27
PEYTON
Five days pass.
One hundred and twenty hours.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m absolutely counting.
Things with Daltyn have settled into a routine again, technically. Coffee in the mornings. Breakfast in the cabin. He drives me wherever I need to go because my ankle is still healing, and apparently, letting me drive myself anywhere would cause his soul to leave his body.
He still checks that my boot isn’t too tight. Still asks if I’ve eaten. Still brings me coffee without asking. Still notices every wince, every shift, every time I try to hide that my ankle aches.
But he doesn’t touch me unless he has to.
Not like before.
There’s no casual hand at the small of my back. No fingers brushing mine and lingering. No hovering close enough that I forget how breathing works. No almost-kisses. No actual kisses.
Just careful distance wrapped in caretaking. Which somehow hurts worse.
He still acts like I matter. Just not enough to want me.
Or maybe that’s not fair.
Maybe he wants me too much, and that’s the problem.
I don’t know anymore.
All I know is that I’m tired of feeling like I’m living inside a question he refuses to answer.
By the time Saturday evening rolls around, I’m already emotionally bruised before we even leave for Connor and Allie’s house.
Daltyn stands near the front door, keys in hand, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a black Avalanche hoodie.
I’m wearing jeans, the CAM boot for the last time, and one of his oversized hoodies because I’m apparently incapable of making healthy emotional choices.
His eyes flick over me, then stop on the hoodie, darkening for half a second.
Then it disappears behind that guarded expression I’ve come to hate.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yep.”
His jaw flexes like he hears the sharp edge in my voice.
Good. Maybe he should.
The drive is quiet. Not uncomfortable in the way it was at first, when everything between us was uncertain and new.
This is worse.
This is quiet layered with history.
Quiet because of a kiss we haven’t talked about. Quiet because of everything he won’t say.
