I don’t open my eyes.
But I feel him watching me.
And I know—deep in the woozy, traitorous part of my brain—that if he keeps touching me like this, I’m going to forget why I was supposed to be careful with him in the first place.
The futon creaks again when he shifts closer.
I don’t move away.
Outside, somewhere on campus, my phone buzzes with another text from Tristan.
I don’t reach for it.
Not yet.
His hand keeps moving. Slower now. Lower. The heel of his palm glides down the length of my spine, then curves around myside, fingers spreading wide over the thin cotton of my t-shirt. The heat of him sinks straight through the fabric. My breath catches. He doesn’t stop. His thumb strokes once, twice, just under the swell of my breast before his hand keeps traveling—down, down—skimming the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip, until his fingers brush the bare skin where the t-shirt has ridden up.
I turn my head.
It’s not a decision. It’s gravity.
His mouth is right there.
The kiss is nothing like Tristan’s.
Tristan’s was warm. Steady. Careful. Like he was afraid I might shatter. This one is hot and wet and unexpected—Drew’s mouth slanting over mine with zero hesitation, like he’s been waiting all night for permission he never actually asked for. His tongue sweeps in, deep and sure, and I moan into it before I can stop myself. The sound is small and needy and I feel it vibrate between us. I want more. God, I want more. My good hand fists in the front of his cut-off shirt, dragging him closer. The meds make everything spin and soft and too much, but this—this feels sharp and real and exactly what my body has been begging for since he walked through the door.
His hand slides back up. Slower this time. Deliberate. It skims over my breast on the way, thumb brushing the tight peak through the cotton, and I arch into it without thinking. He makes a low sound in his throat that shoots straight between my legs.
Then the pain hits.
Searing. Sudden. My hamstring locks up like someone drove a hot knife through it. I gasp and bury the sound against his mouth, body going rigid.
Drew pulls back instantly. His brow furrows, eyes dark and worried. “Fuck, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He straightens my leg out with careful hands, adjusting the pillows, then runs his fingers through my hair, pushing it back from my damp forehead. His hand is shaking. I feel it when he skims it over my t-shirt again—down my side, over the curve of my hip, then back up. This time the path is slower. Intentional. His palm drags over my breast again, cupping it for one suspended second before he forces himself to keep moving, like he can’t quite make himself stop touching me even while he’s apologizing.
“Drew,” I breathe, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. We should stop.”
He freezes.
Everything in him goes still—except the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the hard line of his jaw. His eyes search mine. Then something shifts. Darkens.
“Vale?” The name comes out low and rough, like it tastes bad in his mouth. “You’re thinking about him when you’re in my arms right now?”
His face is flushed—cheeks dark from desire and something sharper. Anger. Jealousy. It makes him look even more dangerous than usual.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
But it’s too late.
Drew is already moving. He stands up in one fluid motion, and there’s no hiding it. He’s hard. Thick and heavy and straining against the front of his gym shorts, the outline obscene in the low light from the TV. He doesn’t try to adjust or hide or apologize for it. He just stands there, breathing hard, looking down at me like I just gutted him.
“You’ll regret choosing a man who will never choose you back,” he says, voice flat and cutting. “And I might just be gone the day you realize that.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
He turns, grabs his keys off the coffee table, and walks out. The door clicks shut behind him with a finality that echoes in my chest.
