Dalton’s shoulders relaxed. The grin returned, the old one, but softer, like he’d closed a book. “You good?”
I swallowed, feigning nonchalance as best I could. “I was about to eviscerate their egos before you interrupted.”
He watched me for one second, then rolled his shoulders and muttered something about hazard pay. When he returned his attention to me, he bumped his shoulder into mine. “I think you already did that. Besides, you’re not allowed to get picked on. Not on my watch.”
The gratitude hit like a thing heavy and warm in my throat. I wanted to say something real, like thank you, but instead I said, “I’ll add bodyguard to your job description.”
“Perfect,” he said, and his voice carried that ridiculous half-smirk that made me want to punch him for being infuriatingly kind.
I dropped off my book and wasn’t the least bit surprised when Dalton walked me back to my apartment. This time, I didn’t protest, and he joked about how thrilled his coach would be at the extra exercise. That night, when I crawled into my apartment and turned the key, my chest felt different, not lighter exactly, but like someone had tied a rope from me to the earth. I could breathe in a way I hadn’t in years.?
Jackson texted before I fell asleep.
Jackson: Good luck on Monday, Malibu.
I stared at the message, blinking at the glow. How the hell did he even know I had a test? Oh, right. His pet spy. Dalton. I typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed another.
Me: Copy that.
It wasn’t much, but it felt like something. I hit send and dropped the phone on my nightstand. For the first time since the semester started, I believed I might actually be able to do this—not alone, not perfectly, but…enough.
Chapter Nineteen
? Holly ?
By Monday afternoon, my brain was fried, fingers ink-smudged from hours of notes, when a familiar shadow cut across the sidewalk. Dalton. Of course.
He matched my pace like he’d been waiting for me, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, grin tilted in that lazy, dangerous way that always made me want to smack him. “Well, look at that. McCarthy lives. Survived the test without combusting.” He paused for effect. “Want some good news to go with your brain death?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do I?”
He didn’t wait. “Jackson’s coming home. Mom’s throwing a cookout Friday. Attendance is non-negotiable.”
Heat rose before I could stop it. I forced my voice even. “Fine. I’ll drive.”
Dalton’s brows flicked up, like he’d expected more of a fight. “Huh. That was easy.” Then he peeled off toward his own class, smug as ever.
My phone was already in my hand before I even cleared the steps.
Me: You’re coming home?
The reply was almost instant.
Jackson: Yeah, on leave. It was supposed to be a surprise. Remind me to pummel Dalton. Me: Noted.
A smile tried to break loose. I strangled it.
The week stretched and snapped at the same time. Tuesday tasted like cold coffee and graphite—my notes smudged, my brain a scraped-clean bowl. Jackson’s messages were short, steady shots in the dark.
Jackson: Eat breakfast tomorrow. Non-negotiable.
Jackson: Got to the range today. Hands are wrecked. Worth it.
Jackson: You make it to class?
I started answering without overthinking.
Me: Fine. But only because Pop-Tarts count as breakfast.
