Page 20 of Red Flags Only

“You’ll write me. Right now. Where’s your desk?” he asks, head swiveling. “Is it in your room?”

Before I can answer, he lets go of one of my fists andspins me by the other, lifting it over my head as I twist so that when my back is to him, our arms are crossed in front of me. He is, essentially, one-arm hugging me from behind.

“Is it this way?” His front presses into my back as he moves, aiming us toward the hallway that leads to my bedroom and bathroom.

I gurgle what could be a response, probably, if you tilt your head and squint real hard.

He takes my gurgle to be an affirmative and continues pushing us onward until we reach my bedroom door, which I oh-so-conveniently left wide open for any ole home invader to locate first try. How very hospitable of me.

Jove wastes no time finding my desk and setting me up at it before he flops onto my bed, dwarfing the full-size mattress.

“You can write. I’ll hang here until you’re done,” he says, as if he is not lounging on my peachy, princessy four-poster bed beneath my peachy, princessy artwork being lit by my peachy, princessy mood lighting.

My eyes travel from his black and white hair, down the angles of his face, across his white t-shirt, over his ripped jeans, alllllll the way to his dangling boots.

What. Is. Happening.

“You’re on my bed,” I state.

He hums. “Yes, and you’re at your desk, where you’ll be writing a letter to me so that we can get back to good communication.” He wiggles deeper into my mound of pillows, then pulls out aknifefrom his pocket, absentmindedly flicking it open and shut.

I do not move. “I… asked you to go home, right? Because I’m pretty sure I asked you to go home.”

“You did,” he affirms. “But if I go home, that’ll be the last I ever hear from you. You’re freaked, and you’re not talking it out, which means you’ll get more and morefreaked before you decide that your best course of action is to pretend nothing ever happened. Thatnothingbeing our entire friendship. I’ve already lived a month without you in my life. I’m not willing to live a lifetime of that misery just because you don’t know how to talk to me.” His knife clicks as he flicks it open again, then shut. “You do know how to write me, though. So until we figure out how to do in-person communication, you’ll do that instead.” Another flick, flick. “I’m not leaving this room until you’ve put a stamp on that envelope, Lyra.”

I blink. I gulp. I… turn around, pull out an envelope, and get to work, the quicker to get Jove Rogueoutof my house.

I firmly ignore the sound of metal on wood, because who cares if he cuts up my bed frame? He can afford to replace it. And he will, I think, adding the demand to a sticky note so I don’t forget to put it in my letter.

More sticky notes join the first one, some with notes on what I want to say, some with ideas for how I want it to look. I lose myself in the task, moving on to other supplies and other parts of the process until, eventually, I find myself at the end, a fully formed letter in my hand.

Bless.

Goodbye, Jove.

Chapter Thirteen

Man logic is wildly entertaining.

Jove

Lyra is a miracle worker.

It’s been three days since I’ve seen her, and I’ve written more words in those three days than I did all last month. I’ve never felt this inspired.Ever. She’s a miracle worker and a wonder drug, and I. Need. More.

“Give me my letter,” I demand, stepping up to the counter at the post office.

Brianna’s right eyebrow rises above her glasses, and she puffs a bit of hair out of her face. “Sorry, what was the name?”

“I’m in a good mood, Bri. Don’t ruin it.”

Her other eyebrow moves, meeting its sister. “A good mood?”

“And steadily decreasing,” I reply. “My letter?”

“Where did you find a good mood?” she asks, decidedly not retrieving my mail. “And can it be recreated?”

If she ruins my Lyra high, I’m setting this entire building ablaze.

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