“He’s 100% thinking about it right now.”
I bite my lip. “I’m thinking about it too.”
“I know.”
I hang up, walking up the stairs to my apartment, still floating, still breathless.
Inside, I lean against the door after it shuts.
My pulse finally slows, and my breathing evens.
The night settles around me like warm water.
I whisper into the quiet:
“Tuesday.”
Saturday morning arrives far too bright for how little I slept.
Not because of nightmares.
Because ofhim.
The almost-kiss replayed all night in a loop so vivid I swear I can still feel his hand on my waist every time I inhale.
I finally roll out of bed around ten, hair a mess, mental state a messier mess, and make coffee.
My phone buzzes just as the machine sputters to life.
Colt: Morning. Hope you slept better than I did.
I stare, trying not to read into it.
I fail.
Elena: Morning. I slept fine. Mostly. How’s Mom?
Colt: “Mostly” feels accurate.
I grip my mug tighter.
Every text is like a little pull on a thread I’m pretending doesn’t exist.
We exchange only a few messages the rest of the day. Light. Harmless.
Elena: How’s Momma?
Colt: She’s doing better. Thanks for asking.
Elena: I’m glad. Tell her I hope she feels better soon.
He replies with a heart emoji.
Not a red one.
A blue one, which feels Innocent and friendly.
But my stomach still flips like I’m sixteen.
