Holden has sent me three restaurant options as a tease, not telling me where we’re actually going. I would’ve found it funny if my nervous system wasn’t such a fucking mess.
What is my deal? I love going out to eat. I do. It’s been my thing since… well, forever. And I especially love going out with Holden. So why am I freaking out?
Because it’s not the date, exactly. It’s… everything else.
It’s me.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I exhale hard through my nose. I can do this.
My fingers brush over a fitted burgundy top that Holden’s eyes went dark for before he caught himself staring. Heat creeps up my neck immediately, but I yank my hand away like the shirt burned me.
“Nope.”
Doesn’t feel right.
I grab the black button-down instead and toss it onto the bed. Masculine enough. Safe enough. Comfortable. It smells faintly like detergent and the cedar sachets I keep shoved in the dresser drawers. But then I look at it, and I know.
This isn’t the right choice either.
Not because I hate it. I don’t. Some days this is me. Some days I look in the mirror dressed like this and feel settled through every cell of my body.
Today just isn’t one of those days.
That’s the problem.
My skin is tight and hot and just… wrong.
I press my palm against the edge of the dresser and stare at my reflection in the mirror across the room. Loose sweatpants. Sports bra. Red hair that’s half dry from my shower, curling around my ears. I should be nearly ready by now, not standing here dressed like…this.
There’s this weird pressure in my chest that I can’t seem to get rid of. Because IwantHolden to look at me that way again.
Not just look at me. I want that expression again. That helpless, startledholy fuckexpression he sometimes gets when I wear something soft or fitted or unmistakably feminine. Like his brain short-circuits for a second before he remembers how to function.
Now that I know that look, Icravethat look. Even when it terrifies me. Even when there’s still a part—a big part—that’s wondering what the fuck we’re doing and when this is going to ruin us.
Because it will. When this falls apart, Holden and I won’t be the same. Our lifelong friendship will be permanently altered in a way I don’t think we can come back from. Not when we know how well our bodies fit together or the sounds we make when we make love.
My fingers flex against the old, worn wood.
It’s not as fast as it feels.
It’s what I’ve been telling myself these last few weeks—like if I can convince myself we’ve reached the turning point in a torturously-slow, slow-burn romance, it’ll all make sense.
Instead, it feels like an insta-love story where everything changed all at once.
I reach for the black shirt again, frustrated.
I know what the issue is even if I don’t want to say it. The tightness and discomfort are coming backbecausewe’re doing this.
It’s just the truth.
I haven’t felt this out of sorts about my body since I stopped dating. Not really. I’ve dressed for myself and only myself for three years. But now… knowing what Holden’s gaze feels like, suddenly I’m looking at my clothes like they have a hotness meter attached.
Getting dressed doesn’t feel like self-expression anymore. It feels more like… performing.
I hate that thought instantly.
My stomach twists.
