We’re not a thing. We’re not anything.
So why does it hurt like I just lost something?
Then—
A knock at the door.
Just one.
My heart stutters. I stop pacing, frozen, staring at the door like it might bite me. I know it’s him. I just know. And right now I have a choice, because if I open that door… something is going to happen. There’s no pretending otherwise. If I don’t open it, I know I’ll regret it.
I walk toward it slowly, my hand hovering over the knob. I inhale. Exhale. And open the door.
Cole stands there, rain pouring down on him. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead. His shirt soaked through and clinging to his chest. His jaw is tight, eyes dark. He doesn’tspeak. He just looks at me, nodding once, like he’s bracing himself.
“I’m leaving in October,” I say quietly, the truth spilling out of me.
“I know,” he says.
The door shuts behind him, firm, final and suddenly the apartment feels too small. Rain taps against the windows like it’s trying to get in on whatever stupid thing we’re about to do. Three weeks. That’s all it’s been since I walked into Cole’s life like a storm he didn’t ask for and hasn’t been able to shake since.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps closer until I can feel the damp heat rolling off him, smell rain and leather and that stupid cedar scent that’s been haunting me. His hand lifts, hesitates like he’s giving me an out, then settles on my jaw—warm, steady, thumb brushing the edge of my lip.
“Layla,” he says, voice low and scraped raw. “Tell me to leave.”
My heart slams against my ribs. I should. I know I should. Instead my fingers twist into the wet cotton of his shirt. “You should go.”
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the gray. “That’s not what I asked.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “You don’t want this, Cole. Not for real. It’s just… adrenaline or proximity or whatever the hell this is. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and—”
He kisses me.
Hard. Sudden. Like he’s tired of my words and wants to drown them. I gasp against his mouth, hands shoving at his chest even as they drag him in tighter. He tastes like storm water and bad choices, and God, I hate how much I like it. How much I’ve been thinking about it every time we’ve argued in the last three weeks. Ever since the creek.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips still brushing mine. “Stop telling me what I want.”
“I’m trying to keep us from hating each other more than we already do.”
His forehead rests against mine. His breathing is ragged. “Too late.”
He backs me into the wall—slow, deliberate, like he’s daring me to stop him. I don’t. My hands slip under his shirt instead, palms sliding over hot skin, feeling the fast thud of his heart. Three weeks of sharp words, accidental touches that lingered too long, glances that felt dangerous—and now his body is pinning mine like it belongs there.
He yanks my shirt over my head, eyes raking down my body like he’s memorizing every inch. His hands hover at my waist, flexing, like he’s fighting himself.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“So are you.”
My fingers fumble with his belt anyway. “This is a mistake.”
“Yeah.” His voice cracks on the word. “Keep saying it. Maybe it’ll stick.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his hips on instinct, thighs clamping tight, and every step he takes down the hall grinds us together until I have to bite my lip to keep quiet. He lays me on the bed—gentler than I expect—and stands there a second, chest heaving, just looking at me. Like he’s waiting for the moment I change my mind.
“Boots,” I manage, voice thin, trying to keep some control.
He doesn’t smile. Just drops to one knee, slides them off slowly, hands trailing up my calves, my thighs. When he hooks his fingers in my shorts and drags them down with my panties, he pauses—eyes locked on mine, giving me the out again.
