Page 116 of Unwritten Rules
Even as I press send, I can't help but feel that this isn't just a ploy to get me talking to him again.
TATE: What's wrong?
His response comes quick, prompting me to check the time on the screen. It's far later than I thought, approaching 10 PM. If Sinnett is texting me, it means the game has ended already.
SIN: I might have hurt my quad during the game tonight. Can you please look at it?
TATE: Why me?
SIN: You're the only person I trust, Tate. Please.
Blowing out a long breath, I tap the side of my phone, weighing up my options.
Should I do this? I've spent the past week ignoring him in the hopes it'll make moving on less painful down the line. But now that I've given him that in, will I be able to pull away again?
TATE: Sin, we really shouldn’t…
SIN: I just need you to check out my quad, that’s it. No funny business, I promise.
I hum, rubbing at my chin. This better not be a ruse to get me talking to him. Walking away from him was hard enough last time, so to do it a second time might very well be torture. Despite this, I relent, hoping I’m not making a huge mistake.
TATE: I’ll be at your place soon.
Standingin front of Sinnett’s apartment door, I’m struggling to find the strength to knock, because I know once I do, there is no turning back. Once I see his face again, I’m going to have a hard time not falling back into hold habits. I just hope my heart is strong enough for this.
Knock, knock, knock.
Holding my breath, I stare at the wood, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to appear. When the door swings open, I’m met with pale green eyes, not the ocean ones I have grown to adore.
Khai blinks at me, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “Tatum,” he says quietly, attention locked on my face. “He’s out on the balcony.”
I don’t know how much he knows about us, or if anything at all, but judging by the faraway look in his eyes and tense shoulders, I have no doubt he knows all about our situation. In his eyes, I hurt his friend. With how close they are, it doesn’t surprise me that Sinnett confided in him. I can’t even be mad about it when I did the same with my friends.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I waddle past him, rubbing my arm.
I feel his eyes on the back of my head as I walk into the open living space. The balcony door is open, almost like a gateway to the stars lingering in the sky, the moon shining bright enough that the overhead light has no need to be used.
Sinnett sits on one of the patio chairs, a black hoodie hugging his chest and the same athletic shorts that are on constant rotation in his wardrobe. The hood is pulled over his messy hair, and his hands are shoved deep into the front pocket. His right leg is propped up on a foot stool, an ice pack balancing on the taut muscles. I shiver at the sight. How is he not shivering?
He doesn’t notice me at first when I step onto the balcony, the cool air whipping at my face. From up here, the lights of Sydney stretch for kilometres, creating a dazzling display that has captured Sinnett’s attention. But not me.
I wrap my arms around my waist, the hoodie I threw on doing nothing to ward off the freezing air. My gaze lingers on the curve of his jaw. God, it feels almost impossible to look at him—both from guilt over pushing him away and his striking features that have me questioning if he’s real.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask how you can wear shorts in weather like this.” My voice carries on the wind to him, causing a delayed reaction.
Sinnett twists his head, eyes roaming my face. They linger on my lips for a brief second before lifting. Pain swirls in the depths of the sea water, and it hurts to know I’m the cause of it.
“You came.” He says the words as if he genuinely thought I wouldn’t show.
I take a tentative step forward, the air between us thick with unsaid words. “I promised you I would, so here I am.” My eyes drop to his right thigh. “Can I take a look?”
Sinnett nods, sitting straighter in the chair. He removes the ice pack, placing it on the table beside him as I take slow and deliberate steps towards him, almost as if I’m approaching a newborn puppy that is timid and unpredictable.
Lowering to my knees in front of him, hissing at the cold bite that seeps through my pants, I focus on his thigh and not the fact that I hear his breath hitch in his throat or the subtle flex of his hand resting on his left leg. Using the light from the moon and stars, my eyes skim over the area, examining it for any sign that he has done damage to it. Visually, the skin looks a little bit inflamed, but without doing an exam, I won’t know for sure if it’s something in the muscle causing him pain.
“What happened?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. My head lifts, eyes meeting his. “In the game.”
Sinnett swallows hard and leans back in the chair. “I found myself in a rough tackle. A guy from the other team jarred me right in the thigh with his knee. Hurt like a fucking bitch.”
