A huff of laughter. “Because I actually want to get it right.” His voice drops. “Because for the first time, I'm not sure I could bounce back if I messed it up.”
I hold my hand in my lap to stop it from reaching out to him. When did Troy Hawkins—campus golden boy, walking ego, perpetual thorn in my side—become so real? So honest?
“I watch Freddie and Alex, or Alfie and Tara, and they make it look so easy. Like they know exactly who they are together. But what if I don't know how to do that? What if I'm too... broken from all that early shit to ever get it right?”
I don't have a sarcastic comeback this time. Because I understand exactly what he means. The fear that maybe we missed some crucial lesson about love that everyone else somehow learned. The terror of building something with someone only to watch it crumble because you didn't know how to hold it properly.
“And the stupid thing is,” he continues, looking at his hands, “I've spent years being the guy who doesn't care toomuch. The one who keeps it casual, who doesn't get attached. And now...” he trails off.
“Now what?” I ask quietly.
He meets my gaze, and it costs him something. But he holds it. “Now I find myself wanting something I'm not sure I know how to have. Because you make me see myself clearer than I have before.”
We sit in silence for a while after he says it.
That he wants something he doesn't know how to have.
Like it's just a fact. Like he doesn't realize how easily that sentence could splinter something inside me if I let it. I fold the tinfoil slowly, trying to keep my face neutral. Trying not to look too long at the way he's studying the scuffed floor like it's safer than looking at me.
And I can't help it—my brain goes to all the girls who must have heard versions of this before. Who thought they were special enough to fix him. Who thought they could be the one to break through those walls.
I don't usually let myself feel jealous. I try not to. I learned a long time ago that comparing yourself to others is just a shortcut to disappointment. But right now, I feel it—deep and sharp.
What makesmedifferent? What makes me the one who could possibly navigate this minefield when others have tried and failed?
I glance at him.
He was supposed to be the guy who kept it casual. The one who never got in deep enough to get hurt. The boy who charmed his way through college without ever having to try too hard, to care too much. The guy who never had to face rejection because he always left first.
But maybe, that was just an armor he built to protect himself. Maybe underneath all that easy confidence is someone as afraid as I am.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. My mind flashes back to the other night—his hands on my skin, his mouth... God, I can't even think about it without feeling flushed.
“About the other night,” I say before I can lose my nerve, my voice barely above a whisper. “When we...” I trail off, not quite able to say the words.
His eyes darken slightly. “When I made you come?”
Heat floods my cheeks. Leave it to Troy to be blunt when I'm struggling to find words. He doesn't hide behind euphemisms or dance around what he wants. It's infuriating and oddly refreshing at the same time.
“Yeah, that,” I manage, staring intently at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I just... I think maybe we should be careful. With the project and everything, it could get…messy.”
I risk glancing up at him, expecting to see that trademark smirk, that cocky confidence that says he knows exactly how much I wanted him then. How much a part of me still does.
But instead, his expression is thoughtful, almost gentle.
“Look, I get it. You're unsure,” he says, leaning back slightly. “About this. About me.”
I blink, surprised by his perception. How does he see right through me when most people can't even tell when I'm upset?
“I won't kiss you again unless you ask me to, or you kiss me first,” he continues, his voice steady but with an undercurrent I can't quite place. "We're project partners, I know how much winning means to you and that comes first. I promise I won’t let my feelings get in the way.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless.
“That's... probably for the best,” I say, trying to ignore the strange twinge of disappointment that follows. Did I want him to fight harder? To persuade me? The realization unsettles me.
“I'm not good with relationships either, you know, or people in general,” I admit.
He looks up.
