Page 82 of Blindside Me
It’s the last push we need. The walls I’ve put up collapse, my fear-fueled determination crumbling like a cheap film set. I think he’s right there with me. I hope he’s right there with me. We just outed our entire emotional universe, and all I want is to be near him. This man with his raw, imperfect beauty. I had no idea this closed-off man would give this much.
We move together, clumsy, intense, desperate to know if the realness we just showed is real for both of us. We don’t say a word. Not yet. But hell, did he mean his part?
The room suddenly shrinks. I need air. I need out—away from him. Somewhere safe, where nothing fragile can shatter.
We gather our notes in silence. The rest of the class chatters, relieved to be done. Chairs scrape. Laptops snap closed. Someone cracks a dumb joke about getting drinks to celebrate surviving presentations.
I don’t laugh.
Neither does Drew.
Our fingers brush against each other when we both reach for the HDMI cord at the same time. I let him have it, my hand retreating like I touched a live wire. Drew hesitates, just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. Enough for me to see it’s not casual for him either.
I sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Hey, good job,” I say lightly, voice steady even though it costs me. It’s not about the slides. It’s not about the grade. We both know that.
Drew’s eyes find mine, dark and unreadable.
“You too,” he says, but there’s something rough beneath it, something rawer than just presentation praise.
He steps aside to let me pass. Doesn’t touch me again. Doesn’t have to.
His look as I walk by feels like a hand on the small of my back.
It says, ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
It says, ‘I’m scared as hell.’
It says, ‘This isn’t over.’
And the worst part is, I don’t want it to be.
A girl squeezes past us the moment I take off walking. She glances over her shoulder, giving me a thumbs-up with a sly, knowing smile. It’s the kind that says she’s surprised Drew would get serious with anyone. So am I. And so, I realize, is he.
I should keep walking. Should stuff down the pounding in my chest and the heat clawing up my neck. But the second I step into the hallway, fingers wrap around my wrist, firm and certain.
I whirl around with my heart in my throat. Drew’s there, breathing hard, his eyes dark and wild like he’s been holding himself together with duct tape and a prayer, and finally, he gave up. Without a word, he tugs me down the empty corridor,weaving past abandoned classrooms until we reach a half-open storage door. I force myself to move even though my legs barely cooperate.
He kicks it wider, drags me inside, and the second it clicks shut, he’s on me. Hands everywhere, mouth crashing into mine like he’s still trying to say all the things he couldn’t with an audience. I gasp into him, my back slamming into a filing cabinet, papers fluttering to the floor like some cheap, reckless confetti. I can’t tell where his heartbeat ends and mine begins. It’s a frantic, pounding survival-level need.
His hands find my hips, lifting me like I weigh nothing like I’m the only thing he wants to carry, and then we’re colliding. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for every scrap of him. Drew groans against my mouth, the sound low and broken, and when his forehead presses to mine, our breaths ragged, I realize he’s trembling almost as much as I am. Like he’s as wrecked by this as I am. Wanting him feels like oxygen and a freefall at the same time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Drew
The door clicks shut behind us, locking me in, locking her in, and I know I’m already too far gone it’s laughable to pretend otherwise. Jade stands there, chest heaving, lips parted, looking at me like she feels it too—the chaos, the inevitability, the wreckage. I didn’t drag her back here to kiss her. I didn’t drag her back here to fall apart. I only intended to talk to her, confirm what I had heard was real. But the second my hand touched her, all my reasons, all my rules, every goddamn thing I’ve built my life around crumbled. Before I can think, my hands are on her hips and lifting her as if I’ll forget how to breathe if I don’t touch her right now.
Her back hits the wall, and it’s like I am crossing every boundary I ever swore I would respect.
“I was supposed to let you go,” I whisper, my voice rough. “Walk away. Do the right thing.”
Instead, I’m here, ruining everything and not giving a damn.
My hands find her face, and I crash my mouth against hers. It’s pure need bleeding into every touch. I taste mint on her tongue, feel the softness of her lips, and something wild tearsthrough me. This isn’t just a want. It’s a need. A craving so deep it scares the shit out of me.
I can no longer pretend I don’t care. I notice every tiny detail.
