Page 50 of The Beautiful Collision
But my feet move without my permission, carrying me to the hallway closet. The door creaks when I open it, but Maya doesn’t stir. She just continues her assault on that poor textbook with her face, so I reach for the blanket before I can stop myself.
Theblanket.
Chloe’s blanket.
My hand hesitates on the soft, worn fabric.
I’ve never let anyone else use it. Not even once.
So why am I pulling it off the shelf?
The answer is inconvenient and uncomfortable and absolutely not part of the plan. But I carry the blanket to the living room anyway, draping it over her carefully. In response, she gives a soft, contented sound that shoots straight through all my defenses.
I should feel good about this.
It’s a solid move, right?
Thoughtful. Caring.
The kind of thing that might make a girl think twice about ‘casual’.
Score one for the bet.
Instead, I feel like I just crossed a line I didn’t even know existed until I was on the wrong side of it. This wasn’t strategy. This was... something else. Something honest and unguarded and terrifyingly real. I back away slowly, like she might wake up and see the truth all over my face.
That I’m scared and tired and so lost I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
Thatshemight mean something to me.
seventeen
MAYA
I wake with a gasp,my neck screaming from the awkward angle it’s been twisted at for—I glance at my phone—five hours.
What the hell?
I’d been studying cardiac pharmacology when I’d dozed off, but somehow I’d converted a short nap into a legit sleep. And the textbook for that class is not a comfortable pillow, it turns out, and it’s going to take some yoga to iron out these kinks.
But that’s not what has my attention.
It’s the warmth.
The unexpected, enveloping warmth of something heavy draped over me. My fingers find soft, worn fabric, and I pull it up to examine it properly. The overhead light catches faded floral patterns—roses and daisies in dusty pinks and yellows, all hand-stitched together in a patchwork.
Recognition hits me like a slap.
Chloe’s blanket.
The same one I watched Maine retrieve from the closet. The same one he tucked around his sister with such careful tenderness, adjusting the corners just so. The special blanket.The family blanket. The one that means something. For a person who means something.
And it’s on me.
My brain short-circuits trying to process this. Maine Hamilton—six-foot-five of cocky charm and calculated swagger—covered me with his sick sister’s comfort blanket while I slept. The cognitive dissonance is so sharp it makes my temples throb.
This doesn’t fit.
I sit up slowly, the blanket pooling in my lap. The apartment is quiet, late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds and painting golden stripes across my disaster of textbooks. There’s drool on my pharmacology notes. Fantastic. But I can’t stop staring at the blanket, running my fingers over the careful stitching.
