Page 149 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THEO

The door bursts open behind me just as I reach my bike, footsteps hitting the pavement hard and fast, getting closer, and I close my eyes for half a second because of course he fucking followed me.

“Theo, wait.”

I grab the handlebars, already swinging my leg over when Connor’s hand closes around my wrist.

Pain shoots up my arm at the sudden pull, sharp enough to drag a sound out of me, tangled up with the frustration already choking me. I rip my wrist out of his grip and turn on him.

“Go back inside, Connor.”

Even to my own ears, I sound fucking exhausted.

Not angry. I wish I was angry. Anger I know what to do with.

This is worse.

Connor shakes his head. “No.”

He steps closer instead, and my eyes catch on him. He’s still wearing my fucking clothes. My T-shirt hanging off him. My joggers sitting low on his hips. He looks like he belongs in them, which feels like another kick to the chest after everything that just happened upstairs.

His eyes move over my face, a crease digging between his brows, and then his attention darts away.

Around us.

The street. The houses. The windows.

Checking.

Bitterness twists in my stomach.

Then his eyes snap back to mine. “Why are you acting like this?”

I stare at him.

For a second, I genuinely don’t know what to say.

A disbelieving scoff slips out of me. “You can’t be serious.”

Connor shifts, some of the certainty disappearing from his face. His gaze flickers away again, and there it is. That same inability to fucking look at me whenever this gets too close to something he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Oh, fucking hell.”

I shove a hand through my hair, dragging it back hard enough to sting my scalp. I want to get on the bike. I want to leave. More than anything, I want him to stop looking at me like he doesn’t understand why I’m pissed off when we both know exactly how this ends.

I blow out a slow breath, forcing some of the anger down because I don’t want to do this.

Not here.

Not with him.

“Just go back inside,” I say again, quieter now.

I’m not telling him anymore.

I’m fucking asking.