Page 7 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

“Is it?” I take a step closer, and she shifts slightly but doesn’t back away. “Because Saturday night felt pretty fucking together to me.”

Her jaw tightens. “That was a mistake.”

“Was it? Because you didn’t seem to think so when you were kissing me back.”

“I was drunk—”

“Bullshit.” The word comes out harder than I intended. “You had maybe two drinks. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, and I recognize the gesture. Kara building walls, preparing for battle. But her eyes look tired, like she’s already exhausted by this conversation before it’s even started.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Zeke.”

“Good. I don’t want to fight either.” I keep my voice level, controlled. Fighting is what got us here in the first place. “I just want to understand why you blocked me.”

“Because we’re broken up.”

“You keep saying that like it means something.”

Her eyes flash. “It does mean something. It means we’re done. It means you don’t get to text me whenever you feel like it.”

“I sent you a meme, Kare. Not a marriage proposal.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It’s your name.”

“Not anymore. Not from you.”

The words hit deeper than they should. She used to love when I called her Kare. Used to smile when I whispered it against her neck in the dark. Now it’s another thing I’ve lost.

“Fine,” I say. “Kara. Help me understand this. We broke up two weeks ago. We kissed Saturday night. Now you’re blocking me like I’m some stalker who can’t take a hint.”

“Maybe because you can’t take a hint.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “What hint? You kissed me back. You melted into me like you’d been waiting for it. That’s not exactly sending a clear message.”

She looks away, staring at the parking lot like it holds answers. “It was confusing. The whole night was confusing.”

“So you decided to block me instead of talking about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She shrugs.

“There’s everything to talk about.” Frustration bleeds into my voice despite my best efforts. “We have a year of history. An entire year of good memories mixed in with the bad ones. That doesn’t just disappear because you delete my number.”

“It does for me.”

The words are meant to wound, and they succeed. But I can see the lie in her eyes, the way she won’t quite meet my gaze.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“Look at me and say it.”

She turns to face me, chin lifted in defiance. But her eyes give her away. They’re too bright, too determined. Like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

“I don’t want you in my life anymore, Zeke. We’re done.”

I study her face, looking for cracks in the facade. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You’re lying to yourself, and you’re lying to me to get me to leave.” I take another step closer. “You broke up with me to prove a point. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You wanted to see if I’d chase you.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not—”

“Well, congratulations. You win. I’m here. I’m chasing.” The admission burns in my throat. “You made your point.”

Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or pain. But she schools her expression quickly.

“It wasn’t about proving anything.”

“You wanted to know if I’d fight for you. If I’d come after you. Well, here I am.” I spread my arms wide. “I’m fighting for you.”

“I never asked you to—”

“You didn’t have to ask. I’d do anything for you. Anything, Kare.”

The words hang between us in the cool night air. Cars pass on the street beyond the parking lot, their headlights casting moving shadows across her face. She looks smaller suddenly, younger. Like the girl I fell for a year ago who laughed at my stupid jokes and let me hold her hand in the quad.

“It’s not––” she says quietly. “We don’t work.”

“And Saturday night?” I ask.

“Payton showed up and reminded me why I left in the first place.”

“What did she say?”

Kara shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what she said. She was right.”

“About what?”

“About us. About this cycle we’re stuck in. About how I always come back no matter how many times you hurt me.”

The accusation hits like a physical blow. “I never mean to hurt you.”

“But you did. Over and over.” Her voice cracks slightly. “And I let you because I thought that’s what love was supposed to feel like. Intense and messy and painful.”

“It doesn’t have to be painful.”

“With us it always is.”

I want to argue, want to list all the good times we’ve had. The nights we stayed up talking until sunrise. The way she laughed when I brought her coffee before her early classes. The morning she wore my jersey to my game and cheered louder than anyone in the stands.

But the truth is, she’s not entirely wrong. We’ve hurt each other. I’ve hurt her. More times than I want to count.

“I can change,” I say.

“You shouldn’t have to change. And neither should I.” She looks down at her hands. “We bring out the worst in each other, Zeke. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the need to control. That’s not love. We’re terrible together.”

“What about the good parts? What about how we make each other feel alive?”

“That’s not enough anymore.”

The finality in her voice makes my chest tighten. This isn’t like our other breakups, where she storms off angry and I know she’ll cool down eventually. This feels different. Final.

“Kara.” I step closer, close enough to smell her vanilla perfume mixed with the paper scent that always clings to her after work. “Please.”

She doesn’t step back, but I can see her fighting the urge. “Please what?”

“Don’t do this.”

“I already broke up with you. We’re done. Like done, done.”

“If you were done, you wouldn’t have kissed me Saturday night. You wouldn’t be standing here talking to me now.” I reach out slowly, carefully, until my fingers brush her wrist. She doesn’t pull away. “You’d have walked out the other door.”

Her pulse jumps under my touch. “Zeke—”

“I miss you,” I whisper, stepping closer until there’s barely any space between us. “I miss everything about you. The way you hum when you’re reading. How you steal my hoodies and pretend you forgot to give them back. The little sounds you make when I—”

“Stop.”

“I love you.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “I know I fucked up. I know I got jealous and possessive and made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. But I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life, and I would do anything to make this work.”

Tears gather in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “Love isn’t enough.”

“It is. I can’t fucking live without you.”

I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t protest. Just looks up at me with those brown eyes that have haunted my dreams for two weeks.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

“You can. We can.”

I lean down slowly, giving her every chance to stop me, to push me away, to prove that she really is done with me. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches me with wide eyes as I close the distance between us.

When my lips touch hers, it’s gentle. Careful. This is a question, a plea, a promise all wrapped into one soft touch.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and for a moment I think she’s going to push me away. But then her eyes flutter closed, and she’s kissing me back.

Slowly at first, hesitant, like she’s testing her own resolve. But then her hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepens.

“I miss you too,” she breathes against my mouth.

The admission breaks something open in my chest. I back her up until she’s pressed against the side of my truck, my hands tangled in her hair, her body soft and warm against mine.

“Come home with me,” I murmur between kisses. “Just tonight. We don’t have to figure everything out right now. Just… come home with me.”

She pulls back to look at me, conflict clear in her expression. “Zeke—”

“Please.” I rest my forehead against hers. “I just want to hold you. I want to remember what it feels like when we’re not fighting.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. Just searches my face like she’s looking for answers I’m not sure I have.

Then she nods.

I open the passenger door for her, and she climbs in without a word. Her oversized purse goes on the floor, and she buckles her seatbelt with trembling fingers.

Neither of us speaks as I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot. The radio plays softly in the background, but the silence between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged, electric, full of heartbreak and desire.

I reach over and take her hand, lacing our fingers together. She doesn’t pull away .