Page 127 of Blindside Me
His eyes find mine, and the seriousness behind them steals my breath. “But I want to be … better. And I want to be better with you, not away from you.”
I study his face, searching for the mask, the perfect control, the walls that kept me out for so long. I can’t find them. In its place is something raw and honest. Drew without the armor.
“I’d like that,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels.
Not perfect. Not fixed. But true.
We’re not who we were two weeks ago. And maybe that’s a good thing.
His shoulders drop, but it’s not relief on his face. It’s something deeper. Like he didn’t believe I’d meet him halfway until this moment.
Still, he hesitates. “I need a little more time. This isn’t me pushing you away. It’s me trying to make sure when I show up, I don’t come half-formed.”
His voice cracks a little on the last part, and everything pulls tight.
“Then take the time.” It stings to say, but I mean it. The last thing we need is to rush into a relationship, no matter how incredible the sex is. “I’m not asking you to have everything figured out.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m bailing again.”
“I won’t,” I reassure. “But I also won’t wait while you figure out if I’m worth showing up for.
That lands. He nods. Eyes dark and full of something I’m afraid to name.
Then he pulls me into his arms, and I let him. This time, I don’t freeze. I fold into his warmth, breathe the scent of ice and skin and something unmistakably Drew. His chin rests against the crown of my head, and for one breathless second, I’m steady again.
We don’t speak. We just hold on.
We’ve barely touched the surface of everything that needs to be said. There are still hard conversations ahead, about his father, about my ex, about trust and fear, and the scars we both carry.
But the weight of it all doesn’t scare me like it used to. Maybe because we’re holding it together this time.
Not alone.
When we finally enter the cold night air, stars scatter above like confetti. His hand brushes mine again, tentative and unsure.
This time, I reach first.
And when our fingers thread together slowly, it doesn’t feel like a grand gesture or a perfect fix.
It feels like a promise.
We cross the street in silence to a nearby diner. Some hole in the wall with a flickering neon sign that promises “good eating.” Hope they deliver.
My stomach growls loud enough to echo, and Drew’s mouth quirks like he’s fighting a laugh. “Hungry?” His voice is lighter now, the tension from earlier gone.
“Starving,” I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder. “Skating’s brutal, you know. You owe me fries.”
“Fries, huh?” He pulls open the door, and the bell overhead jingles. “Big spender.”
Inside, it’s half-empty, the air thick with the smell of coffee and burgers. We slide into a booth with cracked vinyl seats that cling to my legs. The waitress drops off two menus, but it’s pointless. We both know what we want. Drew orders for us, like he’s done it a hundred times: two cheeseburgers, extra pickles for me, no onions for him. I raise my eyebrow at him.
“You remembered the pickles,” I say, folding my arms, but it’s not defensive. Not tonight.
He shrugs, eyes a little shy. “You mentioned it once. That diner near campus, when you stole half my fries.”
I laugh, surprised. “You counted?”
“Didn’t have to. You left ketchup smudges on my plate.” His smirk is softer than usual, not the cocky one he flashes at the team. “What’s with you and pickles, anyway?”
