She gives me a look. The look that saysgirl, please.
“Fine. I have… feelings. Strong feelings. Confusing feelings.” I take a long drink. “When I’m with him, I feel—I don’t know. Seen. Like he actually pays attention to who I am, not who he wants me to be.”
“That’s because he does. Have you noticed how he watches you? Like you’re the only person in the room.”
I have noticed. It’s one of the things that terrified me at first—the intensity of his attention. Derek’s attention always felt like surveillance. Like he was cataloging my flaws, storing ammunition for later.
Banks’s attention feels different. Protective. Curious. Like he’s trying to understand me, not control me.
“He’s certainly not like anyone I’ve ever been with,” I say.
“That’s a good thing, Win.”
“Is it?” I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be with someone who’s actually… good.
The word feels inadequate. Banks isn’t just good. He’s solid, dependable, fiercely loyal. He shows up. He pays attention. He asks if things areokay instead of assuming.
And God, the way he touches me.
I flash back to last night—his fingers sliding between my legs, finding exactly the right spot like he’d studied a map of my body. The sounds he made when I wrapped my hand around him. The way his eyes went dark and desperate when I sank to my knees.
You could have warned me, I’d said.
Warned you about what?Like he genuinely didn’t understand.
Like he had no idea he was packing something that could qualify as a concealed weapon.
“You’re blushing,” Tori observes. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing!”
“Liar. You’re thinking about sex stuff. I can tell.”
“I’m not—”
“Your whole face is red. Your ears are red. You’re definitely thinking about sex stuff.” She grins. “Was it good? It was good, wasn’t it? Tell me it was good.”
“It was…” I search for a word that won’t make me combust from embarrassment. “Unexpected.”
“Unexpected how?”
“Just… unexpected.” I can’t look at her. “In a good way. In a very good way.”
“Oh my gosh.” Tori claps her hands together. “He’s secretly amazing in bed, isn’t he? It’s always the quiet ones. The big, grumpy, emotionally constipated ones who turn out to be absolute animals behind closed doors—”
“Wedidn’t have sex.”
“You had something. Something that’s making you blush like a virgin on prom night.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Details. Now. Best friend privilege.”
I bury my face in a throw pillow. “I can’t.”
“You can. You must. I demand it.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m supportive.” Her lips twitch. “There’s a difference.”
I lift my face from the pillow and take a fortifying breath. “He’s… generous. Attentive. Very focused on making sure I—” I make a vague gesture. “Before he… “—another vague gesture—”and when I saw—” A third gesture, this one more emphatic.
