Page 25

25

QUINN

“How can I prove it to you?” I tilt my head, breath shaky. “I asked you to meet me here. I told you the truth. What else can I give you?”

“Honesty,” Warren says roughly. “All of it.”

I swallow hard. “This isn’t easy, you know.”

He just stares at me, waiting. Silent. Unmoving. It’s like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next, and somehow, that’s worse than yelling.

“The truth is—” I gulp, low and rough in my throat. “I started stealing back when I was thirteen. When I was just a kid, drowning in the background. Because I didn’t know how else to make them notice me. Because Wesley was always the one who needed them more. And I get that—God, I get that. He’s my brother, and I love him, and I know he’s been through hell.”

I blink hard, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “But sometimes . . . sometimes I just wanted to matter, too. I wanted to be the one they worried about, the one they paid attention to.” My voice falters. “And the worst part is, it worked. For a minute, anyway. Every time I did it, it was like . . . I don’t know, like I’d found this twisted little shortcut to being seen.”

Warren exhales through his nose, his eyes flicking away from mine. “You felt invisible.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “And it’s not an excuse. I know that. I knew it then, too. But when things got hard—when Wesley got sick, or my parents were too busy, or I felt like I was disappearing again . . . I’d slip back into it. Not because I wanted the money or the stuff but because I wanted the rush. The second they realized something was missing, it was like I existed again. Like I wasn’t just the kid who could take care of herself. Like I actually mattered.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I stopped, though. For a long time. By the time I met you . . . by the time we started dating, I hadn’t done it in a while. I thought I was past it, like it was just some awful phase I’d outgrown.

“But then there was the contest. And I kept telling myself I’d figure it out, that I’d scrape the money together somehow. But the deadline was coming up, and I didn’t know what to do.”

He grimaces. “And then Daniel’s money was just . . . there.”

“And you made that joke—‘ My stepdad could lose 10K in a week and not even notice .’ And I don’t know, Warren. I guess some part of me thought, what’s the harm?”

“What’s the harm?” His face twists, hurt flashing sharp and fast before he shuts it down. “Because you had me , Quinn. You had me, and you couldn’t just ask?”

“I couldn’t,” I say. “Because it wasn’t only about the money.” I drag my fingers through the grass, pulling at the wildflowers until the stems snap. “It was about me. About feeling like I could take something—do something—for myself. Because I wanted something that wasn’t about Wesley, or my family, or anyone else. Just me.”

“I really wish you would have asked for help.”

“I didn’t know how to let you in,” I say, voice breaking. “I didn’t know how to let myself need you without being afraid you’d leave or that I’d screw it all up somehow.” I laugh, bitter and brittle. “I guess I was halfway right about that part.”

He exhales sharply, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “And now you ...” He looks back, and for a second, there’s a flicker of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Now you want to come crawling back to me?”

I blink. I can’t tell if he’s serious. But then his smile grows, small and crooked, and—God—he’s joking. He’s actually joking.

“Is that what you want?” I ask, all light and teasing. “Me on my knees?”

His eyes flash, throat bobbing as he swallows. “It would be a start.”

“Warren.”

The smile fades. The teasing slips away like it was never there at all. He drags a hand down his jaw, the sound of it rough against the stubble lining his skin.

“It’s not just the lying,” he says, voice thick. “It’s what you lied about. If it had been something else—if you’d flirted with someone or gotten drunk and said something cruel—maybe I could’ve let it go.” He presses his fingers to his jaw, like he’s trying to ground himself. “But stealing from my family? Quinn ...”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know what that means to you.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He shifts, bending one knee so he’s facing me more fully.

“You know what my dad used to do?” he asks, strained. “He’d wait until I was asleep—like dead asleep—and then he’d go through my stuff. My dresser, my gym bag, my backpack. I’d wake up, and twenty bucks would be gone from my wallet. Or my new tennis shoes would be missing because he pawned them.”

He lets out a bitter breath. “One time, I saved up for a phone for months—like, extra shifts, tips, everything—and he still swiped it. Took it right off my desk while I was in the shower.”

I wince. “Warren . . .”

“I used to think if I just kept my door locked, or kept stuff at school, or hid things better, it’d stop.” He gives a short, humorless laugh. “But it didn’t, not until my mom finally kicked him out. Because that’s the thing about people like him—they always find a way. They always take what they want, no matter how much you try to keep it safe.

“And the thing is, Quinn? I never thought you were one of those people. I never thought I’d have to keep my shit locked up around you. Because I trusted you. And I know it wasn’t the same thing—you weren’t trying to hurt me; you weren’t trying to screw me over. But it still hurt just the same.”

