“Eventually.”
He stands. Sitting down, Tristan is handsome. Standing up, he’s an event.
“I’ll walk you.”
I stop. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
No performance. No smirk. Just quiet, masculine certainty.
I shoulder my bag and fall into step beside him.
The athletic complex at this hour belongs to the overtrained and the almost-broken. We walk in silence that never feels awkward with him—which is also part of the danger. He knows how to use silence the way other people use charm.
For twelve whole seconds I refuse to be that girl.
Then I glance up. “You look terrible.”
“That your version of flirting?”
“It’s my version of honesty.”
He nods. “Then yes. I’m exhausted.”
“You played like a psycho at practice tonight.”
“So did you.”
I stop. “You watched?”
“Of course I watched.”
My stomach flips.
We push through the glass doors into cold night. Campus at this hour feels suspended—silver paths, dark palms, the faint smell of damp concrete and eucalyptus. We take the long way without commenting on it.
“You say things like that,” I say lightly, “and one day I’m going to think you mean them.”
He goes very still. Then he looks at me, really looks, tired athletes under bad lighting and all.
“I do mean them.”
And somehow that feels worse. Because it’s not a lie. It’s just not enough. Not yet.
I force a smile. “Great. That’ll make the emotional ruin more convincing.”
His mouth twitches.
We keep walking. Past fountains. Across brick. A couple guys on bikes coast by and one glances at me, then at Tristan, and immediately looks forward like he remembered God.
“Problem?” Tristan asks without turning his head.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“You planning to tackle a cyclist?”
