That’s it.
But this weekend…
This weekend feels different. Easy. Light. Like I accidentally stepped into a version of my life where things don’t revolve around deadlines and exhaustion.
Like I had something real.
Except I don’t.
None of this is mine.
It’s just… pretend.
I glance up at him.
“It would be nice. The office,” I admit. “But it’s not necessary.”
For a moment, he hovers, uncertain, like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself in his own kitchen. It’s odd seeing him like this. He’s nothing like the imposing teenager who used to tower over me in the high school hallways. Nothing like the ruthless athlete whose body checks make highlight reels. Finally, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits. His fingers trace invisible patterns on the wooden tabletop.
“No, it’s fine, really,” he says. “This stuff shouldn’t be out here where Livy can spill something on it. You need a place to work. I don’t.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.
“I just want you to be comfortable here, Jenna.” His voice softens a little. “Don’t… Don’t hold back because of me… Us, okay?”
That lands somewhere I don’t want it to. I swallow and sit down next to him, a little too aware of how close that puts us.
He’s different like this. When it’s just the two of us. Less guarded. Like the version of him everyone else sees is something he puts on, and this—this is what’s underneath. As if he’s kind of shy in public, but not with me.
And annoyingly, something in my chest reacts to it.
Which is a problem.
Because I’m reading into things. Ialwaysread into things.
That kiss? He was awkward after. Really awkward. Which probably means he didn’t want it. Or that he regrets it. Or that he sees me as… I don’t know. A friend. A responsibility. Someone who invaded his private life. Definitely not whatever my brain is trying to turn this into.
I need to stop. People being nice to me shouldn’t feel like a life-altering event. This is an arrangement. A mutually beneficial, very logical, arrangement.
That’s it.
“Thank you,” I say, a little more quietly than I intend. “I still feel bad for kind of… pushing you into this.”
His head snaps up immediately. “No. Don’t.” He swallows. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he adds. “For how I acted after. I was just… surprised. That’s all. You’re doing a lot for us, Jenna. More than I expected anyone ever would. Nothing’s going to change that. I’ll be forever grateful for you.”
My chest does that stupid, tight thing again.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.
Instead, there’s this sudden burn behind my eyes, and I have a split second to panic becauseno. Absolutely not. If I start crying right now, I might actually die on the spot.
This is ridiculous.
It’s just a few kind words. That’s it.
So why does it feel like too much?
God. Am I really this starved for kindness? For someone to be… decent?
