Page 27 of Fragile

Miles groans, making me jump slightly as I turn his phone over so I don’t get caught looking.

I pull my own phone from my jean pocket and text Indie.

Quinn: Miles is in our dorm. Long story, but he’s wasted. I’ll catch you up tomorrow, but can you stay with Seb tonight so I can sleep in your bed?

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Indie: Fuck, we’ve been looking for him. He slipped out of the party, although I didn’t think he was that drunk. I’m sorry if he ruined your date.

He wasn’t that drunk with them? My brow furrows as I walk over to the mini fridge in our room, pulling out two bottles ofwater. When I turn around, Miles is sitting on the edge of my bed, looking clear-eyed and composed—definitely not drunk.

“What the—?” I start, but the words die in my throat as he stands, moving toward me in one smooth motion. He plucks a water bottle from my hands, and I just stare, my jaw slack. This isn’t the same guy who was slumped outside my dorm less than thirty minutes ago. This isn’t the same guy who was sending me drunk texts, either. No, this guy isn’t drunk at all.

Miles twists off the cap and takes long, deliberate gulps, rippling the edges of the rose inked below his throat. I can’t help but watch as his throat works, each swallow making something in my chest tighten. He drains the entire thing, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks, I needed that,” he says, his voice calm, steady.

I blink as my mind tries to piece together what’s happening, but it’s no use. “What’s going on right now?” I’m not sure that question will get me anywhere close to the answers I need, though.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he gives me this sheepish look, like he thinks that flashing me those puppy-dog eyes will make everything okay, like I’ll just melt and forgive him on the spot.

Not tonight. Not this time.

“Did you…” I hesitate, clenching my fist at my side, wondering if I’m about to make things worse by asking the most obvious question, but I can’t think of any other solution. “Did youfakebeing drunk?”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor between us. “I mean…”

That’s it? My jaw tightens as I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I shift my weight, crossing my arms tighter. Just say it, Miles.

I glance at him, hoping—no,begging—for him to finally look at me, but he’s still staring at the floor like it’ll magically give him the words. My foot starts tapping, my patience thinning by thesecond. I can feel my temper rising, burning hotter with every beat of silence.

“Miles,” I snap, my voice harder than I mean it to be. “Just tell me.”

“Okay…” He swallows roughly as his brown eyes meet mine. “Maybe I did fake it a little bit.”

“Miles!” I shout, spinning around on my heels, frustration and confusion bubbling over. I can’t contain it anymore. Why would he do that? Why did he feel the need to fake being drunk? So I’d come running? The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I feel like such an idiot.

“Wait, I may have embellished the extent of my drunkenness, but I did drink tonight,” he admits, his voice soft.

“What does that even mean?” I screech, throwing my hands in the air. “Are you doing this to be all protective over me again? Did Seb send you here? Are you two trying to sabotage my date?”

“Woah, no.” He holds his hands up. “I swear, Seb doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Then why? Why are you here, pretending you’re drunk, pretending that you need me?”

“Shit, I...” He falters, running his fingers through his hair, clearly scrambling for an answer that will make sense.

“Alex was nice, the date was nice.” My voice rises in anger. “Despite the fact that we didn’t agree on pineapple being a pizza topping, it was nice, and now it’s...” Shaking my head, my breath comes in heavy, ragged bursts as my arms drop ramrod straight by my sides. “It’s nothing!”

He steps closer, and I’m engulfed in his familiar scent, the warm mix of cedar and spice that’s always felt like home. And I hate it. I hate that even now, when I’m furious, I want to lean into him, to let him calm the storm inside me. “Quinn, I’m sorry.”

Stepping back once, then twice, needing the space between us, I bump into the door with a soft thud, crossing my arms in front of me again like a barrier. “Well, this time, I’m not accepting it.”

His face tightens, his mouth opening as if he wants to say something, but instead, his lips press into a thin line. As he exhales sharply, his shoulders slump with clear frustration. Finally, he mutters, “Pineapple does belong on pizza, by the way.”

I blink at him, caught off guard. I want to stay mad, but his eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something familiar—something that makes my heart stutter, no matter how hard I try to resist. I swallow hard and bite back a smile that I refuse to let free. “I know,” I mutter. “That’s what I told him.”

He stares at my mouth for a second, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Did he kiss you?” With each movement toward me, I can feel the heat of his body approaching like the sun rising in the morning. That moment just before the dawn breaks when you know something is in the air. And just like the sun, I feel helpless to stop him.

“N-no,” I splutter, practically choking on the word.

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