Page 43 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"It's not the sex part that was embarrassing," I clarify. "It's the part where I hurt someone I care about without meaning to."

Her expression softens. "Oh."

"So—your embarrassing moment?" I prompt, not wanting to dwell on this particular line of conversation.

"I threw up on my date's shoes at senior prom," she confesses. "Turns out tequila and chocolate fountain don't mix."

I laugh, genuinely surprised. "You? Tequila?"

"Imagine that," she says with the memory playing out in her eyes. "Never again."

I study her face in the dim light. "You're not what I expected, Hannah."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more like Cade's usual type—pretty but boring. No substance."

"That's not very nice to your brother."

I shrug. "No filter. I call it like I see it."

"And what do you see when you look at me?" she asks, her voice quieter.

I meet her eyes, and for once, I don't try to charm or deflect. "Someone who overthinks everything but still follows her heart when it counts. Someone who holds herself to impossible standards but doesn't judge others by the same measure. Someone who's afraid of taking chances but is sitting here with me anyway."

She looks away, but not before I catch the flash of vulnerability in her eyes. "You don't know me well enough to say all that."

"Am I wrong?"

She doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

We sit in silence for a moment, the night sounds filling the space between us. An owl hoots somewhere nearby, and a car drives past, its headlights briefly illuminating her face.

"It's getting late," she says finally. "I should go home. My bed is calling."

I nod, ignoring the disappointment that settles in my chest. "Okay, let's go."

We head back toward campus where her dorms are. She’s glancing at her phone, and I peak too, curious. She’s tapping away at text messages. I keep my elbow on the center console, close enough to her that our arms occasionally brush. The contact sends a current through me, making me hyperaware of her presence, of the distance between us that I want desperately to close.

But I don't. Something tells me that pushing now would be a mistake. That this fragile thing between us needs time to grow, to strengthen.

When we reach her dorm, she slips off my hoodie and hands it back to me. "Thanks for the ice cream."

"Thanks for coming," I say simply. I thought, for sure, she wasn’t going to show up. I open the door for her.

"Thank you," she grins shyly. She stands there for a moment, as if waiting for something—maybe for me to ask for a second date, to try to kiss her. Instead, I just smile.

"Do you want me to walk you?" I ask.

"No, it’s okay."

I grin, figuring that she would deny my offer.

I close the passenger door and say, "Goodnight, Hannah."

She looks surprised but nods. "Goodnight, Sanderson."

I watch her walk inside, fighting every instinct that tells me to follow, to press her against a wall and finish what we started in her room earlier. Instead, I turn get back in my car, a strange mixture of satisfaction and longing swirling in my chest.

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