I swallow.
“We’re not kids hiding behind curtains anymore,” he says.
“And what are we now?”
He studies me like that answer is obvious.
“Still interested.”
My heart stumbles.
“That’s bold.”
“I’ve learned.”
“From pretending?”
He almost smiles. “From regretting.”
That hits.
I step down one bleacher, forcing space back between us.
He doesn’t close it immediately this time.
“Breakfast,” he says instead. “After this. Café in the sports store. Thirty minutes. Public. Safe. I won’t even sit too close.”
“That sounds like a date.”
“It sounds like eggs.”
“With unresolved history.”
“Adds flavor.”
I hate that I almost laugh.
“I don’t do breakfast with boys who humiliate me,” I say.
“I didn’t humiliate you.”
“You let it happen.”
A beat.
“I won’t do that again,” he says.
The confidence in it is dangerous.
Because part of me believes him.
“It’s a no,” I say carefully.
“For now?”
“Don’t push.”
He lifts his hands slightly in surrender.
