Mr. Wet-Pants-Wonder, your forearms make me feel stupid.
I cross it out immediately, then scribble a few more lines. They get scratched out too, so hard that the paper almost tears.
Milo watches me, amused, one brow arched. “Struggling?”
“Shut up,” I snap back. “This is harder than it looks.”
I try again, something softer.
Your quiet steadiness makes the chaos feel safe.
I stare at the words, then cross them out hard, nearly tearing the paper. No way am I admitting I want him. Not like this. Not this fucking soon.
The attraction is ridiculous. I’ve known him for five days. That’s it. Yet every time Milo looks at me, heat curls low in my stomach, and my pulse kicks up as if I’ve been running, even though I’ve been standing still the whole time.
I keep writing. Crossing shit out. Rewriting. The page is a disaster of half-finished lines and tiny hearts I keep scribbling over like they’ll expose me. My knee bounces faster under the table, a restless energy buzzing through my thighs. I try to play it cool, but my fingers grip the pencil tighter, tapping quicker, and the chair creaks under the constant jitter of my leg.
There’s got to be some kind of drug in the air, because I don’t get this worked up over a guy.Ever. But Milo? He’s making me wet just thinking about what those hands could do.
Milo’s eyes drop to my bouncing knee, lingering for a second before sliding back to my face. “You okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, way too fast. I force my leg to stop moving. It lasts maybe three seconds before it starts again. “Just… thinking about the massage. And the poem. And everything else on that ridiculous bingo card. Busy day ahead, you know?”
He doesn’t look convinced. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts in that quietly amused way that makes my stomach flip. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim like he’s enjoying the show.
A few minutes later, I finish writing. I fold the paper once and slide it across the table toward him, careful not to let him see what I wrote. “There. Done. And before you ask, no, you can’t read it. The card only said we had towritesomething, not share it.”
Milo picks up the folded note, turning it over between his fingers. “You’re nervous.” He says, matter-of-factly.
“I’m not nervous.” I roll my eyes, even as my pulse kicks harder.
“You are,” he smirks. “It’s cute.”
“And you’re annoying,” I mutter, pushing the notepad and pencil toward him. “Your turn. Write something about me so I don’t feel like the only one exposed here. Make it flattering. And funny. And don’t mention the knee bouncing or the inability to sit still or how I talk too much or?—”
“So… lie?” He raises an eyebrow.
I kick his shin under the table. “Asshole.”
He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through me. “Careful there, Sienna. I might write about that violent streak of yours.”
I give him a blank look.
While he starts writing, I can’t stop watching his hands—strong, steady, veins faintly visible as the pencil moves acrossthe page. The quiet scratch of lead is weirdly intimate in the space between us.
I clear my throat, needing to fill the silence before I overthink everything. “So… after the massage, want to hit the pool? Aria texted me this morning and told me she and Ethan were going to be there all day.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He murmurs without looking up.
He finishes writing, folds the paper with deliberate care, and slides it back to me. For a moment, we sit there in silence with two folded secrets between us, plates half-finished, morning light spilling across the table and catching in his eyes.
I grab my phone and hold it up. “Say cheesy cat!”
He leans in close, holding my folded poem like it’s something valuable, while I clutch his. We both grin at the camera. The picture snaps, and I set my phone down, suddenly hyper-aware of how close our hands are.
“I should go get ready for the massage, I guess,” I say, starting to stand.
Milo’s hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist gently but firmly. His thumb strokes slowly along the sensitive skin on the inside, sending little sparks racing up my arm.
