When we stop in front of his truck, he stops and turns to look at me. "You're quiet tonight," he says, his voice low.
I nod, our joined hands still between us. It’s not pretend this time.
"I just have a lot on my mind."
"Like what?" he asks, his thumb brushing gently over my knuckles.
I look up at him and take a deep breath. "A while ago," I start, "you told me I need to figure my shit out."
Brooks grins. "Yeah. I did."
"Well... I think I'm finally ready to do that now."
He raises an eyebrow, but before he can respond, I let go of his hand and step closer. I reach for the collar of his shirt and tug him toward me, steady and sure. The air stills between us. One beat. Two.
Then, I press my mouth to his.
He doesn't hesitate. One hand finds my waist while the other slips into my hair, angling me closer as he pins me gently against the side of the truck. The kiss deepens, frenzied and warm, his lips claiming mine like he's been waiting years for this exact moment.
And maybe he has. Maybe I have, too.
Because for the first time in a long time, I'm not thinking about what comes next. Not about Mom, or LA, or how I'll explain any of this.
I'm just here. Letting myself feel it.
I’m pinned to the moment, and I don’t want to move.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Too Much Denim
My hands tangle in Brooks' hair as our lips clash—desperate, unfiltered, and real. The seatbelt buckle jabs into my knee, but I barely register the pain. Not when he's peeling the cotton over my head. Not when his mouth finds mine again like he can't breathe without it.
The cab of his truck is dark and quiet, but inside, everything feels loud. My heartbeat, my breath, his touch.
His hands skim along the bare skin of my back, slow and reverent, like he's memorizing every inch.
I can't believe I kissed him in the hospital parking lot last night. And now? Now we're tangled up in each other on some dark back road, his hands steady and warm as they explore my skin. Every flick of his tongue against mine sends the world spinning.
I should be thinking this through. This is Brooks. Jasper's best friend. The most annoying person I've ever met.
But he’s also kissing me like it's the only thing keeping him alive and suddenly, I can't remember why I was protesting.
My hands slide up his torso, fingers brushing over muscle and feverish skin. We break apart just long enough for me to tug his shirt over his head, and then we're pressed together, skin on skin. It's electric. Real. Too real.
His stomach sticks to mine in the humid air as his hands grip my hips, pulling me closer. There's too much denim between us. Too many clothes. Too many reasons to stop. None of which I listen to.
I reach behind me, my fingers brushing the clasp of my bra.
"Wait," Brooks breathes against my lips, the word low and rough.
I still, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Even in the dark, they shine, safe and strong. The kind of look that makes my heart skip and my breath hitch.
"For what?" I whisper, resting my forehead gently against his.
He's quiet for a beat, then says, "Do you remember Fourth of July? The summer Jasper and I graduated?"
I nod slowly. "We went to the lake with everyone. I think I wore a red bikini."
