Page 164 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

They’re I-hate-missing-yous.

After six nights without him, my obsessed heart’s hurling itself against my ribcage,

snorting his cologne,

drunk on his lips,

overdosing on his touch,

begging to be broken by him again.

He keeps me close, thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbone. “Still hurts?” he asks.

“No.” I step back, and his hand fall away. “I’ve felt worse. This? This is nothing.”

He leans against the pool table,

gaze drifting down my legs,

sliding across my bare stomach,

my chest,

tracing my mouth,

back to my eyes.

His hands flex around the table’s edge, fighting every cell that’s starved for my skin.

I cross my arms, falling back another step. “So what’s the deal? Why am I here?”

He looks down,

fixing the bottom hem of his shirt.

He’s nervous.

He’s about to say something stupid.

Or something that’ll piss me off.

“Allison—”

I turn statue,

bracing for whatever’s about to drop⁠—

bomb or bullshit.

I’m counting the seconds.

He’s taking his time, debating whether he’s sure he wants to say it, and already hating my response.

Which only makes me more nervous.

When he meets my eyes again,

his shoulders sink.