And we’re back to Banks. Of course we are.
“He didn’t make them do anything,” I argue. “He just… shifted the dynamic.”
“By claiming you in front of everyone.”
“It’s not as medieval as you’re making it sound.”
“It’s a little medieval. In a hot way.” Tori grins. “Come on, admit it. There’s something satisfying about having a six-foot-four wall of muscle glaringat anyone who looks at you wrong.”
She’s not wrong.
“What if I’m just confused?” I ask quietly. “What if I’m projecting? He’s being nice to me, and I’m starved for niceness after Derek, and my brain is just… misinterpreting signals?”
Tori considers this. “Is that what you think is happening?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” I stare at my half-painted toenails. “Derek was charming too, in the beginning. He made me feel special. And look how that turned out.”
“Banks is nothing like Derek.”
“You don’t know that. I don’t know that. I barely know him at all.”
“You know enough.” Tori reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You know he gave you his protein bars when you were hungry. You know he fought a guy for hitting Zayden. You know he calls to check on you and says goodnight like it matters. Those aren’t charm tactics, Win. Those are just… him.”
My phone buzzes in my bag. I reach in and grab it.
“Is it him?” Tori asks, grinning.
Banks:You busy?
That’s it. Two words. No context. Classic Banks.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Tori is practically vibrating with glee.
“Shut up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I’m busy.”
I look around the nail salon, at Tori’s expectant expression, at my half-finished pedicure.
“I’m getting my nails done.”
“Tell him that. See what he says.”
I shouldn’t engage. This is how it starts—the texting, the checking in, the slow erosion of boundaries until you can’t remember where the act ends and the real begins.
But my fingers are already typing.
Me: Getting a pedicure with Tori. Why?
The response comes faster than I expected.
Banks: Charity gala coming up. Need a date.
My heart does something complicated.
Me:Are you asking me to a gala via text?
