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Like I'm something that can be fixed.

I should back off, should say something sarcastic, smirk my way out of this. But I don't because she's too damn close.

Even though it's useless, I try to ignore the way my pulse kicks up. "Ava?—"

"I'm befuddled," she says with a tiny little shake of her head. She sounds miserable, and God help me, it takes everything to not pull her into my arms. "I don't know how this happened. You were supposed to be a problem. A complication. And now…" She trails off.

I swallow hard, every part of me screaming to cut her off, to throw up the usual walls. But I don't move.

Because I know exactly what she's saying.

And I know exactly what she means.

The space between us is practically vibrating with tension. It's better for both of us if I get up and get out.

But instead, I do the opposite.

I reach for her.

My fingers brush against her jaw, my thumb grazing the edge of her cheek. Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away.

And that's all the invitation I need.

I tilt her chin up and kiss her.

No pretense. No hesitation. No pretending this is part of some fake relationship we've built to keep everyone else out.

Ava's hands curl into my shirt, gripping tight, like she's steadying herself or maybe trying to pull me closer. I don't know, and I don't care, because all that matters is the way she leans into me, the way she meets me head-on, like she's just as hungry as I am.

Because I've wanted this for too long, and so has she. I slip one hand around the nape of her neck, threading my fingers through her hair, while the other stays firm at her waist, holding her to me.

Ava lets out a quiet noise against my lips, and something inside me snaps.

I pull her closer, letting myself drown in her, in the way she fits against me, the way she responds without hesitation.

Nothing about this is careful.

Nothing about this is fake.

And then—too soon—she pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against mine, her hands still fisted in my shirt.

We're both breathing hard.

And then, I murmur the words that have been clawing at the edges of my mind for weeks now.

"This can't just be fake anymore, Ava."

11

AVA

Iwake to sunlight spilling through the window, golden and weightless, the kind that carries the illusion of warmth, of new beginnings. But it doesn't reach me.

It lingers instead, stretching across the sheets, brushing against my skin like an unwelcome reminder. Too knowing. Too present. As if it witnessed everything that unraveled last night and is waiting, silent and patient, for me to open my eyes and face it.

I groan, flipping onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow.

There's hardly any time to process any of this before my phone buzzes from my nightstand. I blindly reach for it to find a text from Ryan.