Answer me, Texas. You alive?
Becca sees the name over my shoulder and lifts one brow.
I look from the screen to the roses to Drew’s note in her hand.
Then I close my eyes.
Because somewhere in this very stupid mess is the beginning of a disaster.
The knock comes just after Becca leaves with a promise to bring back real food and zero judgment.
I’m half-asleep on the futon, leg throbbing in that deep, nauseating way that makes the edges of the room soft. The pain meds have me woozy—floaty in the head, heavy in the body. I shouldn’t be answering the door. I know that. But the knock comes again, low and patient, and something in me moves before good sense catches up.
I grab the crutches propped against the bed and haul myself up. The long t-shirt I’m wearing—some oversized thing from a 5K I ran two years ago—skims right up over my hips when I stand. Too painful to wrestle into shorts or pants over the brace and the swelling and the ice. So it’s just me, bare legs, one thigh angry and braced, hair tumbling out of the knot I gave up on fixing hours ago.
I hobble to the door, every step a fresh reminder that my season might be over before it really started.
I open it.
Drew Travers.
Leaning one shoulder against the frame like he has all the time in the world. Ripped cut-off shirt, the kind he likes—sleeves hacked off at the shoulders, fabric straining across a chest that looks like it was carved by someone who enjoys violence. Arms folded. Shorts slung low on his hips. Sandals. Bruises blooming along the sharp line of his jaw and cheekbone, fresh and purpled. His mouth is broody, full, the kind of mouth that looks like it argues for sport.
He smells like clean gym soap and trouble.
My eyes widen before I can stop them. The pain meds are definitely the reason my nipples tighten against the thin cotton of the shirt. Definitely.
His gaze drops, slow, taking in the t-shirt, the bare legs, the brace. Something flickers in his eyes—heat, concern, something darker—before he drags it back up to my face. He leans down a little, close enough that I can see the fresh scrape along his cheekbone.
“What happened to you?” I ask. My voice comes out raspier than I mean it to.
“Took a few hits at a scrimmage.” He shrugs one massive shoulder. The motion makes the cut-off shirt ride higher, exposing a strip of tan stomach and the waistband of his shorts. “Nothing I couldn’t walk off.”
He straightens, eyes on mine, and asks, “Can I come in?”
I grip the crutches tighter. “I’m not really up for company.”
His eyes flick past me into the dorm—Becca’s side neat, mine a disaster of pillows and ice packs and textbooks I haven’t opened. Then they come back to me. And the brown paper bag in his hand.
I didn’t even notice it until now. Grease stains at the bottom. The unmistakable smell of lemongrass and coconut and spice curling out like it was designed to break me.
My stomach betrays me with an audible growl.
Drew’s mouth curves, slow and dangerous. He dangles the bag in front of me like a lure. “Yep. Papaya Thai. Little birdie told me it’s your favorite.”
I stare at the bag. Then at him. Then at the bruises on his face that somehow make him look even more like the kind of mistake I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“You’ll love me someday.”
That gets my back up so fast I almost drop a crutch. But the smell of the food is stronger than my pride. I step back—well, hobble back—and let him in.
He moves past me like he belongs here, all broad shoulders and low-slung confidence. The door clicks shut behind him.
“Netflix and chill, babe.”
“Stop calling me babe.”
