Page 182 of Make Me Mean It

“You’re literally sitting here discussing who fucks who in a relationship you’re not part of.”

Marcus’s face twists. “Do not call it a relationship while we’re talking about fucking. I’m still adjusting.”

That does pull a quiet laugh out of me, rough enough that my split lip immediately protests.

I hiss and run my tongue carefully over it.

“Serves you right,” Marcus mutters.

“You fucking did it.”

“Still.”

I roll my eyes, but the anger I had when he sat down has mostly drained out of me now, leaving behind something heavier.

My phone is still in my hand.

I look down before I can stop myself and tap the screen awake.

There it is again.

Connor’s hand threaded through mine.

Missing you.

My chest tightens exactly the same way it did the first time.

I stare at the picture, taking in all those little things Connor could have hidden and didn’t. My tattoos. Our hands. The way he’s pressed against me.

He regrets it.

Marcus’s words slip straight through the cracks in every wall I’ve been trying to put back up.

And fuck me, hope comes with them.

Small at first. Just a flicker of warmth low in my chest, but I feel it spreading before I can stop it, finding places Connor already left too fucking exposed.

I should know better.

I do know better.

A vague post doesn’t change what happened. Missing me doesn’t mean Connor can give me what I need. Regretting it doesn’t mean he’s suddenly ready to stop hiding.

But he posted us.

Not enough for strangers to know.

Enough for anyone who matters to recognise me.

I stare at it for another second, thumb hovering uselessly near the bottom of the screen.

Then I lock my phone and drop it into my lap.

Because apparently not looking at it is the closest I can get to pretending it hasn’t just made me hope again.