“I would love to,” I say. “Does that frozen lasagna I bought last month still exist in the depths of your freezer?”
Her eyes light up. “Oh my god, I completely forgot about that!” She grins, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Yes. It’s definitely still there.”
We untangle ourselves from the couch and Nimbus, and walk toward her kitchen. It feels right, natural, the way we move around each other in the small space. I pull the brick of frozen pasta from the freezer while she finds a knife to cut the plastic. I pop it in the oven, setting the timer with a click.
We go back to the living room and pick up the controllers. The game is some ridiculous cartoon battle royale, and for the next hour, we lose ourselves in it. I watch her more than I watch the screen.
I watch the way her nose scrunches when she’s concentrating, the way she throws her head back and laughs when she manages to land a lucky shot on me. I love her. God, I love her so much it’s a physical ache in my chest.
But I’ve been so miserable since we broke things off, since that night, and she just… wouldn’t understand. She sees her own fear, the fear of losing a friend, but she doesn’t see the hollow, echoing space I’ve been living in, the space where a future with her was supposed to go.
After a while, Nimbus meows at our feet, a not-so-subtle reminder that it’s dinner time for him too. We pause the game, and Millie scoops his food into his bowl while I refill his water. It’s another small, domestic act that feels like coming home.
“I should probably take a shower before we eat,” I say, suddenly aware of the grime of the day on my skin.
“Of course,” she says, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Let me just grab you a towel.”
She disappears down the hall, and I follow her toward the bathroom. The door is ajar, and I push it open. The room issmall, filled with her scent—vanilla and something floral, like the body wash she uses. And then I see it. Dangling from a small hook on the back of the door is a scrap of black lace.
Her thong.
I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs. I know I should look away. I should turn around and walk out and pretend I never saw it. But I don’t. I reach out, my fingers tracing the delicate fabric. It’s soft, impossibly so. I hate myself in this moment. I hate myself for this invasive, pathetic longing. Why can’t I be worth the risk? Why can’t I be the one she trusts enough to let in all the way?
I snatch my hand back as if I’ve been burned. I turn on the shower, the sound of the water a welcome distraction. I strip off my clothes and step under the hot spray, letting it wash away the grime, the sweat, and the self-loathing.
I use her citrus-scented shampoo, the smell filling the steamy air and wrapping around me. When I’m done, I grab the fluffy pink towel she left for me and dry off, wrapping it securely around my waist.
I walk out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam following me, and find her standing by her closet, rifling through a drawer.
“I thought you could wear some of your old stuff,” she says, not looking at me. She pulls out a pair of gray sweatpants, worn soft at the knees, and a faded black T-shirt. “I, uh, I never got around to getting rid of them.”
“Thanks, Mills.”
She turns and walks toward me, holding out the clothes. Our hands brush as she passes them to me, and a sharp, undeniable spark shoots up my arm. It’s the same current that’s always flowed between us. Does she not feel that?
Of course she has to. I see it in the way her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, the way her breath catches.
She clears her throat, taking a small step back. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you a minute to get dressed,” she says, her voice a little too high.
“Okay,” I manage to say.
She turns and practically flees the room, leaving me standing there, holding a piece of our past in my hands.
Millie
He walks out of my bedroom, and my heart does a stupid, painful lurch. He’s wearing the old gray sweats I bought for him years ago, and a faded black T-shirt that’s stretched tight across his chest and shoulders.
He is so hot. It’s an unfair, cosmic joke.
After days of misery, of missing him so much it felt like a physical part of me was gone, he just walks back into my life looking like this, and I’m supposed to be rational. I’m supposed to be just his friend.
My mind is a tangled, chaotic mess. I like him. God, I like him so much it hurts to breathe. But there’s also Maddox.
The memory of his hands on my skin, the gentle way he cared for me today, the raw pain in his eyes when he showed me his bruises. I’ve liked Maddox, too. I’ve never acted on it, burying it under layers of friendship and the fear of ruining everything.
And then there’s Knox. The sheriff. The stranger. My only safe option—a man who is completely, irrevocably off-limits. A man whose presence in this town is a complication I can’t even begin to unravel.
Oh fuck!
