Page 107 of The Girlfriend Zone

“I guess I don’t mind either,” she says.

I close my eyes for a beat, letting myself linger in the way everything feels so damn good right now.Thisis what I truly can’t resist—this connection. “So how were the dogs the rest of the day?” I ask.

“Do you want me to show you?”

“Video call?” I ask, already reaching for the button. “Fuck yes.”

A few seconds later, my phone lights up with her video. When I accept, it’s the best night ever.

She’s exactly where I want her.

In my bed.

Her chestnut hair is fanned out over my pillow, four little dogs wedged at her sides like they belong there. Likeshebelongs there.

In that moment, I know two things: I’m inextricably fucked, and I don’t care about anything but stealing moment after moment with this woman.

We talk longer—about the calendar, the game, her dinner, the view, my mom’s cruise, and a million other things. It feels like we’ve slipped into our own world, warm and hazy, where nothing else matters.

But then, she abruptly says, “I have to go.”

It takes me a second to process, to connect this cozy moment with her sudden shift. Reality hits—sour, unwelcome. We don’t have a relationship. She probably really does have to go.

“Okay. Good night,” I say, keeping my tone all business.

“Good night,” she replies softly, and then the line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, like I can find some kind of answer in it. Like it’s a magical device that can replay her voice and translate her words into what I want them to mean. That she’s foundthatportal, and it’s not just a sex portal—it’s a romance one too.

Like I want desperately.

But it’s quiet. Silent. No insight into her, no window into her thoughts.

Sighing, I climb out of bed, head to the bathroom, and go through the motions of getting ready to sleep. My mind keeps circling back to her—the way she sounded, the way the call ended too soon.

Then, this longing in my chest. This gnawing desire to talk to her, to be a part of her world, to see her, hear her, touch her.

Get it together, man.

I resolve to go to sleep and reset my mind in the morning. But when I return to bed, a notification on my phone blinks up at me.

Dog-cam: Person detected.

My first instinct is to ignore it. But then—fuck it—I tap the notification without thinking twice.

And there she is.

Leighton’s in the living room, standing purposefully infront of the camera, like she’s checking out her reflection. She’s wearing my jersey.

My jersey—my fucking jersey—hangs off her shoulders, the hem brushing her bare thighs. She shifts, her fingers teasing at the fabric, lifting it just enough to make my heart pound.

She knows I’m watching.

The way she looks into the camera, her lips quirking in the faintest smile—it’s not just casual. It’s deliberate.

My chest burns hot, and I can’t look away.

She’s not stripping. Not yet.

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