Page 22 of Only When We Fall

I freeze for half a second, then turn hard, feet already pivoting in the opposite direction. My heart slams against my ribs, but I don’t care. I’m not doing this. Not today.

But I hear it – his voice. Not loud, but enough to stop me in my tracks. “Emmie.”

I curse under my breath. My shoulders tense.

Slowly, I turn.

He’s standing a few feet away now, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, the tiredness in his eyes too real, too raw. He looks just as wrecked as I am. We stare at each other in the soft morning light. The silence stretching out until I shift uncomfortably.

“Didn’t expect to see you up,” he says, his voice rough with sleep or maybe a hangover.

I swallow. “Yeah, well. Some of us like to be productive before noon.”

A hint of a smirk touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Since when do you run?”

“Since I needed to stop thinking.”

His gaze drifts down to my trainers, then back up. “You look good,” he says quietly, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

I scoff. “Is that supposed to be sarcastic?”

He winces but doesn’t back down. “No, of course not. I’m just,” he sighs heavily. “Never mind.”

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly too aware of how sweaty I look. “Did you have a good night?”

His jaw ticks. “Is that what you really want to ask?”

I meet his eyes and hate how much it still pulls at me. “No. But it’s the only one I’ll get an honest answer to.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Something bigger. But instead, he just nods once. “Yeah. It was a good night.”

“Right.” I shift a step backward. “Well. Enjoy your walk of shame.”

I turn, hating the feel of my pulse beating rapidly in my throat. Things are so awkward between us, as if whatever we felt,I felt,never happened.

“Em.” I stop but don’t bother turning to face him. His voice is quieter this time. “Is that real? With Landon?”

I turn just enough to look at him over my shoulder. “Does it matter?”

He gives a slight shake of his head before adding, “I know I’m probably the last person you want to see,” he starts. “And you’ve got every reason to hate me. To walk away. But . . .” He trails off and rakes a hand through his already-messy hair. When he looks back at me, it’s not with that flirty charm or smug confidence. It’s with something I’ve only seen flashes of before.Honesty.“Will you meet me for coffee?” he asks.

I blink; unsure I heard correctly. “What?”

“Coffee,” he repeats, a little surer this time. “No games. No expectations. I just, well, I need you to hear me out. Just once. That’s all I’m asking.”

I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “You think I owe you that?”

“No,” he says, quickly. “You don’t owe me a damn thing. I get that. But I’d really like the chance to talk. For real. Not at a party. Not when we’re both pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

My throat tightens, and I hate how badly I want to say yes. Even after everything. Even after watching him walk away with someone else. I shake my head slowly, trying to ground myself. “Why?”

He looks straight at me, unflinching. “Because last night made me realise, I’ve been pretending I don’t feel things that I do. And I’m tired, Em. Tired of pretending.”

The air stretches between us, thick with everything unsaid. I should say no. I should run until my legs give out, but instead, I nod. “Okay,” I whisper. “One coffee.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, as though I just gave him oxygen. “I’ll text you,” he says.

I hold his gaze for a moment longer, then turn and start jogging again, this time slower.

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