, you can sleep here. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He turned and started to head out, but I stopped him, suddenly courageous after our moment before.
“E?”
“Hmm?” he said, turning only his head to me, his hand still on the door.
