Page 72 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Hi," he says, the single syllable carrying a weight of questions. His eyes glance down at my towel, and I freeze.

"Um. What are you doing here?" I manage.

"I don’t know," he says, as if that explains everything. "I guess I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," I say automatically while tightening my towel, then add, "But you shouldn't be here."

"Can I come in?" he asks, ignoring my attempted dismissal. "Just for a minute. Please."

I should say no. I should close the door, get dressed, go back to my studying, my isolation, my safe little bubble. But even as I think it, I'm stepping aside, letting him into my space. I silently sigh because I cannot say no to him for some reason.

He enters cautiously, like he's afraid I might change my mind. The room feels smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders and tall frame making my dorm seem suddenly claustrophobic.

"How are you?" I ask, for lack of anything better to say. "Your eye looks better."

"It is," he says, hunching slightly as he sits on the edge of my desk chair. "Still sore, but healing. Coach was surprisingly understanding."

"That's good."

Now it’s an awkward silence, the air between us heavy with unspoken words. I head to my closet to grab clothes.

"Shit," he turns around. "Go ahead and get dressed. I’m sorry."

"A gentleman would wait outside," I snark, looking at the back of his head, but he doesn’t move.

I quickly throw on my clothes and then say, "Okay."

He turns around, glancing at my matching lounge set. It’s silent again, and this time it feels heavy between us.

"Hannah," he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not good at this."

"At what?"

"At…feelings. Talking about them. Having them." He looks so uncomfortable that I almost feel sorry for him. "I've been thinking about you non-stop for the past three days."

"Sanderson—"

"Let me finish," he interrupts gently. "Please. Then if you want me to leave, I will."

I nod, bracing myself.

"I know this is complicated," he continues. "I know the timing is awful and the circumstances are bizarre and my brother is…well, Cade is Cade. But none of that changes how I feel. And the guy who took you out on all those thoughtful dates before the fight isn’t who I truly am. I don’t do any of this shit, and I guess what I’m trying to say is…" He trails off, looks up, meeting my eyes, and the intensity there nearly takes my breath away.

"What’re you trying to say?" I ask quietly.

"I've never had this before," he says simply. "With anyone, so please tell me I’m not the only one who feels it too."

The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't a line, not some practiced speech to get what he wants. This is real vulnerability from someone who claims he doesn't show it often.

"I don't know what to say," I admit.

"Shit," he says, running a hand through his hair like this was a mistake. He stands, and I realize he's actually going to leave, just like that. He said his piece and now he's respecting my boundaries, not pushing for more than I'm ready to give.

It's that realization—that he cares enough to leave—that breaks something open inside me.

"Wait," I say, stepping in front of him.

He pauses, hope and wariness battling in his expression.

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