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Then, a low rumble of a laugh, muffled by the blanket, and it pisses me off.

I squeeze the steering wheel harder. “You’re an asshole,” I mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.

Behind me, he shifts again—this time less annoyed, more amused. Like he’s settling in for the ride. Like helikesthat he’s crawling under my skin.

Jackson’s truck turns down toward the townhouse, tires skidding a little in the fresh drifts. I slow to follow, the whole Jeep rattling as I drive over mounds of ice.

“The fuck,” he growls.

“Jesus, Kolby, do youwantto get caught?” I hiss.

“Depends,” he says under his breath. “What happens if we do?”

I shoot a glare into the rearview mirror. “You get murdered. I get … grounded?”

He chuckles again—deep, low, rough—and something wicked unfurls inside me.

“Just … shut it. I’m going to get out and walk to your door with Jackson. You sneak out then.” I unbuckle and slide out.

* * *

“Just drop his key through the mail slot and text him. He’s probably got company.” I tug at his jacket. “Let’s go. I have shit to do that doesn’t include babysitting a Knight.”

“I’m driving. You were all over the damn road.”

“Not if I get there first,” I call over my shoulder as I hurry toward the Jeep, knowing he’s far too competitive not to try to beat me.

Normally, I would give it my all, but right now, bits are battered, ego is bruised, and I’m pretty certain that I’m losing my damn mind.

* * *

Turning down Main, Jackson elbows me. “Why so quiet?”

“Got woken up before I was ready.”

“Take one of those power naps you love now while you can.”

Fat chance, but at least this way I can grapple with myself.

Like, I knew what I was doing. I made the choice. I told myself it was just a hookup, just a transaction, a trade—skin for silence—for finally getting the damn weight of it off my back. And technically? I got what I asked for. I’m not a virgin anymore. Mission accomplished.

So, why does it feel like I lost something instead of winning?

I wanted this. Iwantedit. I didn’t want the big fairy tale. I didn’t want love songs or promises stitched into moonlight. I just wanted itover with.Clean. Quick. Done.

But it didn’t have to be so cold. I mean, there’s no way it’s like that for everyone.

It didn’t have to feel like he was done with me before it even started. He knew what he was doing, and I pretended I did, too. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s easier to fake wanting nothing when you don’t know what it’s like to wanteverythingyou’re not allowed to ask for.

He gave me exactly what I said I wanted. He was rough, raw, which, to me, was pure passion … and then unbothered. I hate how much I loved how he touched me, like he couldn’t help it. I hated that, for a second—just one breathless, broken second—I thought maybe he felt it, too.

And now I hate that I feel like Vicki, a high school friend who was convinced that losing her virginity in a corn field at our HoCo afterparty to Tony C, who he said was breaking up with Tonya, because heloved her.

I thought she was an asshole for screwing another girl’s boyfriend, but unlike the rest of the school, I thought he was more at fault—he was the one in a relationship.

I socked him in the nose, bloodied it, too, when I heard him whispering the words Sticky Vicki to his friends.

I’d do it again.