Page 157 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
The way she curls into herself when she’s overwhelmed.
The low, breathy sound she makes when I kiss the spot behind her ear.
The taste of her—coffee, sugar, and a hint of fuck-you-I’m-fine.
I’d let her break my heart one thousand different ways just to hear her call me at two in the morning and say, “Hey. You up?”
I’d burn for her. Quietly. Patiently. Completely.
So no, this isn’t over.
It’s just intermission.
And I’ll wait.
Not because I’m weak.
But because I fucking love her.
And when she’s ready, when she finally turns around and sees me not just standing here, but staying—I’ll be right here. No pressure. No demands. Just me. The man who’s been hers since the moment she mocked my playlist and then offered me a bite of her muffin as if that wasn’t a goddamn declaration of war and devotion all in one.
Yeah.
I’ll be here.
Even if it kills me.
Chapter Forty-Four
Olivia
This was a bad idea.
Which part, exactly?
Hard to say.
It could be the part where I moved to Bridgemont, Pennsylvania.
It could be the part where I agreed to a neighbors-with-benefits situation with Lucian Crawford, which wouldn’t absolutely torch me from the inside out.
The hallway seems longer than usual. I’m not being chased, but I’m definitely running—for my life, my sanity, or maybe just my dignity.
Maybe it’s panic.
Maybe it’s because I’m walking too quickly in very soft socks while trying not to cry in someone else’s ancestral mansion. Perhaps it’s the echo of Lucian’s voice in my head. Or maybe it’s Sarah—the furry traitor—following me as if I’m not actively spiraling.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, pushing open the guest room door as if it insulted me in a past life. “This is fine. Everything is fine.”
It’s not.
I don’t even bother turning on the light. Just keep going, out through the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard. The cool night air hits my skin like a slap and a kiss all at once. I cross the stone patio, bypass the loungers, and collapse onto the cushioned outdoor couch near the pool. The one that looks like it belongs in anArchitectural Digestspread titled “Hot People Who Have Their Shit Together.”
The door clicks behind me a second later.
I exhale.
Then inhale.
