“Sure,” he says, wiping his face. “And that's why you've been staring at your phone all week, smiling every time Delilah texts you back, and moping around when she doesn’t.”
My smile falters for a split second before I catch myself. “Don't know what you're talking about, man.”
Delilah and I are taking things slow. We’ve not really spoken about feelings or anything official since the night of truth or dare but I have a good feeling about this.
Freddie gives me a look that says he's not buying it. “Whatever you say, bro. Just remember—if you expect Ethan to open up, maybe you should try it sometime.”
I force another grin. “I'm an open book.”
“Whatever you say,” he mutters, moving to the next station.
I follow him, the weight on the bar suddenly feeling like nothing compared to the pressure in my chest that I refuse to acknowledge. Because that's what I do—I carry everyone else's problems so they don't have to. I make sure Ethan's okay, that Tara's happy, that Mom doesn't worry.
I don't have time to not be fine. And admitting Delilah's getting to me? That would mean admitting I might be in trouble here.
That for once, I don't have all the answers.
So instead, I add another plate to the next machine and push until my muscles scream louder than my thoughts.
A couple days later,Delilah's sitting cross-legged on the floor of our living room, laptop balanced on her thighs, eyebrows scrunched in that way she does when she's concentrating so hard she forgets the world exists.
It's unfair, really. The way she looks so serious and hot all at once.
She's surrounded by about fourteen pages of printed research on native wildflowers, two highlighters, a coffee that's now cold, and the hoodie I gave her three hours ago that she's still wearing like it's hers.
It might be hers now. I don't know. I don't care. Except that's bullshit because seeing her in my clothes is doing weird things to my brain. Like, caveman-level weird. Mine.Which is not a thought I should be having about my project partner.
She chews on the inside of her cheek, types something, huffs, mutters, “No, that's too much irrigation for these species,” then deletes the whole thing.
I smile. She's so fucking intense about everything—even flowers.
“Want me to take a look?” I offer, trying to sound casual.
“No,” she says without looking up. “You'll say it's perfect and then distract me with your biceps or some shit.”
I laugh, ridiculously pleased she's noticed my gym time is paying off. “I mean... you could say please.”
That earns me a glare over the top of her laptop. “Please stop talking.”
I hold up my hands. “Got it. Silent support. My specialty.”
Freddie walks in, grabs a water from the fridge, and glances at Delilah. Then at me. Then back at Delilah wearing my hoodie. His face does this annoying thing where he's clearly thinking something he's not saying.
He raises an eyebrow. “Still working?”
Delilah nods, barely acknowledging his existence.
I shrug. “She wanted to get it done early. I'm not gonna argue with that.”
Freddie grins, that shit-eating grin he gets when he thinks he knows something. “You're so whipped.”
I flip him off. He doesn't even flinch, just smirks harder.
Delilah's oblivious to all of this. When Freddie heads back upstairs, I shift so I'm sitting beside her. She doesn't say anything, just leans into me slightly—like it's muscle memory.
Like we do this all the time. Like she's not usually ready to bite my head off if I breathe too close to her.
And it hits me right there, in the quiet of our living roomwith her typing away about goddamn pollinator species: I'm completely, irreversibly fucked.
