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I’m not really sure what the rhyme or reason behind each of the items is. I don’t know how he decides what to get me. What Ido know is that I woke up this morning excited with anticipation over what it would be today.

Which means I’m losing.

I still haven’t spoken a word to him, and I always make sure to have my volume up loud just in case he tries to talk to me. The only communication we have are his god-awful, handwritten pickup lines.

Today, in black Sharpie on the lid of the sun-kissed-colored juice, it reads, “Orange you glad to see me?”

I snort and then kick myself for giving him a reaction. I glance to the side, catching a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Dammit. I didn’t mean to give him that satisfaction.

It is getting exhausting, fighting him. I didn’t realize how much energy you exert restraining yourself.

Would it be so bad if I said something?

Yes.

No?

Maybe…

I suck on the juice, preoccupying my mouth so I don’t cave to Cullen.

I miss talking to him, miss answering his phone calls and hearing his voice. He is right next to me, but I have placed a glass barrier between us.

Am I being ridiculous? Am I going too far?

Cullen hasn’t done anything wrong, and for some reason, he is devoted to chasing me. I’ve never been chased before, never had someone fight for me. I am so used to relationships that fizzled out with men who got bored with me and ghosted without another word.

I’ve pushed him away, but he’s held on tight.

That means something.

Celine’s cold gaze flashes in my mind, making the already chilly juice turn to ice in my stomach.

I toss my empty cup into the nearby trash can before descending the subway station steps. Unlike that first day, Cullen sticks close, scanning through the turnstile next to me and following me down the platform.

It’s oddly busy this morning, and when the train arrives, there aren’t any spare seats. There must be some sort of convention or concert or sports thing going on. Whenever something like that happens, the congestion gets worse.

I stand toward the end of the car, holding onto one of the railings to keep myself steady as the train takes off. Cullen leans against the wall opposite me, resting in the corner without having to support himself with anything else.

With each stop, the car gets more and more full, turning into a tin of sardines but far less organized. One lady gets a little too aggressive, and her elbow clocks my bicep as she pushes her way inside. My body leans slightly off-center, but I tighten my grip on the railing to stop myself from causing a chain reaction to the other people around me.

Whenever it is busy like this, it means it is going to be one ofthosedays.

Warm hands grip my shoulders. Cullen flips me around, switching my position with his so I’m now nestled in the corner of the car, with my back no longer exposed. He presses a hand onto the wall next to my head, caging me in and protecting me from the squeezing bodies that are nudging without remorse.

I blink up at him, startled by the proximity switch. My nose is only a few inches away from his chest, and his scent weaves its way around my body. I find myself drawn forward, desperate to nuzzle against his neck.

Bad.

Very bad.

I barely breathe, my thoughts going haywire. Any mental barrier I’d erected quickly begins to crumble.

The train jostles around that same shitty corner, and my hands instinctively reach out to grip Cullen’s suit jacket. His weight steadies me. My knuckles brush against his pecs as the train bumps again, and the momentary contact is like a live wire shooting through my veins.

I release my hold before I become paralyzed.

“Sorry.”