I hate that I did that.
I need the boundary, yes. I do. I’m not stupid. I know exactly how this could feel less about what I want and turn into something that makes me feel like the villain.
But it still makes my skin itch.
Because it’s him.
Because it’s always been him.
My phone buzzes on the desk like it knows I’m thinking about him.
I flip it over before I can talk myself out of it.
Jace:Can I see you tonight?
My breath catches. Simple. Direct. No pressure. No guilt.
My fingers hover over the screen.
I type, delete, type again.
Me:Yes. But… like a normal night.
I stare at it, then add:
Me:Dinner. Somewhere public.
A second later, the reply comes through.
Jace:Okay. Tell me where.
I swallow hard, because‘somewhere public’sounds safe until I remember we don’t have anonymity here. We have streetlights and familiar faces and people who think they’re entitled to your personal life because they love the University and the team.
Still, I type the name of a small Italian place on the edge of town. Not a hotspot or a place that screamsdate night. Just food and booths and dim lighting and the kind of low music that makes it easier to pretend you’re not the main event.
Me:Seven?
Jace:I’ll be there.
No heart emoji, no teasing, nothing that tries to pull me closer than I’m ready for.
Which is considerate.
And somehow, that makes me want to scream.
…………
At six thirty, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and stare at myself like I’m trying to identify the problem.
I don’t look different. Same hair. Same face. Same steady look in my eyes I use when I’m putting out fires for other people.
But everything under my skin feels too awake.
I choose a black dress that hits mid-thigh and a jacket that makes it look less like I’m trying. I put on boots instead of heels. Not because I don’t like heels.
Because heels feel like effort.
And effort feels likehopeand I don’t want to hope just yet.
