Page 40 of Hometown Touchdown
“You’re welcome.”
He stands slowly, dragging a hand through his hair like he doesn’t actually want to go but knows he should. “Text me if you need anything. Don’t pay delivery fees for food once you get hungry, I can run and grab you something.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, trying to play it light even though something in me dips as he heads for the door.
He opens it, then glances back. “Get some rest, Bunny.”
And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone again. Only it doesn’t feel the same as it did before. It feels heavier now, like something warm just slipped out the door with him. I curl backinto the blanket, the bunny pressed against my chest, and let myself wonder—what if the past didn’t matter?
Chapter nineteen
Knox
Iwakeupwithapit in my stomach.
Not because I’m hurting from celebrating or sore from last night’s game—though I probably should be. We won again. Second week in a row. The town’s buzzing, the team’s riding high, and by all accounts, I should be on top of the world.
But all I can think about is Brynn.
Brynn, curled up on her couch, feverish and too pale. Her voice was rough last night, her cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with how she used to look at me. And when I cameback with that ridiculous armful of supplies, she stared at me like I was someone she didn’t quite recognize.
Maybe I didn’t recognize myself either.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, scrubbing a hand over my face like I can wipe the memory clean.I don’t know why I need to take care of you.I said that. Out loud.
That’s not something you say to your ex-girlfriend. Not when you’re trying to be casual. Friendly. Civil.
That’s a line. And I crossed it.
Priscilla lets out a soft sigh from the floor, like even she knows I’m spiraling. I reach down and scratch behind her ears. She licks my hand, steady and loyal. The one living thing in my life who doesn’t make it complicated.
I wish my brain worked the same way.
I tell myself not to check on Brynn. Don’t knock. Don’t bring her soup or some overpriced immunity juice shot from Lowry’s she’d never actually drink. Just leave it alone.
But my phone’s already in my hand. And her number’s already saved. Again.
I’d deleted it a long time ago, thinking it was the smart thing to do. Like erasing her contact would erase the part of me that still waited for her.
But after the heater incident, I added it back. I told myself it was only because she’s a tenant.
Now it’s staring back at me, like my self-preservation plan didn’t just consider abandoning ship.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I type. Delete. Type again.
Morning. Just checking in. Are you feeling better?
Simple. Harmless. The kind of message any decent landlord might send.
I stare at the screen, feeling a little foolish. Like I’m not already halfway to falling into old patterns.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?
She’s back. And everything I buried six years ago is clawing its way to the surface—all from one night, one fever, one too-familiar ache in my chest when I saw her curled up in a blanket, miserable and stubborn and still so goddamn her.
I press a hand to the back of my neck, gripping tight like I can contain all the guilt and want and confusion in one spot and make it manageable.
