Page 60 of The Exit Strategy

His mouth is warm and tastes like bourbon. And whenhis thumb traces my jaw, my lids fall shut. I fall into the sensations of it, of him.

Cole drops his hand from my face and anchors at my waist. Like he’s holding onto something he’s been reaching for across a distance he created, and now that he has, his body doesn’t know how to hold it gently.

I savor the way each finger digs into my skin. Hope that it will leave marks—proof that this isn’t all in my imagination. Because this? It will be the thing that destroys me if it goes wrong.

Not my viral video. Not Paul or Grace or any of the small betrayals that cracked the surface. This is the foundation. He is my fault line. If Cole Whittaker breaks my heart a second time, there won’t be enough spite in the world to put me back together.

He drops his forehead to mine when I pull back first because I’m out of air.

It’s also my pattern now. Feel something real, then run before it can be taken from you.

Textbook Juniper Mercer.

His hands fall from my body in slow motion. I see the exact moment he lets me go—the way his fingers curl inward reluctantly, like they’re memorizing the shape of what they just held.

“Um. Thank you,” I whisper.

Just before I run.

“Junie.”He knocks on the bathroom door where I’ve been sitting in the dark for an undetermined amount of time.

“It’s fine.” Internally, I cringe. “I’m fine.” Fuck with thedouble fine.

“Come out here and talk to me.” He always did like barking orders.

Yeah, that’s a no.

The handle rattles, and then to my utter horror, a drill sounds. The door leans sideways, then he rips it off its hinges, places it in the hallway, then returns and sets a candle down on the counter.

“The lock has always caught,” he says, shrugging at my WTF expression.

He stares down at me, sitting on the toilet lid with my knees pulled up to my chest. When I don’t say anything, he sighs. “There’s a break in the rain.”

Does that mean it’s time to go home? Can I flee his house without having to hear him call this a mistake?

“Junie, I?—”

Oh, God. Here it comes.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp. “Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. Don’t—” …make me a mistake you have to fix.

He closes his mouth and nods. I use the moment of silence to slip past him and find my shoes in the mudroom.

“Where are you going?”

“I should—home,” I say, grabbing the umbrella I used earlier. Hopefully he doesn’t need it.

“The stairs?—”

“Will be fine.”

His brows lift in surprise, right before he shuts me out with another wall.

“Good night, Cole.”

“I’ll walk you over.”

“No need.” I’m already on the porch.