I feel something crack open in my chest. I knew—vaguely—that Warren’s dad had struggled. That their relationship was strained. But this? This weight he’s been carrying—this pain that’s been following him for years—I never really knew the depth of it.

That was my fault. I didn’t ask enough questions.

I stare at the ground, my vision going blurry. “I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry.”

He’s quiet for a long time. The kind of quiet that makes my ribs feel like they’re closing in. Then, “I know,” he says finally. “And I’m sorry, too.”

My head darts up. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“For not letting you in all the way when I thought I had. For not going after you. For letting it end right then and there, drawing a line in the sand when . . .” He trails off, rubbing his temple. “When maybe we could’ve figured it out. When maybe I should’ve given you more than one chance to explain.”

I blink hard, my vision swimming. He’s shouldering the blame, taking ownership for his part in the breakdown. And even though I know it wasn’t his fault—that I made choices I can’t take back—it’s still nice to hear him say it.

“I kept telling myself you didn’t want me to try,” Warren continues. “That if you’d wanted me to understand, you would’ve said something. But . . . I know you were just scared.” He swallows. “And I get that. Because I was scared, too.”

His voice breaks a little on the last word, and something splinters inside me.

“You don’t have to carry that. The burden of the blame.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve fought for you, even when you didn’t know how to ask.”

My breath catches, raw and uneven. For a second, I can’t speak. I just look at him—really look at him—and wonder how we ever let it get this far. How we ever let each other go.

“I was really scared,” I say quietly. “I still am.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I am, too. I didn’t expect to see you again this summer. Really didn’t want to, actually. It threw me for a fucking loop.”

“For someone who claims they didn’t want to see me, you sure spent a lot of time watching my every move.”

He snorts. “It’s hard to look away when someone’s constantly running their mouth.”

“Yeah?” I tease. “And you’ve always been such a ray of sunshine.”

“Don’t act like you’re any better.”

His grin widens just a little, and it’s like we’re still those two sarcastic, stubborn teenagers who spent half their time bickering and the other half tumbling into a kind of love that didn’t need explaining—just room to grow.

“I’m delightful,” I say.

“Yeah, okay.”

I don’t see it coming. One second, he’s shaking his head at me, and the next, he’s pushing me back, his hands firm but careful as he rolls me over in the grass. His weight settles against me, broad and solid, all muscle and heat. Familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Jesus, Warren!” I sputter, half laughing, half startled.

“What?” He braces himself over me, arms locked on either side of my head. “You’re the one talking shit. Thought maybe you needed to be humbled.”

“And what’s your plan for that?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Haven’t decided yet.”

His breath ghosts against my skin, warm and slow. He’s so close that his stubble scrapes along the side of my jaw. The weight of his hips pins me down, grounding me in place, and my pulse stumbles as his mouth dips closer, just shy of my throat.

“Warren,” I murmur.

His mouth brushes the curve of my neck, and my breath shudders out of me, shaky and uneven. “Tell me to stop. If you want me to stop . . . just say it.”

I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I arch into him, my fingers sliding up the back of his neck, tangling in his hair. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Please don’t stop.”

And then he’s kissing me with no warning, no hesitation. Just the rough slide of his mouth against mine, like he’s been holding back for too long and can’t anymore. Something inside him has snapped, and I’m the lucky recipient of all that pent-up want.

I gasp against him, fingers curling into his shirt before I can think better of it. He shifts, settling more of his weight against me. His hand slips beneath my shirt, fingers skating up the bare skin of my waist, and heat blooms low in my stomach.

I feel the press of his hips against mine, the hard, unmistakable evidence of just how badly he wants this—wants me —and it makes my head spin.

“Warren, baby,” I mumble against his mouth.

He makes a low sound—half growl, half groan—and drags his lips down my jaw, his breath warm against my skin. His hand skims higher, thumb grazing the edge of my bra, and I swear my pulse trips over itself.

“Quinny,” he mutters against my skin, voice frayed and uneven. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I’ll make it quick,” I tease, but my voice is breathless, shaky. My fingers are still tangled in his hair, my whole body pressed tight against his like I can’t get close enough.

He laughs, breath warm against my throat, and it’s different from before—softer, looser. It makes my chest tighten, the way he feels so close to the boy I used to know. The boy who used to look at me like I was something steady in his world. Something good.

“I missed you,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “So much.”

The bridge of his nose presses against my temple, dragging slowly and deliberately like he’s reminding himself of every detail. The way I smell, the way I feel, the way I fit against him.

“God,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “I’ve really fuckin’ missed you, too.”