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“Locking me in with my ex?” I ask with a dry laugh. “The one I want nothing to fucking do with?”

The one I just opened up to you about?

Fucking fabulous.

I hear a sharp inhalation behind me at my words, one I try to ignore.

“Remind me to never tell you guys anything again,” I grind out.

“Aw, come on, man. Don’t be like that,” Chris says.

“You need to talk to her. Say what you need to and get everything out of your system. Closure, and all that,” Jace adds.

“And once you do, we’ll let you out,” Brandon chimes in.

I snort. They can’t be fucking serious. “And what if I don’t talk? What if I just sit here like a mute until you let me out?”

I hear a muffled grunt, like the thought pains whoever made it, followed by Chris’s voice. “Then it looks like Clayton will be our starting QB on Sunday morning.”

I bark out a laugh. They wouldn’t fucking dare. But before I even have a chance to argue, Chris is calling out, his voice seemingly further away this time. “We’re going out for pizza, but Avery’s supposed to text us once you’ve talked. Be back in a couple hours.”

“We want our quarterback back!” Brandon calls out, and I open my mouth to protest when I hear the apartment door slam shut and I freeze.

Silence falls over the room, pierced only by the sound of footsteps behind me, an unwelcome reminder I’m not alone?that Avery stands merely feet away, breathing the same air, staring at the same wooden door, and witnessing my panic at the thought of being confined in a room with her.

“Damon, can we just?”

“I have nothing to say.” My voice is cold, calm, in complete juxtaposition to the way my heart is frantically clawing at my ribs in a fit of panic.

“Well, I do.”

I stare at the closed door a beat longer, as if I can find answers hidden in the patterns of the grainy oak. I can practically picture her standing behind me, arms crossed, her eyes sweet and warmlike the finest of honeys. The ever-present crease in her brow I used to smooth with my fingers.

“Sucks for you,” I say, realizing a minute too late that I sound like a grade-schooler.

“Will you please turn around and look at me, at least?”

I clench my jaw, the muscle popping in my cheek before I inhale through my nose and close my eyes. I hate the position my so-called friends have put me in. Standing here, in confined quarters withheris the last place on earth I want to be, a fact they’re quite aware of?or at least they should be?after I opened up to them.

Slowly, I blink my eyes open and turn because I’m not a coward, and I have no choice but to face her, unless I want to appear every bit as broken as I feel.I won’t give her the satisfaction.

My vision focuses, and I find her standing only feet away.

For a heartbeat, the world stutters. The sight of her splinters inside my chest, jagged and sharp, like glass cracking under pressure. Memories rise like smoke: her laughter echoing in my car after Friday night football, the warmth of her hand in mine, the way she used to whisper my name like a promise. Golden curls spill over her shoulders as one slender arm reaches toward me, but I take a step back, only to find I have nowhere to go when my back presses into the door. It’s firm and solid beneath me, the complete opposite of how I feel when she meets my eyes and her lips part, pink and full and perfect. Once upon a time, I knew exactly how they tasted, how soft they felt pressed against my own.

I wish I could say that my gaze doesn’t stray and take in the rest of her, but it does. I’m like a sponge soaking up every last drop of water, drunk on the sight of her and ready to burst. She’s wearing designer jeans that hug curves I know by heart, along with a black sweater I’m guessing is cashmere. A golden pendantglints at the base of her throat, catching the light, and my breath snags in my chest because I recognize the intertwined hearts as the present I gave her for her eighteenth birthday, just months before she broke my heart.

Her hand reaches up to her neck as if on autopilot, or maybe it’s because she catches me staring. Either way, when she pinches the gold hearts with her French-tipped fingers, I glance away from her, annoyed with myself for gawking.

“I never take it off, you know,” she says, as if she thinks I still care.

I don’t.

A pang echoes beneath my ribs, and I inhale as she takes a step closer, breathing in the familiar scent of sugared almonds. “Smart, going to my friends for help. Tell me,” I say, meeting her eyes, my jaw tight, “what sob story did you sell for them to feel sorry enough to help you?”

Hurt swims in the honey depths of her eyes before she clears her throat, and it disappears. “They came to me, actually.”

My brows rise at the audacity of her to come here and lie.