Page 258 of Rush

Broderick.

Apology written all over his face. Black coat. Damp hair. Hands shoved deep in his pockets like he’s not sure what to do with them.

“Hey.”

“I wanted to see you,” he says quietly. “You’ve been quiet.”

I fold my arms over my stomach. “You’ve been busy.”

“Not that busy.”

The silence between us stretches—thick, heavy.

“I came to apologize.”

“For what?” I tilt my head, feigning innocence. I already know. I want to hear him say it.

“For New Year’s.” He shifts but doesn’t look away. “I lost my shit. Caveman took over. I hate that you saw me like that.”

“You were just defending me.” I shrug.

“No.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “I was claiming you. That’s not the same.” His voice roughens. “And I hated how he looked at you—like he still had a right. After what he did.”

Heat stirs in my chest—anger, shame, want, all at once.

He’s close now. Close enough to smell the crisp mountain air after a storm.

“Elena, you deserve better. Better than him. Better than someone who disappears when it’s hard, who shows up just to take.”

I look away. My throat burns.

I’m still sore in all the places I can’t name—from Alex, from myself, from every time I mistook chaos for love.

Then Broderick says the one thing I can’t fight. “I miss you.”

And just like that, my defenses crack.

Before I can stop myself, I grab his shirt and kiss him—hard, messy, desperate. Maybe if I kiss him enough, those feelings from New Years Eve will come back.

His hands find my hips. I press closer, tugging at his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. But then—he catches my wrist.

“Elena—” His voice breaks against my lips.

“I need this,” I whisper. “I need you.”

He pulls back, just enough to make it hurt. “Not like this.”

“You don’t want me?” The question slips out small, pathetic.

His expression softens, but his jaw is tight. I see the war in his eyes.

“No, baby,” he says, hands braced on my shoulders, grounding me. “I’m not fucking you again until we go on a real date.”

The words hit like cold water.

“Come again?”

He just looks at me—steady, sure, smug bastard.