Page 41 of Until Forever Falls

Colt walks by, ruffling my hair just to be annoying before heading straight for Beckett who’s stretched out in a patio chair, half listening to whatever Miles is saying.

I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek, buying myself a second, a breath, but it’s a useless attempt at control. There was a time, maybe even yesterday, when I could’ve convinced myself we were nothing more than friends. But that time is gone. And I give it willingly. Because love isn’t a decision, it isn’t a carefully plotted course. It’s a quiet surrender. And somehow, without even realizing it, I’ve already given in. And I never stood a chance.

15

Dylan

Then

The game has dragged on long enough for the stakes to blur, and as much as I excelled at beer pong, this one is proving to be my downfall. Guessing wrong has become a recurring theme, earning me more drinks than I can count—and, multiple times now, the removal of yet another layer of my clothing. I cling to what I have left—a crop top, a lace thong, and the hope that I don’t lose again.

Colt leans back, his smirk just shy of wicked. “Dylan, I gotta say…this game is working in my favor.”

“Should’ve known winning beer pong would cost me.” I look back at my now empty cup, turning it in my hands. “Guess I was due for a shift in luck.”

“Or,” Brooks says, not missing a beat as he shrugs out of his hoodie like it’s second nature, “maybe your luck’s just changing hands.”

I push my arms through the sleeves, rotating my shoulders to settle it into place. The dark-gray fabric is soft and oversized, the hem falling far past my thighs. It carries a warmth that isn’t just from the material. It smells like him, and that simple detail lodges itself deep in my core.

A slow, deliberate once over from Chloe is all it takes to make something twist uncomfortably in my chest. She’s daring me to react, to care. It’s a reminder—one I don’t need—that I still haven’t talked to Brooks.

Shirts, socks, and sanity are tossed aside as the game escalates, the buzz in the air growing heady. My losing streak finally broke, though not before my top was added to the growing pile of discarded clothes. At least I still have the hoodie to keep me decent.

A few unfortunate souls have lost their remaining clothes completely. Among them is my brother—I know it without looking. I refuse to confirm it. Some things can’t be unseen, and I have no desire to add that particular trauma to my night.

“Dylan, you should be out. Brooks saved you, and we all know it,” Beckett slurs, arms spread wide like he’s exposing some major scandal—far more of him on display than I ever need to see.

I keep my gaze anywhere but on him, drifting to Colt instead, widening my eyes in a silent plea for support. “KitKat, you’ve got about three inches of dignity left,” I counter. “And it’s hanging on by a prayer. No one cares about the hoodie.”

Beckett scoffs, leaning in like he’s prepared to argue. “First of all, you’re only still in this game because Brooks took pity on your sorry ass.”

Something soft sails through the air, and I hear the rustle of fabric as Colton tosses him something to cover himself. I don’t look—won’t look—but the shuffle of movement tells me he’s at least making an effort. Small mercies.

“Second,” Beckett continues, as though nothing happened. “I’m very dignified. Thank you.”

“You just tried to shotgun a beer with the tab still on.”

Beckett pauses, like he’s trying to find a loophole in my logic. “That was strategy. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Sure. Just like this argument is a strategy to keep yourself from admitting you already lost.”

“Details, details. You’re focusing on the wrong—”

Brooks cracks his knuckles like we’re about to enter a high-stakes poker match instead of a game fueled by bad decisions. “Alright Dill. Let’s raise the stakes. One more round. Win, and I’m at your mercy. Lose? You ditch my hoodie, embrace the elements, and give the pool a show.”

“Deal.” I say instantly, accepting the challenge before he can rethink it.

Might as well push my last chip forward. What’s there to risk? At this rate, my luck is either burning bright or burning out, and I’m hanging on by borrowed fabric. Brooks, on the other hand, still hasn’t lost so much as a sock. Winning would change that. Losing? At least I’d be the one deciding what comes off next.

Brooks swipes the coin from Miles and flicks it skyward, letting gravity pull it down straight into his palm.

I don’t wait—I know my choice. “Heads.”

The smack of metal against his hand is sharp, final. He peeks at the result, lips pressing into a thin line. A beat passes—just long enough to make me wonder. Then, with a sigh that feels a little too forced, he shakes his head. “Unreal.” His head drops forward briefly before he tosses the coin back to Miles. “It’s heads.”

The group explodes around us, the energy doubling back in waves, but my pulse trips for an entirely different reason—his stare. Brooks is looking at me like he’s decided I’m what’s worth the risk.

“What’ll it be, Rivers?”

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